If someone had taken Harry Potter aside before the Triwizard Tournament, say, and told him that in ten years' time he'd be sitting in a casino in Monte Carlo nursing a Bloody Mary and grimly plotting the fiery downfall of Arthur Weasley and Hermione Granger, he'd have…
Well, he supposed it would have depended on how pissed off at Hermione he was at the time. Harry didn't like to think about his teenage years, but he had a vague recollection of having spent quite a lot of time plotting the fiery downfall of someone or other. Not, however, he liked to think, with quite such impressive cause as this.
A short, balding man who reeked of single-malt scotch slid onto the barstool next to Harry, settling himself rather unsteadily on it. "Bonsoir, petit," he leered in French that was, if possible, even more atrociously accented than Harry's.
"Va te faire!" Harry snapped, and the man looked offended but buggered off as requested. That was – Harry stopped and tallied them in his head – the eighth bloke who'd tried to pick him up that night, all of them at least twice his age, most of them drunk. At least that one had been politer than the one who'd simply shoved his money clip in Harry's face and asked, "How much?" Harry had nearly hexed that one where he stood, Statute of Secrecy be damned.
It was his own fault. He should never have complained about being bored where Hermione could hear him. Well, what he really shouldn't have done was got tipsy and told her that his entire life was stretching out before him like some long grey tunnel filled with paperwork and domestic violence arrests, and that this wasn't quite what he'd had in mind when he'd become an Auror. Hermione had had a quiet word with Arthur, Arthur had had a quiet word with the Ministry, and Harry had been told to pack his bags and head to Monaco on the trail of Antonin Dolohov, last seen floating around the casinos of Monte Carlo using brief and subtle touches of magic to tip the gaming tables in his favor.
One would have thought this would be an ideal assignment – foreign shores, exotic locations, on the trail of runaway Death Eaters. What one would not have reckoned with, however, was the fact that the trail was unexpectedly months cold. And that Hermione had apparently been out of the Muggle world too long, because the boots, tight jeans, tighter t-shirt, and prohibitively expensive button-down she'd shoehorned him into were apparently, though he didn't see how, some sort of secret Monaco code for "rent boy." He'd had to resort to a discreet memory charm to keep the doormen from throwing him out on his apparently-negotiable arse.
"Bugger," he muttered, and swallowed the last of his drink. He'd make one more round of the casino, sensor charms attuned to any stray use of magic, and then he'd go back to his hotel; and in the morning he'd portkey back to London and inform them that Dolohov's trail was too cold to be picked up from Monaco. Mad-Eye wouldn't be happy, but Mad-Eye was never happy about anything so that was all right.
He made his way around the floor with a minimum of eye contact with the black-clad, diamond-laden clientele, half his attention focused on his sensor charms and the rest planning what he was going to say to Hermione when he got back. It wasn't going to be pretty. He'd just reached virtuoso heights of eloquence with "Do I bloody look like I have 'This space for rent' tattooed on my arse?" when the magic sensor in the ring on his right hand flared into life.
Harry stopped dead in his tracks, heart and adrenaline jumping into high gear. The world wasn't looking quite so grey all of a sudden.
He touched the ring with his thumb and whispered a homing spell. It took him through the crowd and toward one of the roulette tables on the main floor. That figured; nothing in the world was easier than nudging a ball into a slot. Trying to stay inconspicuous without actually using magic, Harry maneuvered himself to a convenient vantage point. The crowd parted momentarily; expecting Dolohov, half tasting the bastard's arrest and already mentally arranging his notes for the trial, Harry scanned the players.
He didn't see Dolohov. What he did see was Draco Malfoy, officially missing since the end of the war and presumed dead, wreathed in smoke from the cigarette dangling elegantly from his fingers, settling back in his chair as the croupier raked a large pile of chips toward him.
Harry would have sworn he hadn't made a sound. Even if he had, there was no way Malfoy could have heard him at that distance. Which made it all the more startling when Malfoy's eyes flicked suddenly up to his, intrigued surprise flickering in them before the crowd closed and blocked Harry's line of sight. Feeling a little shaken, Harry leaned against the pillar next to him and tried to sort out why there were Malfoys where Dolohovs ought to be.
There was no warrant out for Malfoy as there was for Dolohov. At best, what the Ministry had for Draco was a thin file that might as well have been labelled "Suspected of being a Death Eater and a huge git, though no one really knows, except about the git thing and there we're pretty sure." Harry had been looking forward to the point in his life when he could honestly say Malfoy? Haven't thought about him in years. Now, faced with an unexpected Malfoy like a smack to the face, Harry had to come to terms fairly quickly with the fact that he'd been wanting to get his hands on Draco for a long time and wring some answers out of him.
