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It was a cold, miserable day for golf.
The wind off the Scottish coast had been picking up all afternoon, whipping up the sand from St. Andrews’ celebrated bunkers and driving golfers from the historic seaside course in droves. Which was saying something—athletes traveled here from all over the world to play, and were usually over-prepared to endure its infamous conditions. But with the autumn chill and darkening clouds that threatened sleet, even the hardiest players were heading to the 19th hole early.
It was also a Tuesday. Nearly evening. And that’s when he always arrived for his round. Today would be no different, Hermione was sure of it.
So despite the weather and the indecent length of her tennis skirt—the standard uniform that was doing nothing to shield her long legs from the cold—Hermione sat behind the wheel of her beverage cart and waited. For him. Draco Malfoy. The billionaire heir to Malfoy Industries, former playboy, new St. Andrews member—and widower.
A near-recluse during his marriage after a very public adolescence, Draco had reluctantly accepted the offer of membership after his wife had passed, to have a place to get away from London with the children. At least that’s what Hermione had read. True to his printed word, the Malfoys had settled here on the east coast of Fife in July, and turned up at the club nearly every day since.
Not usually one to poke her nose into other peoples’ business, Hermione had found herself strangely drawn to Draco and his little family over the course of the summer. She’d watched as the handsome but stoic man perennially featured in The Times gradually softened the more time he spent with his kids; cradling Scorpius in his arms after the small boy timidly leapt from the side of the pool or bundling little Lyra in an oversized towel as they walked to the sweets window for a treat on their way home.
Before she knew it, Hermione had also gathered that when they weren’t having a laugh chasing wayward balls at the tennis courts or sitting down to an early dinner at the imposing, slate grey clubhouse, the kids were at home with one of the waiting staff that nannied for members on the side. And that’s when Draco would slip back to the club for a round of golf, as he did on Tuesday evenings.
Still daydreaming from inside her cart, Hermione also recalled what she’d learned from the women who watched the Malfoy children as they gossiped in the staff locker room. They’d shared that Scorpius and Lyra were unfailingly polite and well-mannered, even at bedtime. That their rented manor on the outskirts of town was immaculate. And that as an employer Draco was kind; teasing the nannies without being improper, always grateful for their help, and generous with his tips.
The one exceptional report was from a bewildered hostess named Pansy, who had gotten turned around at the manor and walked into Draco’s quarters while he was changing.
Of course the female staff at St. Andrews already knew he was lithe, with broad shoulders and a six-pack that narrowed into chiseled hips from his pool visits. They were keenly aware of his sculpted thighs that tapered into shapely calves and slim ankles. Hermione herself had swooned when she first caught a glimpse of his tattoo sleeve depicting the serpent in the Garden of Eden crawling up his left arm and across his pectorals.
And thanks to the prattling barkeeps, Hermione knew exactly what Draco’s long fingers looked like as he gripped his whiskey tumbler in the salon after supper and how often his pink tongue would sweep out to catch the moisture on his lips from his drink. It was a lot.
But this —this was a first.
Pansy had arrived at the wrong spot at just the right time to see a shirtless Draco sliding his trousers and briefs down his hips in front of his full-length mirror. And she’d obligingly described the scene she unwittingly stumbled upon with great detail to the staff gathered around her. “His cock,” Pansy had gushed as they all jostled to get closer, “is magnificent .”
Pansy explained how Draco hadn’t seen her at first and of course she hadn’t turned away, so she’d had time to memorize every inch of his velvety flesh as it jutted proudly from the apex of his thighs. She’d even described his bollocks as beautiful, painting a colorful picture of them tucked snuggly behind his sizable length in a nest of pale hair. “I couldn’t stop looking at it—time stood still!” Pansy had laughed, “I was trying to figure out whether it would ever fit, and that’s when he looked over at me.”
The full effect of the experience, she’d finally divulged, was one of electrification. Like someone had tapped the top of her head with a magic wand and sent sparks radiating down her body. But at the realization that he was being watched, Draco’s whole body had stiffened and he’d turned, face placid, to cut his head to the left in disapproval. Pansy’s enchantment had broken immediately at his movement, and she’d spun on her heels without looking back.
