"Merlin, you're fucking gorgeous," he said, rolling her nipple lazily between his finger and thumb, and Hermione's insides went all twisty and melting, her thighs tensing, and her clit screaming for the stroke of his fingers or rough-wet lap of his tongue. She was drunk on wanting him as he bowed his head to her breast, leaning her back over his maimed arm and sucking her nipple into the wet, soft heat of his mouth. She lost her thoughts somewhere in the waves of arousal that rolled through her, tugging at her insides and making her outsides hot and damp and flushed. Draco was laving her nipples, and she was making the greedy, desperate sounds he always wrung out of her, that were so unlike her, so alien to how Hermione usually thought of herself. She was a squirming, wanting creature on the bed, nipples pebbled and knickers sopping with slick wetness, and there was something so delectably freeing about stopping thinking, and just feeling.