The crowd parted fractionally again, enough for Harry to see that Draco was sitting this spin out, cigarette burning unnoticed in his hand, his eyes locking with Harry's as soon as they could see each other. Raising an eyebrow, Malfoy raked his gaze down Harry's body and back up, then tilted his head questioningly.
Oh, Jesus. Death was far, far too good for Hermione. When Harry was done with her, she was going to wish the entire world was a nudist colony. It wasn't bad enough that grotty old rich blokes thought he was a rent boy; the thought that Draco Malfoy might think he was one was…
Not repulsive. Why wasn't it repulsive? Why, in point of fact, was it actually turning him on, and oh God it was a good thing the crowd had moved back between them so Draco couldn't bear witness to Harry's minor panic attack. Harry really ought to just turn around and walk away right now. He had no need to deal with Malfoy. He didn't even need to stay in Monaco another night. He was…
…a long way from home, among Muggles, with almost no chance of meeting anyone else they knew; and Malfoy certainly wasn't going to be talking, not if he didn't want to wind up back at the Ministry on a Veritaserum diet.
And, more to the point, he hadn't done anything exciting – or gotten laid, for that matter – in far and away too long.
With the same tight, nervous, exhilarated feeling in his gut that he felt just before a good screaming Wronski Feint, Harry rearranged himself a little against the pillar; and when a large elderly duchess moved out of his way, he caught Malfoy's eye, tilted his head toward the bar, and headed there without looking back to be sure Malfoy was following.
A voice in his head that sounded very like Ron's was screeching in horror. Determined, he ignored it, sat down at the bar, and tried to discreetly wipe his palms on his jeans. Skewering a leering septuagenarian with a glare, he signalled the bartender, ordered another Bloody Mary, and waited.
"I believe the traditional thing to say is 'Fancy meeting you here,'" a soft voice said in his ear, and before he could turn Malfoy had settled onto the barstool beside him, looking him over with a casual interest that would have infuriated Harry at sixteen and now made him want to drag Draco behind the bar and do body shots off his cock. Harry was a bit alarmed at this. He was beginning to wonder if his hormones had been lying low for years just waiting to stage a bloody coup the second Draco Malfoy walked back into his line of sight.
"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" he asked.
"Probably. Macallan, vingt-cinq ans, s'il vous plait," Draco ordered, then turned back to Harry once a drink had materialized in his hand. "No, really, Potter. What are you doing here? I'm fairly sure it's not what it looks like."
"How do you know?" Harry said, and took a large gulp of his drink.
Draco snorted. "Harry Potter, golden child of the wizarding world, hero of the war against Voldemort, turning tricks for Muggles in a Monte Carlo casino? I'm having a bit of difficulty imagining how that might have come about."
Those grey eyes were shrewder than Harry remembered. He was going to have to make this good. "Look, Malfoy. There are two things in this world I'm good at: Quidditch and killing Dark Lords. Half the Quidditch teams in the world wanted to sign me on and they all wanted to kick me permanently back to second string and haul me out once a season or so for the big media events – apparently the cost of insuring Harry Potter in a high-risk position would have bankrupted everyone but Saudi Arabia, and they didn't want me. There's not a big demand for Dark Lord killers, and the money my parents left me was wiped out when Gringotts was almost levelled to the ground. I could have taken some shit job at the Ministry and had seven kids on a bureaucrat's salary like Arthur Weasley did, or I could take advantage of the one asset I have left and do something that gives me complete control over what I do and when, and complete freedom to do it wherever I want to as long as I'm willing to risk the occasional memory charm on an undercover police officer. I like this better."
Draco only looked at him thoughtfully, long enough that Harry began to get a bit nervous about whether his story had been convincing or not. Then he smiled, looking rather amused at Harry's expense but at least not sneering. "Want another one of those?"
"Are you buying?" Harry asked, letting the double-entendre come through loud and clear in his voice.
Malfoy's smile was as lazy as a cat's, and he looked Harry over with something that was less interest than ownership. Harry felt himself harden under the scrutiny, and tried to will himself to professional disinterest.
"I'm buying," Malfoy said.
They found a table in a dark corner and settled in with their drinks, making rather surreal small talk about Monaco, casinos, and who knew what else. "So which side were you on in the war, anyway?" Harry asked finally, deliberately casually.
"Does it matter now?" Draco asked; then, when Harry didn't answer: "I was on my side, Potter. God knows no one else was. That didn't please my father, the Dark Lord, or the Ministry, so I thought it best to just disappear."
"Among the Muggles? I thought you hated them."
"I do," Malfoy said matter-of-factly. "But they're like house elves, really – the Malfoy charm by itself is enough to make most of them fall all over me, and memory charms and minor variants of Imperius will do quite nicely for the rest. If wizards ever pulled their collective heads out of their arses and organized, there'd be no need for us to ever hide again."
"That sounds an awful lot like the Death Eater party line," Harry noted.