Hermione had reflected on the interaction after hearing Pansy’s story for the third time, thinking the little scene fittingly described the way he acted toward her all the time. Because, while Draco seemed warm and friendly with nearly everyone else he came into contact with at the club, when it came to Hermione — the rigid stance, the curt dismissal, the reluctance to go anywhere near her — was all too familiar.
Of course when they had crossed paths, as she waitressed or made his drink on the course, he’d smile politely on cue with straight, white teeth—the epitome of gentlemanly decorum. But on more than one occasion she’d also seen him flinch if she caught him unaware, his eyebrows falling to his hooded eyes as he turned from their interaction, fingers carded in his hair, as he strode quickly away.
Back in her cart, Hermione squeezed her thighs together at the idea that she might have some unsettling effect on him.
And then suddenly, as though summoned from her thoughts, Draco’s emerald green McLaren turned off the main road and began rolling down the gravel thoroughfare to the clubhouse. Hermione turned to the gatehouse as he unwittingly made his way toward her before hopping out from behind the wheel to keep herself from gawking.
She set herself to the task of double-checking her supplies to make sure she had all the ingredients for his usual order. If he was drinking at all, Draco usually requested two fingers of a special house-made spirit the members affectionately referred to as firewhiskey. If he was out with a group he’d also grab a hand-rolled Cohiba Royale. Hermione checked the box, grabbing a cigar to hold to her nose, and inhaled deeply, wondering not for the first time whether the smoke tasted the same in his mouth.
Everything accounted for, Hermione’s eyes wandered back to the car entering the roundabout as she absent-mindedly nodded at the members tipping their hats in greeting as they made their way out of the blustering wind. She was just thinking of what else to grab to keep warm when she heard the slam of a car door followed by the rev of an engine, which brought her vision slowly back into focus. And then … there was Draco.
Hermione released a slow breath, taking him in as he stepped over the curb. Today he wore black horn-rimmed spectacles that balanced perfectly on his chiseled cheekbones, framing his pointy, almost delicate nose. His hair, a moonlight blonde the Malfoy men were known for, was parted at an angle, highlighting the fade on one side with the other artfully spiked.
On his body, Draco sported a wool officer’s coat in midnight blue, the lapels popped and brushing his ears. Under it, Hermione could see a grey t-shirt stretched over his chest and a plaid charcoal sport coat that matched the trousers he’d rolled at the ankles. A pair of white trainers and his hand resting in his pocket as he strode with his chin high completed the casual look.
She took a moment to appreciate that the only thing Draco carried was his phone as he made his way to the bag drop on the other side of the putting green. He leaned against the countertop as the course superintendent approached to explain the course conditions, and Draco’s gaze meandered around the courtyard before his eyes landed on her. They appeared to darken, and Hermione could only stare as his mouth curved up slightly at the corners in acknowledgment before he turned his back to her.
Not quite sure what to make of yet another awkward interaction, Hermione threw another layer over her windbreaker before hopping back behind the wheel of her cart. Draco would head to the locker rooms to change shortly, and Hermione wanted to be out on the Eden Course when he finally started off. He always preferred to walk and carry his own sticks, so she wouldn’t have to go too far.
She mused about the scenes about to unfold as she drove away; there was just something about seeing him walk upwards of six miles while consistently driving the ball 275 yards into the Highland winds that was wreaking havoc on Hermione’s panty drawer—she frequently had to pull over at the halfway house to ease the ache between her legs after they passed one another on the track.
Hermione released a long sigh at the memory of her little detours. How had she grown so enamored in such a short amount of time? They’d never said more than three sentences to one another, and he genuinely seemed to dislike her. But in the pit of her stomach she felt an inexplicable connection that was hard to shake. Would it abate if she sated her curiosity? If she finally learned whether his bow-shaped lips were as soft as they looked? If his cock felt as sinfully heavy in her hands as she’d imagined? Could she make him smile at her? It was a long shot, but the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to try.
