            Lucius’s gaze raked her up and down, scorching her. Then he rose slowly to his feet, pressing into her, her breasts squeezing against his hard chest. His hand didn’t leave her hip, though the other one slid up her arm, up her shoulder, up into her hair where he cupped the back of her neck. Every atom in her body seemed to quiver—with magic or lust or some sweet combination of the two. As his fingers tightened, Hermione let a small moan escape her lips. It was wrong, and she knew. But she could not bring herself to wish it back. A low chuckle rumbled against her. "We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it," Lucius murmured, before crashing his mouth into hers.