"You don't know much about the Death Eater party line," Malfoy answered dryly. "My version has a lot less blood and screaming and fire pouring like rain from the heavens."
Harry had to concede that point.
"I take it you're trying to steer clear of wizards," Malfoy noted, shifting his hand a little to set a fingertip on Harry's sensor ring.
"I have friends who wouldn't exactly approve of this," Harry said, feeling his pulse speed up as Draco idly traced around the ring, weaving his finger in and out of Harry's.
He expected a snide comment about mudbloods and weasels. Instead, Draco emptied his drink and leaned back in his chair. "Let's talk business, Potter. How much for the whole night? In Euros, if you don't mind – I don't carry much in the way of galleons anymore."
"Twelve hundred," Harry told him, trying to keep his face from heating. He needed Malfoy to think he was used to this.
Draco raised an eyebrow. "Bit of a luxury purchase, aren't you?"
Harry took a drink to cover his sudden fit of nerves and gave what he hoped would pass in the dim light for a smirk. "I'm the fucking Boy Who Lived, Malfoy. Vanquisher of Dark Lords. That ought to add a bit onto the ticket, don't you think?"
"Yes, good point," Draco said with a slow, rather unreadable smile. "All right, sold. Shall we?"
A nerve-fuelled adrenaline spike shot through Harry, and for a moment he had to fight not to laugh. "By all means."
Malfoy's hotel was a short walk from the casino. Harry was almost sorry about that. Climbing all over each other in the back of a taxi would definitely have been preferable to trying to navigate his way through small talk while a Ron-like voice in the back of his head was screaming You're going to a hotel to have sex with Draco Malfoy! With no backup and no one knowing where you are! Are you fucking mental?
Well, maybe he was. Maybe it mattered less than the fact that that adrenaline rush hadn't ebbed, and he felt more awake and alive than he had in years. Maybe it also mattered less than the fact that Draco Malfoy, possible Death Eater and almost certain dabbler in the Dark Arts though he was, was also stunningly fit enough to have featured prominently in Harry's wank fantasies a time or three; he looked even better now, in sea air and moonlight, surrounded by that breathtaking self-assurance that might as well have come in the form of a t-shirt with I own you, Potter, now spread your legs like a good whore written on it.
Maybe it was just that all the blood in his body had rushed to his dick the minute he'd set eyes on Malfoy and there was none left to power his brain.
"Earth to Potter," Malfoy said, amused.
Harry glanced up at him. "Sorry, I was a bit out of it for a minute."
Malfoy stopped in the shadow of a large archway, stepping back so as to be off the main path. Curious, Harry followed him, letting Malfoy prowl around him like a cat until Harry's back was almost against the stone. Draco set a hand on the stone beside Harry's head and moved an inch away from him, so close that Harry could feel the heat of his body and smell a vague hint of expensive soap. He swallowed hard as Draco leaned toward him, unhurried, almost but not quite touching.
"If this weren't a business transaction I'd ask if you were having second thoughts," Draco whispered, his breath hot on Harry's throat.
"I never have second thoughts," Harry said, managing to keep his voice steady. If Draco didn't move that last inch and pin him against the wall, Harry was going to… well, he was going to be bloody upset, and also incredibly frustrated.
"Mm, no, you don't, do you?" Malfoy breathed, lifting his head so that his mouth wasn't quite brushing Harry's ear. "What if I told you I wanted to take you back in that alley and fuck you up against the wall like a ten-knut slag?"
Harry closed his eyes and choked back his first answer, which was that he'd probably have nothing to say about it because he'd be too busy coming so hard that he sprained a vocal cord. "Customer's always right," he said hoarsely.
"Hm." Malfoy's fingertips drummed softly against the stone. "Tempting as that sounds, I think I'd rather take my time with this. And my room is much more comfortable. Come along, Potter, my hotel's right there."
He drew back and started walking without ever having touched Harry with so much as a stray lock of hair. Harry squelched the urge to scream with frustration, gritted his teeth, and followed.
Malfoy's room was on the top floor of the hotel, as posh as Harry would have expected; no actual hot tub in the room, but the outer wall was a solid sheet of glass looking out over the city to the dark mass of the ocean beyond, and between the huge bed and the windows was a sunken area with sofa, chairs, and a wet bar. "Nice," he said, standing rather awkwardly a few feet from the foot of the bed.
"Very," Draco purred from right behind him. Long, slender hands slipped around to the front of his shoulders and pressed him back just a little; Harry made himself relax back against Draco, not making any other moves, waiting. Draco's breath was warm on his throat, and Harry's whole body was taut in anticipation of those soft-looking lips touching him somewhere, anywhere.