***
Hermione had just finished serving a round of drinks to the last foursome on the course when she felt Draco’s presence behind her. She turned to see him coming up the long, straight fairway to the green on Six, ducking his head as her eyes focused on him. He continued taking long, confident strides with his bag strapped tight to his chest, slowing only as he grabbed his scorecard from his back pocket to calculate his next shot as he walked.
The other golfers moving on, Hermione took in Draco’s form and attire for the second time that day as he replaced the card in his pocket, the motion pushing up his sleeve to reveal his tattoo peeking out from behind his thick platinum Patek Phillippe watch. He’d kept it on after changing into a pair of slim, body-forming charcoal trousers that nipped in at the waist and sat low on his hips.
On top he wore a cream-colored performance jacket with quilted down that she knew was typically worn by professional tour players. It was fitted over his chest as though made specifically for him, and Hermione paused to consider the fact that it probably was. She could see a navy polo underneath, while a matching cashmere cap was angled back off his forehead to cover his ears but little else. Sinking his putt, Draco turned to his clubs at the edge of the green and began making his way to the next tee box where Hermione had parked.
Unable to avoid her this time without seeming atrociously rude, Draco continued toward her, his eyes cutting back to the ground as his lips flattened and he subtly shook his head as though in disbelief. Summoning her courage, Hermione put on a smile she hoped didn’t seem too forced, smoothed her hands down her skirt, and stepped away from her cart to meet him anyway—she had some theories to test.
“Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. What can I get for you?” she asked cheerfully as though he were any other member.
He stiffened as his name rolled offer tongue and turned to her pantry with a tight smile.
“Just Earl Gray for me this evening,” he finally said without looking at her, choosing instead to continue appraising the goods on her cart. “And a nip of firewhiskey, if you have it. It’s colder than I’d anticipated.”
“Do you take lemon and sugar as well?”
“Yes please—thank you. ” His boarding school accent sent heat to her center as she nodded and set to work.
Hermione walked his thermos to where he was preparing for his next drive when she was done, their fingers brushing as she handed it to him. They both shivered. And the unforeseen reaction must have sent him to a moment of temporary insanity, she noted, because he let his eyes drop to her bare legs for a split second before he turned abruptly, tossing a “thank you” over his shoulder as he continued on.
Little sprinkles of rain began to fall around her as Hermione finished reloading her supplies. From her vantage point here on the farthest side of the course, she could see it was completely empty, save for one enigmatic player she was now convinced loathed her implicitly for some reason she couldn’t even begin to guess.
She sighed and turned her cart back toward the clubhouse as more drops dotted her windshield, the wind whooshing through her open cart. When it began to blow harder, Hermione decided it would be best not to make a run for it, and instead chose to wait it out at the halfway house.
The little building served drinks and snacks to members during rounds when it was warmer, but had just closed for the season. Hermione was almost there when the rain that seemed to stop and start began to fall in earnest.
She stepped on the accelerator, the wheels sliding on the gravel that surrounded the halfway house, as the storm let loose and she leapt from the cart to make a run for the entry. She’d just unlocked it and slipped inside, the door starting to shut, when a pale hand reached out to grab its edge.
The long fingers gripped the wood, wrenching it back to reveal Draco, soaked, his hat gone and his white blonde hair plastered to his marble face. He was panting as though he’d run from a great distance, his bag still on his back. Hermione jumped at the intrusion, taking in his disheveled state, before snapping into action. She moved to him to push his bag off his shoulders, setting it back outside and closing the door.
“Mr. Malfoy! Oh my goodness, here—let me help you—” She turned and leapt to reach over the bar to grab a stack of towels, then hurried back to where he’d stopped as he watched her flustered activity.
Hermione had begun to pat down his chest and abs before she realized how she was touching him and froze. Draco’s face was blank as looked down his pointy nose at her to follow the movements, before bringing his hands up to hold the towels so she could release them. Hermione backed away slowly after that, ducking her head to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear.
Draco squeezed his eyes tight then, an anxious expression she’d never witnessed before, as he took a deep breath. His chest stretched the material of the wet jacket that still clung to him before his eyes flicked open, pupils blown wide as they focused on her. The darkness from earlier had returned, Hermione thought, there was no mistaking it now. Still, he didn’t move, not even to shiver.
