Draco steadies his breathing. Long, slow strokes. Control.  He is in control. The scarf smells like her hair, too. Merlin, her hair. So wild and untamed. He wants to  take  her hair, too, make it  his,  grip her dark curls in his fists and guide her mouth to his cock. He might be a perfect fit for her cunt, but her throat—could she take all of him in her pretty little throat? Her tongue cuts like a knife when she speaks, but she wields it with skill, and he pictures it swirling around his head. He wouldn't spend in her mouth the first time, though. Such a waste. No, he'd fill her cunt first, mark her there, make her drip with him, smell like him.