Except that they didn't. Instead Draco's hands slid down Harry's arms to his wrists, pulling them around behind him and crossing them behind his back. One of Draco's hands held Harry's in place, and the other must have reached for his wand because in the space of a whispered incantation Harry found his wrists bound behind him. For a moment he felt unpleasantly like he'd had ice water dumped over him; then he realized that the bonds were loose enough for him to break without much effort even without magic, and heat rushed in where the cold had been a moment before. He swallowed hard and tried to keep from shaking.
"Very nice," Draco whispered. His hands slid back up to Harry's shoulders and pressed gently. Harry dropped obediently to his knees, not facing the way he would have expected to face in this position. A slim, cool hand slipped around under his chin, tilting it up and pressing Harry's head back against Draco's hip.
"What are your terms, Potter?" Draco murmured, trailing his fingertips up over Harry's forehead to brush the hair away from his scar.
"Terms?" Harry asked hoarsely, so turned on that he was surprised he could still form words.
"Terms. Boundaries. Ground rules, you must have them."
"Oh." Harry took an unsteady breath, thinking as fast as he could with those gently teasing fingers smoothing through his hair. This had to come out sounding like something he said with every client, like a spiel he could have recited in his sleep.
Oh, God, I'm really doing this, he thought in mild panic.
"No broken bones or dislocations. No bodily fluids not usually associated with sex. No blood or extensive bruising unless I specifically consent beforehand. No hexes, curses, or dark magic of any kind."
"Hm, that's a pity." Malfoy sounded genuinely regretful. His fingers trailed into the hair at the back of Harry's neck, up onto his scalp, making him shiver.
"If I say 'safeword,' you stop what you're doing immediately."
"Your safeword is 'safeword'?" Malfoy asked, amused. "Well, no danger of forgetting it in the heat of the moment, at any rate. Go on."
His fingers slid down Harry's neck to dip under the line of his shirt collar, running along his collarbone, leaving Harry aching where they touched. "That's all."
"That's all? You've left me a very large amount of leeway, you know," Malfoy observed. "Lucky for you that my tastes don't really run to the exotic."
"You're paying for a lot of leeway, Malfoy. Unless you want a twelve-hundred-quid handjob."
"Hm." Malfoy was almost petting him now, stroking him like a pampered cat, with a soft indulgence rather at odds with keeping him on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. "No, I rather think I want more than a handjob."
Harry's heart leaped painfully into high gear and he swallowed hard, waiting.
Draco slid down to kneel behind him, his hands on Harry's hips pulling Harry back against him. Harry's bound hands bumped into a sizeable erection, making his fingers twitch with the urge to stroke it; he held off instead, waiting. "Do you always get this hard for your clients, Potter?" Draco breathed, and nipped at Harry's earlobe – a quick, light nibble, and then gone.
"No," Harry whispered.
One of Draco's hands slid slowly up under Harry's shirt, fingertips drawing small circles on his sternum. "All right, then, here are my terms. There are only two. First, you'll come when I tell you to and not before. Understood?"
Harry nodded.
"Good. Second…" Malfoy's hand drifted upward to toy with Harry's nipple, tugging and stroking, making Harry bite his lip to keep from moaning. "I'm rather accustomed to instant obedience. What I tell you to do, you'll do immediately and without hesitation, unless you plan to refuse to do it altogether. Safeword and we'll move on to something else; hesitate without safewording and you may find yourself safewording after all. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Harry answered.
"Good." A slight, soft flicker of tongue behind his ear, nearly making him whimper, and then Draco was moving away to lean against the desk. He pulled out his wand and aimed it at Harry's wrists. "Finite Incantatem. Take off your shirt and get on the bed."
Painfully aware of Malfoy's eyes on him, Harry rose and slid off his button-down in one smooth movement, then stripped off the t-shirt underneath it. Kicking out of his boots and socks for good measure, he eased back onto the bed, propping himself up on his elbows to wait for further instructions.
Malfoy tilted his head thoughtfully, his gaze running unabashedly up and down Harry's body. "Good heavens, Potter, you have cleaned up nicely, haven't you? I think I'm going to quite enjoy this."
"That's the idea."
"I also think I'd like another drink. Do you want one?"
Harry blinked, a bit thrown. "You don't want to –"
"Heel, Potter. If I'd wanted to rush I'd have paid by the hour. Drink, or no?"
"Yes, please," Harry answered, feeling more off-balance and exposed than he would have if Malfoy had just told him to strip and climbed on top of him – which, now that he thought of it, was probably the point.
Malfoy went to the wet bar and began doing something that seemed to involve lots of bottles and the occasional olive. Harry eased back against the headboard and waited, propped up on unnervingly soft and fluffy pillows, and in a minute Malfoy returned and handed a drink to Harry. Setting his own drink on the bedside table, Draco brought two small cakes of hotel soap whizzing out of the bathroom, transfigured them into lit candles floating in the air, and doused the electrical lights with a wave of his wand.
