"You bastard," she swore and her voice sounded husky and strained and not at all like her. The warm weight of a leg draped over hers as Draco shifted again, making little pained sounds; still battered from the mission – as was Hermione. She just didn’t care right now. Draco’s hand was resting on her bare stomach, warm and heavy. Hermione waited. Waited. Eyes tight shut, she waited. What was he going to do? The tense, anticipatory not-knowing was almost as arousing as what Draco actually did to her. Up until now. Because then a wet, hot mouth enclosed one neglected nipple and Hermione gasped, back arching, a low groan sliding out. Draco’s mouth bathed her nipple, his tongue dragging wet and rough over it, slow, torturous – delicious.