Draconia sat cross-legged on the heavy oak desk, her robes bunched beneath her thighs. The wood felt hard and unyielding under her skin, a stark contrast to the way her pulse hammered in her neck. She gripped the quill tightly, the feather soft against her palm, while the sharp nib bit into the sensitive skin between her teeth. It was a ridiculous position to be in, but the ink was staying still, and her mind was moving too fast for the quill to keep up.
Harry stood between her open knees, his hands resting on the edge of the desk. He looked up at her, his eyes dark and focused. He did not look like a man who was supposed to be helping her with a history essay. He looked like a man who wanted to ruin her.
"You are going to bite through the wood if you keep doing that," Harry said. His voice was low, vibrating in the quiet of the room.
"The quill is more interesting than the sentence," Draconia replied. She pulled the nib from her teeth, leaving a small smear of dark ink on her lip. She swallowed the bitterness of the taste. "My father would say a Malfoy does not let a piece of wood dictate her pace."
"Your father is not in this room," Harry said. He reached up, his fingers brushing the silk of her sleeve. "I am."
"You are a distraction, Potter. A very loud, very inconvenient distraction."
"Am I?" He stepped closer, his chest pressing against the edge of the desk. "Then why are you sitting on it instead of at the chair?"
"The chair is for people who have something to say. I have nothing to say."
"You have plenty to say. You just haven't written it down yet."
Harry reached out and took the quill from her hand. He did not put it aside; instead, he pressed the tip of the feather against the hollow of her throat. The ink was still wet, a dark, damp line appearing on her pale skin. She gasped, her hips tilting forward instinctively.
"Is this part of the research?" she asked, her breath hitching.
"It looks like part of the process," Harry murmured. He set the quill down on the parchment, right in the middle of her unfinished sentence about the wizarding wars. He did not care about the ink smearing. He did not care about the essay.
He moved his hands to her hips, pulling her closer to the edge of the wood. Draconia leaned back on her elbows, her skirt riding up her thighs. The cool air of the room hit her skin, but she felt hot. He gripped the underside of her thighs, lifting her slightly so she was perched on the very edge of the desk.
"Harry," she whispered, the name a plea and a command all at once.
"The essay is still unfinished," he said, his voice thick. He reached for the fastening of his trousers, his eyes never leaving hers. "But you can finish this."
He moved into her, his movements blunt and certain. He pushed her legs wider, sliding his body between her thighs. Draconia felt the heat of him against her, the hardness of his cock pressing against her damp pussy. She reached down, her fingers finding the slickness of her own cunt, guiding him inside her.
He entered her with a single, heavy thrust. Draconia cried out, her head falling back as her spine arched. The sensation of his cock filling her was immense, a thick, stretching fullness that made her vision blur. He was deep inside her, hitting the sensitive walls of her cunt with every movement.
"Fuck," Harry groaned, the word escaping him as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. He began to fuck her with a rhythmic, driving force. He lifted her hips, bracing them against the edge of the desk so he could drive harder.
Draconia gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. The sensation was overwhelming. Every time he pushed into her, she felt the friction of his cock against her pussy, the way his weight forced her back against the hard oak. The essay was beneath them now, a crumpled sheet of parchment that caught the moisture of their bodies.
"Harder," she breathed, her voice a ragged edge. "Don't stop."
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming faster and more frantic. He moved his hips in a punishing arc, his cock sliding in and out of her wet cunt with a wet, slapping sound. Draconia felt the tension building in her lower belly, a tightening coil that she could not escape. She watched his face, the way his eyes were squeezed shut, the way his jaw worked as he drove into her.
He reached down, his fingers finding her clitoris as he pushed deep inside her. The dual sensation sent her over the edge. Her walls clamped tight around his cock, milking him as she began to shake. She felt the first wave of her orgasm hit, a violent, pulsing heat that radiated from her center.
"Harry, Harry," she gasped, her voice breaking.
He felt her squeezing him, her puscussy tight and weeping around his length. He let out a low, guttural sound and thrust one last time, burying his cock to the hilt. He groaned loudly as he came, his cum erupting inside her, a hot, heavy sensation that filled her to the brim. He stayed deep inside her, his body trembling as he finished, his forehead resting against hers.
They stayed like that for a moment, the only sound being their heavy breathing and the crackle of the dying candle. The essay was a mess of ink and dampness beneath them, ruined by the friction of their bodies and the spilled moisture of their sex.
"You missed the point of the second paragraph," she said, her voice returning to its usual sharp tone, though it was still breathless.
Harry pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes glazed with satisfaction. He reached out and wiped a stray bit of moisture from her thigh.
"I think we got the point across," he said, a smirk playing on his lips.
"The point is the history," she argued, though she was smiling. "The history is the important part."
"I think the history is currently being written," he countered. He reached for the quill that had fallen near her hip. He picked it up, the ink on the tip still dark and glistening.
He leaned forward, looking down at the parchment where her handwriting had been obscured by their bodies and the spilled ink. He pointed to the last line she had managed to write before he had taken the quill from her.
"Read it," she commanded, her eyes bright. "Read the last paragraph out loud."
Harry cleared his throat, his gaze settling on the messy, ink-stained lines. He began to read the last paragraph of her essay, his voice steady and deep in the quiet room.