"That's one thing I've never got used to about the Muggle world," he said, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs. Harry watched in fascination as the cloth gave way to the pale, firelight-warmed skin of the inside of Malfoy's wrists. "Electric light. It's too bright. Gives me a headache."
"So where did you get the idea to make your living in blindingly bright casinos?" Harry took a sip of his drink. It tasted… complex, smoky and bitter.
Malfoy hesitated for a long time, looking speculatively at him. "From the late Antonin Dolohov," he answered finally, settling onto the bed beside Harry.
Harry blinked. "Dolohov? He died?" Bloody hell, he really had been sent here for nothing.
"So I'm told." Malfoy caught a lock of the hair behind Harry's ear between two fingers, sliding them down, following the slight wave with apparent interest. The side of his hand brushed against the sensitive skin behind Harry's ear; Harry fought to keep his eyes open and keep from purring.
"When did –"
"Potter." Draco took the glass out of Harry's hand and set it on the bedside table. "Dolohov was a tiresome man who lived twenty years longer than he should have. There – consider him eulogized and let's move on to more interesting topics of discussion."
"What did you have in mind?" Harry asked, meeting Draco's eyes steadily.
"You can start by taking my shirt off."
Right, it seemed to be showtime. Harry sat up, leaned closer, and began sliding buttons out of buttonholes, carefully enough that he wouldn't fumble them. When the buttons were undone he moved around in back of Draco, sliding the shirt slowly down his arms, unable to resist bending to brush a kiss against the curve of Draco's neck. Draco gave a pleased hum and tilted his head to the side; encouraged, Harry mouthed his way upward, licking and nipping, wanting to suck and knowing that purely as a matter of policy he shouldn't leave marks. Draco plucked the shirt out of Harry's hands and dropped it carelessly onto the floor.
"And after that?" Harry murmured, drifting his fingertips through the light patch of hair on Draco's chest and nibbling on his earlobe.
Draco ran his fingers into Harry's hair in an almost affectionate gesture, then pulled him away. "Back where you were before."
Harry moved obediently away and settled himself back against the pillows, decided that any attempt to arrange himself in a deliberately provocative pose would probably backfire badly, and raised an expectant eyebrow at Malfoy.
Draco reached for his drink and settled onto the bed near Harry's knee, folding his legs gracefully underneath him. "I want to watch you bring yourself off," he said offhandedly, and Harry tried hard not to look taken aback.
"If that's what you want." He unbuttoned his jeans and shifted them and his underwear a little down his hips, then wrapped his hand around his aching cock. God, how he wanted Malfoy to touch him, but this would apparently have to do for now.
Malfoy laughed. "We're just getting started, Potter. The more… interactive part comes later."
Harry didn't want interactive later. He wanted interactive now. Keeping his eyes on Malfoy and catching his lower lip between his teeth, he pulled slowly upward and then stroked back down, lifting his hips to meet his hand. His other hand slipped down over the flat plane of his stomach to cup his balls, tugging lightly at them, stroking in rhythm with his hand on his cock. God, that was starting to feel good, and having Draco watch while he did it was such a fucking turn-on that he was rapidly losing the ability to think. He let his head fall back against the headboard and stroked a little faster, swirling his thumb over the head of his cock, fighting to keep his eyes open and on Malfoy and mostly succeeding.
"I've watched you do this before you know," Draco whispered. Harry's eyes widened in shock and for a moment he thought he was going to come right then.
"When?" he panted, squeezing his cock tight at the base.
"Don't stop," Draco ordered. Harry swallowed hard and started stroking again, trembling with the urge to arch his whole body into the tight grip of his fingers.
"It was in our seventh year," Draco told him, and took a sip of his drink. "Right before the Christmas hols. Gryffindor, thoughtless bastards one and all, had booked the pitch right when I wanted to work on my dives, and kept at it straight up until nearly dark. I waited for you lot to clear off and then got in the air, but it didn't take me more than five minutes to realize that it was too fucking cold without my flying gloves, and I'd left them in the locker room. Very odd acoustics in that little building, you know," he added thoughtfully.
Harry drew his thumb through the small drop of precome gathering on the head of his cock and sucked it into his mouth, watching Malfoy's eyes follow the movement. "So what did you hear?"
"A moan," Draco said, and smirked. "Well, that was a bit much to resist, wasn't it? So I Disillusioned myself and went over to the Gryffindor showers."
Harry let his eyes close, speeding up until it was almost too much and then slowing, twisting his wrist as he stroked. He could almost feel the steam around him, Draco's eyes on him when he hadn't known.
"You didn't have… quite the finesse that you do now," Draco said softly. "But it was enough to get me hard as a rock anyway, watching you with the water pouring over you and your knees shaking. You're quite lovely when you lose control, Potter, you should do it more often."