“I’ll—I’ll just go and see if we have anything you can change into.”
He nodded almost imperceptibly as Hermione walked away. She returned with an oversized sweater, freshly pressed and waiting for its owner to claim it, and held it out to him. He stiffened as her hands neared him again and she released a nervous, stuttering laugh. So much for her confident seduction. Had she done something to offend him— again ? In the split second between the sound escaping her lips and his movement to take her offering, she considered the standoffishness he singularly applied to her again.
Since it was the end of the season, since it might be the only time she could, Hermione gathered her courage for the last time, and asked.
“Mr. Malfoy, I apologize if I did or said something—”
“Don’t.” The word was clipped, his lips tight as soon as he’d said it.
“I … what?”
“Don’t—call me that,” he amended, throat bobbing.
Hermione floundered. His name? He didn’t want her to say his name?
“Call me Draco … please,” his silver eyes softened as he brought them up from the ground, skating quickly over her body and finally gazing into her face. “I hate it when you call me that,” he finished, looking contrite at the admission.
She exhaled a nervous breath, cutting her eyes away and to the side. “Well, Mr. M— ah —Draco,” she began, unsure of how to address his issue, “a certain level of formality is required of all the staff here at St. Andrews. I could get sacked—”
“What if that was no longer a concern?” He cut her off suddenly, his piercing eyes searching hers.
“You mean, what if it wasn’t required? Well, that’s something you’d have to take up with the board of directors, I think there are quite a few members who would—”
“No. What I mean is, what if you didn’t have to worry about losing this job, Miss Granger?” Draco asked, his eyes flicking down to her name tag before rising to search her face as though trying to read her thoughts.
“Well…” she huffed in disbelief at the direction this conversation was going, “I do—worry. Very much, in fact. I couldn’t afford my rent without the money I make here over the summer,” Draco angled his head as he listened and took a tentative step toward her. “I’m just the librarian at Canongate Primary,” she finished.
“And do you like working here?” He was close enough now that it felt like he was looming over her.
“If I didn’t have to,” Hermione started, considering, “I suppose I still would because—because if I wasn’t here I wouldn’t … well, I wouldn’t get to see … you. ”
She finished on an exhale and turned her face away, afraid to see him grimace in disgust. The sound of the storm howling outside was the only sound as she waited for him to dismiss her. To turn her away. She imagined how this whole situation might sound if he explained it to his friends—the obsessed bar cart girl baring her soul to the billionaire daddy as they stood together, sopping wet in the shuttered halfway house. What an awful cliche.
“Funny,” he said finally, pulling her back from her thoughts and taking another step that brought his chest to hers, “that’s exactly what I was thinking.” He punctuated the sentence by crashing his lips down over hers, the sweater dropping to the floor as he reached over her shoulders to cradle the back of her head. Hermione let him possess her mouth as he kissed her hungrily— furiously —his tongue massaging hers over and over before finally pulling away.
Hermione’s lips followed his retreat, her eyes still closed tight as he stepped back to take off his soaking jacket. Next he pulled off his shirt, then reached for her layers without breaking eye contact, and they both continued to pant at the shock of their first contact. When his chest was completely bare, she grabbed his hand to pull him against her, breathing a soft moan at the contact. He pulled away to search her face.
“You know, Miss Granger — ”
“Hermione, please,” now it was her turn to interrupt.
“Hermione,” he echoed, testing her name, letting it roll around in his mouth, “I usually get a bite to eat at the bar when I’m here,” he said, glancing around.
“Well, it’s been closed up for over a week, I don’t think there’s anything here you’d want.”
“I disagree…” he kept going as though she hadn’t spoken. His gaze traveled up her form and he licked his lips. “May I?”
Draco reached his hands out, letting them hover on either side of her waist as he waited for her to consent. She bit her lip and nodded, and he gripped the soft flesh to hoist her onto the bar. He continued, moving his hands up and down her thighs before stopping so they cupped her hips. He began to gently stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of her thighs in circles. Her eyebrows rose at the sensation, her mouth dropping, as he stepped forward into her space. Hermione dropped her head to his shoulder and inhaled. Fresh grass. Spearmint. Books.