Oh, Christ, he was about to. He shifted and flexed his fingers quickly, feeling his ring scrape against the head of his cock in a bright flare of pain and pleasure. "Malfoy," he managed, and bit hard into his lip again, struggling not to slam his hips upward for the few good strokes it would take to make him come so hard his ears popped.
"Hmm?" Malfoy asked innocently, the bastard.
"I need – I want to come." Harry squeezed tight around the head of his cock and pushed up into his hand. "Please."
Malfoy laughed softly, set his drink back down, and crawled up to settle in next to Harry, tracing a slow, hot line over Harry's collarbone with his fingertips. "Remembered that, did you?" he breathed into Harry's ear. "Well, well. Look who's worth twelve hundred quid a night after all."
Harry slammed his hand down and gripped hard around the base of his cock. "Malfoy, please," he gasped, too close to coming to hate himself for begging. He was so close he could taste it, could feel it coiling in his gut, every muscle in his body straining toward release.
Draco licked Harry's earlobe. "Come for me, Potter," he whispered, and Harry's world exploded.
When he recovered enough to open his eyes, still shivering with aftershocks, he was a sweaty, dishevelled, boneless mess. His lip was burning where he'd bitten it to keep from crying out. Struggling not to look as if he'd just had a mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of Draco Malfoy's tongue in his ear, he reached for his wand and cast a quick cleansing charm, then slid his jeans back up, not bothering to button them.
"Beautiful," Draco murmured, nuzzling lightly at Harry's throat.
Harry shifted and curled into his arms. "Let me do something for you," he said, sliding his hands down to the top button of Draco's trousers. He paused there, glancing up, asking permission.
Draco smirked and slid lower on the bed, pushing Harry downward. "Just undress me."
Harry lowered his head and licked at the light trail of hair running down from Draco's navel, mouthing his way down to the waistline of the trousers that were, annoyingly, still between him and Draco's cock. He popped the button open with his teeth.
"Impressive," Draco commented.
"I can tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue, too," Harry said casually, dropping what was in his opinion a rather large hint. He caught the zipper in front of him between tongue and teeth and pulled it down.
"I might test that claim later. For now, finish what you're doing and then strip."
Harry obeyed, not without ghosting his mouth along the hard ridge of Draco's cock. Once Draco's clothes were off – and god, he was beautiful without them, all planes and firm angles and a thick hard-on that made Harry's mouth water – Harry slid off the bed and slid his jeans down over his hips, taking his time, watching Draco's eyes rake up and down his body. He hooked his thumbs in his boxers and slid them off after his jeans; for a moment he wondered if he ought by rights to be wearing a studded leather thong or something similar, and bit his lip to keep from laughing.
"Hmm… hard body, nice cock, good recovery time – you'll do," Draco said lazily, eyeing him up and down with the definite air of a connoisseur satisfied with a purchase.
"I'll do what, exactly?" Harry asked, climbing back onto the bed. "You're the one giving the orders, remember."
"Oh, I remember," Draco said, and for a moment his eyes were lit with the same malicious spark Harry remembered from school. "Come here."
Harry crawled closer and met Draco's mouth halfway, finally, finally entangling lips and breath and stroking deep into Draco's mouth with his tongue, a subtle fight for dominance that Harry remembered only at the last minute to concede. Draco tasted wonderful and felt even better, and Harry could feel his own cock beginning to stir again already.
With his eyes closed, he didn’t see Draco's hand move, and it took him off-guard when he was abruptly shoved down onto his back and pinned to the mattress by a hand on his chest. His eyes flew open and he looked warily up at Malfoy, wondering for an off-balance moment if he was about to get his nose broken again.
Malfoy smiled down at him, amused. "Keep the safeword stowed, Potter, I'm not going to start damaging the goods this early in the evening."
"I'm reassured," Harry said. "Really."
"Tell me, do you get fucked a lot?" Draco breathed into his ear, then sucked lightly at his earlobe.
"Do you really want to talk about my other clients?" Harry murmured, and licked along the line of Draco's jaw.
"Yes. I think I do," Draco answered as he slid his knee in between Harry's thighs.
Harry shivered, pressing closer, and stuck as close to the truth as he could. "No, I don't."
"Really? Why on earth not?"
Draco's mouth was travelling down his throat now; Harry swallowed convulsively and ran his fingers into Draco's hair, pulling him closer, fabricating as best he could given his diminished capacity for rational thought.
"Most of my clients are straight. Family men, boys just out of school, that sort of thing." Draco's tongue was slowly laving the line of his throat, and oh god it felt good. "They usually want to blow me, or want me to blow them. It satisfies their curiosity about being with another bloke, but if there's no penetration they can tell themselves it wasn't really sex."
Draco's hand slid down to grip Harry's arse, and he was nipping softly up and down Harry's neck, probably leaving marks. "Potter."
"Hm?"