With the heady scents fogging her thoughts, Hermione reached down to where he was cradled between her thighs to stoke him, tentatively at first and then harder as she acclimated to his size. “Sweet Merlin, yes… ” Draco released his praise on a shuddering breath, eyes squeezed tight.
And with that, Hermione took charge, letting her tongue slowly trail up the column of his pale throat. She gave his bollocks a firm squeeze as she nipped his earlobe, taking advantage of the biceps caged around her to nuzzle further into him. He brought his right hand to her chin then, tipping it up so he could slant his mouth over hers.
His tongue darted out to swipe the seam of her mouth to gain purchase and she moaned and opened for him. The kiss was messy and frantic like their first one, as though he was afraid every time might be the last time —the complete opposite of how he had comported himself in every other interaction they’d ever had. She kneaded him again, relishing in the sensation of his length pulsing under her fingertips.
His hips jerked this time and Draco released a moan he seemed almost embarrassed to have made. He stilled and began to move away, his only facial expression was to squeeze his eyes shut as Hermione dropped her hands. She closed the small distance between them, grabbing his hands and bringing them to her chest. Her fingers grasped his and she squeezed. He’d lost some of his fire and bravado, Hermione could sense, and she felt his hands had began to tremble.
“Hey — hey . Draco. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she brought her hand up to where her lips had just left his face as he kept his angled away from her, and she massaged the spot with her thumb. “I thought, you being who you are, you’d be okay with that but … it’s been awhile, hasn’t it?” When he relaxed a fraction and turned his face to nuzzle into her hand, Hermione knew she’d said what he needed to hear.
“That obvious, is it.” It wasn’t a question.
“Not really, not to me,” she breathed. He took his time taking her all in — the sighs she made, the soft material of her jumper that he toyed with — as his fingers danced up and down her sides. She wondered if she’d ever held his attention for so long.
His face turned serious then as he flattened his hand on the flesh above her navel, slowly dragging it up her form, and bringing the jumper with it. When the hem was pushed up and over her breasts, he began to palm them over her cotton bra, her nipples stiffening under his fingers. The sensation must have sent a spark to his groin because he groaned, bucking into her again.
His head snapped up as though he expected her ire and opened his mouth to apologize like he’d had to do it many times before.
“No, that was good,” Hermione said, brushing her lips against his, “do it again .”
He moved to capture her breast in his whole hand at her urging, kneading it as he brought his lips gently down to hers. Hermione relaxed her jaw as his tongue slowly assaulted her mouth in the most delicious way, his hips languidly thrusting against her core again. The tightness in his trousers wasn’t new, but the chance to ease it through this intimate contact with her was — and he groaned at the idea of how their movements mimicked something that had been vilified during his marriage.
He pulled away to look down at her, taking in her hooded almond eyes, her cheeks starting to shine from the sweat he’d invoked. He held her gaze as he leaned down to kiss the center of her chest. He looked up to gauge her comfort, and watch her lick her lips before nodding slowly.
He smiled as he ducked his head to her breasts then, his mouth leaving wet circles as he lavished each nipple in turn, suckling before smoothing the sensitive skin with tongue again and again. His cock was now straining against the zipper of his trousers, and he took advantage of his position to angle her body off the bar so he could lift his hips to run his length over her mound.
They both moaned in response, Hermione shivering against him as the tip of his sheathed cock hit her clit. So he repeated the motion until they were both panting. He paused then to look up at her. They were both so worked up. So ready. Even with his earlier confession, she assumed he would want this, so she reached for his zipper.
“Hermione, I … I can’t have sex with you,” he said, beginning to shake again, eyebrows drawn tight in frustration. “Not right here, like this. I’ve thought about it and I want to—believe me.”
She brought her hand from his back to his hair, cupping the back of his head before stroking her fingers through his pale locks, and listened. “I want to make you feel good—I do. I love hearing you, touching you— Gods, even smelling you — but we have to find another way for right now,” he brought his pleading eyes back to hers, hoping she could see his sincerity.