"This," Draco said, pushing his thigh against Harry's definitely-returning erection and making Harry give a frantic, needy hiss, "is really going to be sex, by any definition. In case you were wondering, I mean. I satisfied my curiosity about sleeping with other men a long time ago, and I brought you up here so I could fuck you until you scream. Are you all right with that?"
Ohgodohgodohgod, Harry's brain was chanting frantically. If Draco didn't do something, Harry was going to die. "You know my terms. There are an awful lot of things you can do to me without breaking them, and fucking me is certainly one of those things."
Draco disengaged himself from Harry, rolled partly away, and stretched to retrieve his wand from the bedside table. Looking thoughtful, he cast a cleansing and protection charm on both of them and set his wand back down. "You know," he said, stroking the flat of his hand down Harry's stomach to just above his cock, "it seems as though things must be a bit different for male prostitutes than for female ones. Women can go all night without ever being really aroused, but men…"
He trailed a fingertip up the underside of Harry's erection, circling around the head, then whispered a lubrication charm against Harry's throat and slid slickened fingers downward. "How do you manage that?" he whispered, stroking with a feather-light touch that promised penetration and failed maddeningly to deliver. "Spells? Potions? Thinking of someone else?"
Harry closed his eyes and moved against Draco, thinking of night after night of anonymous hands on his body. "I don't… don't always have to be. Not if I'm giving head, or getting fucked. Some blokes like it better if I'm not."
Draco made a disapproving sound and slipped a finger into Harry, angling unerringly for his prostate. Harry managed to choke back a moan, but only barely. "You seem to have quite a lot of clients who don't quite appreciate you."
"And you do?" Harry asked dryly, then nearly yelped as one finger suddenly became three.
"I've been courteous so far, Potter. Don't push it," Draco said icily.
"Right, sorry," Harry gasped, forcing himself to relax. That sudden invasion stung like – well, like buggery, and in other circumstances Harry would have asked him to slow down.
"Just to clarify," Draco said, nipping the curve of Harry's throat just hard enough to hurt, "I'd rather you enjoyed this, but as long as you're a good enough actor to convince me that you're enjoying it I don't really care. Just bear in mind that I'm not paying you to lie back and think of England."
"Right, I can't see you getting off on the passive type," Harry murmured, raking his fingers through Draco's hair.
"Mm, no. Obedient, yes; passive no." Draco withdrew his fingers, pulled back, and pushed Harry downward. "Time to test out that boast of yours. Suck me off, and make it convincing."
Harry slid out from under Draco's hand and pushed him unceremoniously onto his back, mouthing his way down from Draco's collarbone, pausing to tongue his nipples until his breathing became sharp and erratic under Harry's mouth. "This what you want?" he murmured, glancing briefly up at Draco through his lashes before following a soft line of hair downward. "You want me to want you? Want me drooling at the thought of having your cock in my mouth?"
Draco smirked at him. "Think you're up to it?"
"God, yes," Harry whispered harshly, and sucked Draco's cock into his mouth down to the base.
Draco hissed and clenched his fist in the back of Harry's hair, thrusting upward and nearly choking him. Harry caught his breath in a sharp gasp and sucked harder, working his tongue over that hard length as Draco fucked his mouth, not willing to concede this battle for dominance – Malfoy might be setting the pace but it was Harry who was pulling those soft, reluctant moans from him, taking Malfoy's rhythm and giving it back to him in broad-narrow swipes of his tongue all the way down to Malfoy's balls.
And if he was moaning like a whore while he did it, well, that was his game and not Malfoy's, too.
His jaw hadn't even had time to start hurting yet when Draco tightened his fingers and yanked Harry unceremoniously and rather painfully off his cock. "Right, enough of that," Draco panted.
Harry smirked and leaned on his elbow. "Good?"
"Satisfactory," Draco said lazily, making Harry rather want to hit him. "Turn over."
"Right," Harry said a little shakily, and rolled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows.
Draco ran a hand slowly down Harry's back, lighting sparks all the way down his spine. "Nice arse, Potter," he observed, stroking it with a sort of idle ownership that made Harry grit his teeth to keep from saying something undignified like Oh my god shut up and fuck me right now, Malfoy.
"Tools of the trade," he said instead.
"Hm, yes. Golden Boy or no, I don't imagine you'd have much of a clientele if you had an arse like Crabbe after a Christmas sweets binge. Spread your legs."
Harry obeyed wordlessly, trying to keep from grinding his aching cock into the mattress. He was used to things being a bit more direct; this slow pace was fucking torture, and he suspected Draco knew it.
Draco's hands settled to either side of his elbows. Soft hair and warm breath tickled his ear. "Very good," Draco whispered. "Who knew the brat prince of Hogwarts had it in him to be this obedient?"
"Did you bring me here to fuck or gloat, Malfoy?" Harry asked between his teeth. He could just barely feel Draco's body against his, and he wanted desperately to push up against it, to feel Draco's cock grinding against him.
"Both, idiot, what did you think?" Draco ran his tongue up the back of Harry's neck in a slow, light swipe, making him shiver. "Surely you aren't going to begrudge me a moment of satisfaction over how right I was when I told you in fifth year that I'd have you. Oh, wait, of course you will. You'll begrudge me just about anything."
His hand slipped lower, moving with purpose now, and he breathed, "Including how good I'm going to make you feel. You'll hate that more than anything else I could do to you, Potter, and I'm going to love every second of it."
Harry opened his mouth to retort and gasped instead, arching backward as Draco stroked into him, thick and hard and hot, angled just right to scrape over his prostate with a slow, relentless pressure that made him squirm and moan. Draco laughed softly and withdrew on a long slide that made Harry wonder frantically if safewording meant that he'd be able to knock Draco onto his back and ride him like a Nimbus.
"Jesus, Malfoy, come on," he panted. "You've been waiting to drill me for years, what's the hold-up?"
"Don't you ever just… look forward to things, Potter?" Draco asked idly, if a bit breathlessly, continuing with the slow, maddening thrusts, drawing the tips of his fingers down Harry's spine.
Harry started to say that yes, he did in fact look forward to things, and then realized that he… didn't, much. Not anymore. Except for Draco fucking him hard and fast, that he was really looking forward to. "Your call," he said instead, trying not to sound too sulky.
Apparently he didn't succeed. Draco laughed and shifted, pulling Harry's hips up and back so he was more or less balanced on elbows and knees. "Getting a bit frustrated?" he sniped, and slammed into Harry so hard that it nearly knocked him into the headboard.
Harry groaned and shoved back against him, wanting more, too little stretching and not enough lube making it sting like hell and he didn't care. God, Malfoy was fucking brilliant, who knew, just the right angle and all the force Harry neededneeded and never got because apparently there was some unwritten gay wizards' law that said "Thou shalt not plow the Bloke Who Lived like you were trying to reach his tonsils on the upstroke," which Draco was ignoring like he ignored everything else; Harry was desperate to come in an embarrassingly short time, Malfoy was stroking his cock but not hard enough, and the bastard was going to make him beg, he knew it.
He didn't care. It wasn't as if Malfoy didn't fucking know.
"Tell me you want it and I'll bring you off, Potter," Draco whispered, his lips moving hotly against the back of Harry's shoulder. His hand tightened just a little, and Harry broke and begged, hard, fuck it, he'd left pride behind in the casino and it had goddamned well been worth it for the way Draco's hand twisted in some utterly amazing way on a hard thrust that pushed him over the edge like a bludger strike, leaving him gasping and shaking. A few more strokes and Draco was coming too, gratifyingly hard, fingers leaving bruises on Harry's hips; Harry moved with him, pushing upward in a way that wasn't quite anything as undignified as nuzzling, then collapsed forward onto the pillows with a sigh, feeling boneless and thoroughly content.
"That was good," Draco said, breathless and smug.
"Good," Harry said, still panting a little himself. "I'd hate to have to give you your money back."
"I haven't given you any yet."
Harry settled the pillows more comfortably underneath his head. "I can usually tell who's going to try to stiff me. People who won't can pay me afterward when it's harder to avoid tipping me."
"Potter, you mercenary bastard. If you're expecting twenty percent you'd better be prepared to carry my luggage too."
For one insane moment, that actually sounded good. He could just… vanish. No more midnight stakeouts in foul-smelling alleys. No more pointless leads that only turned out to be nothing after he'd already spent weeks on them. No more paperwork. Nothing but sun, sea, casinos, and a life of responsibility-free luggage-carrying as personal rent boy to Draco Malfoy and his stunningly talented cock. Of course, Hermione would hunt him down and kill him in his sleep, but at least he'd spend what was left of his life getting a tan and having brilliant sex.
Draco patted him almost affectionately on the shoulder. "Shower, Potter. You can scrub my back," he ordered. Harry cracked an eye open and watched with interest as Draco slid out of bed.
If he tried, he could probably stay ahead of Hermione for weeks.
Harry woke up when his hand hit paper on the pillow next to him. Groggily, he opened his eyes and fumbled on the bedside table for his glasses, then sat up and looked down. There was a stack of high-denomination Euros on the pillow, held together by a monogrammed silver money clip, with a note underneath them. Harry pulled out the note, angled it toward the sunlight, and frowned blearily at it, wishing for coffee.
I quite enjoyed that, Potter. I didn't think you had it in you.Next time you can be the millionaire playboy in exile and I'll be the down-on-his-luck former war hero turned rent boy.
I'll find you.
- DM
Harry leaned back against the pillows and grinned. Life had suddenly become interesting again.