“If there was something else I could—“ he began again, stopping abruptly when the hand on his head suddenly gripped his hair tighter. Hermione’s eyes were soft and understanding as she slowly began to apply pressure that guided his head down.
Following her lead, he dropped down, his right hand settling on her thigh as his chin now hovering between her thighs. He’d just nipped at her thigh when she brought her hand back to his chin, pulling it until he rested on her panties. She moved her legs so her knees now rested on either side of his shoulders.
“My wife, she didn’t like this—it’s—it’s been a long time,” he huffed, warm air skating over her knickers to her clit and she shivered in response. His eyebrows shot up. “That easy, yeah?”
“Like riding a bike, Draco,” she sighed happily. “I’ll let you know if you're doing something I don't like,” she finished, sinking back to lay across the bar and letting her knees drop open. Draco rested his hands gently on her knees, holding them as he took in her core. He brought his nose to her knickers and inhaled. It was quite possibly the best thing he’d ever smelled.
And it drove him absolutely mad — like he had to taste it before covering himself in it. His eyes left her core to seek hers, a moment passing between them before he finally leaned down and dragged his tongue through her pink folds.
He watched her goose flesh rise in response as his nose hit her clit — and he grinned at the discovery that it made her back arch. He nuzzled it again, letting out a shuddering breath before sticking the tip of his tongue out to tease the tiny bundle of nerves. His firm mouth found it again, letting his tongue slide again deeper this time, and hummed when he came up with more juices on his tongue.
Hermione’s knees continued to cradle his head as he slowly lowered one arm around each thigh so he might grip them to hold her tighter to him. As he let his weight rest, he remembered his aching cock and whispered an agonized moan into her core and dipping his tongue deeper.
“That’s perfect, you’re perfect—you’re doing it so perfect...” Hermione might be a librarian, but at the moment her vocabulary was severely limited. “Now, flatten your tongue … Good. That’s so good .”
The only sounds after that were Hermione’s sighs and his lapping. His mouth found her clit again and he circled it relentlessly, dragging her juices up from her channel to the tiny bundle of nerves. Strumming it over and over again with such precision she felt it was almost as though they’d been doing this together for years and not moments.
“You’re sure you’re out of practice?” She asked, gripping his hair again to bring his eyes up to hers. “Uh-hmmm,” he replied, his mouth hovering over her, dripping with her juices.
“Draco—Draco,” she said suddenly, moving on to another train of thought, “I feel so empty.”
He squirmed again at her plea as he brought one finger up and gently rested it against her, feathering the pad of his pointer finger against her center until he found her entrance, then slowly let it sink in. At the ease of it, he brought another finger forward and it joined the other and he pulled his face back to watch his fingers slowly pump in and out of her.
Following the cues of her moans, he shifted his tactic, holding his fingers inside her as the heel of his palm ground against her clit.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He could feel his bollocks tightening at the command—no one ever talked to him like this—as he imagined her hands still caressing him there. She arched into his mouth, her juices spilling down his face as he rocked against the aged wood of the bar, and she began to shiver, her insides fluttering against his hand. Draco was surrounded by her — the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of her — and something in him snapped and he too jerked his hips more fervently as the friction continued to build in his trousers. He could feel beads of cum gathering at the tip of his cock, signaling his imminent release.
His fingers continued to possess her as his tongue lavished her clit and shudders began to wrack her body. His hips thrusting again and again, seemingly in time with her, the universe aligning in a single moment to ensure they followed their bliss together. She came in his mouth, her hand holding the back of his head to her and Draco felt his own release take hold of him a moment after, sent over the edge by the altar he worshipped her on.
He jerked his head up to look at her face when he felt the scalding moisture that trickled down his hand and then his wrist as Hermione’s head rested against the back of the bar, her face the picture of bliss as her mouth opened and closed, exhaling softly.
Draco’s whole body relaxed and he dropped his head to her inner thigh with a smile on his face before turning his face to look up to grin at her. After a beat, Hermione surged forward to capture his lips, groaning when she tasted herself.
She searched his eyes, and grinned. “That,” she said looking at his dazed, smiling expression, “is exactly what I was going for.”