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Harry stands outside the office door, well aware that he’s about to walk into a danger zone.
He closes his eyes and does a round of breath of fire—the one he learned at the yoga classes Luna once dragged him to. It makes him feel slightly steadier, a fraction more in control.
With a final glance at the gold nameplate on the door reading Draco L. Malfoy, CEO, Harry knocks.
“Enter,” Malfoy drawls, in the tone Harry has heard so often over the past year that it has begun to invade his dreams.
Harry has to rearrange the files and coffee in his arms before he can open the door without disaster striking.
The office is the largest in the building, occupying the top floor, with floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the London skyline. Dark wood and leather dominate the space—understated elegance, except for the peacock sculpture beside the couch, which may genuinely be the ugliest thing Harry has ever seen.
Draco Malfoy looks up as Harry enters, then pointedly checks the Audemars Piguet watch adorning his wrist.
“What took you so long?”
“Sorry, sir,” Harry says immediately. “There was an issue with the espresso machine downstairs.”
Malfoy sniffs, extending a pale, slender hand to accept the coffee. He takes a long sip and exhales.
“There seems to be an issue with everything today,” he says.
His suit jacket has been abandoned on the couch; he sits in shirtsleeves, emerald tie loosened, the top two buttons undone. Sweat glistens faintly along his exposed collarbones.
This—exactly—is the danger Harry was anticipating.
“And the files you requested, sir,” Harry says, setting them down.
Malfoy hums, opens the top folder and begins to read. As far as Harry can tell, thank you is not a part of his vocabulary. At the very least, Harry hasn’t heard it once in the past year he’s been his assistant.
“Call downstairs,” Malfoy says, “and find out why the air-con still hasn’t been repaired.”
Heat has flushed his cheeks—unusual on someone normally pale as porcelain. Seeing colour in Malfoy’s face makes Harry’s mind drift in unsavoury directions—to other ways that flush might appear.
“Right away, sir,” Harry replies, averting his eyes.
The gesture could be interpreted as simple deference, but truthfully, Harry just knows better than to look at Malfoy too long, especially in this state.
Two things about Malfoy are undeniably true.
The first is that he is an unmitigated bastard.
Case in point: only twenty minutes have passed since the last time he demanded that Harry call down and ask about the air-con. Harry is certain that the frequent inquiries are only slowing the operation further.
The second is that Malfoy is horribly, unfairly fit.
For the first six months, Malfoy’s unpleasant demeanour was enough to make Harry forget how attractive he was most of the time. But then Harry began catching the smallest glimpses of something vulnerable—something human—beneath that ice-cold facade. Then suddenly, the aristocratic features, the lithe body, and the frankly obscenely pert arse became all but impossible to ignore.
Even now, weighed down by heat and a shirt clinging to his back, Harry can only think of licking that exposed slice of collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin.
The tightness in his trousers tells him he needs to leave—immediately. He should already be gone. He’s fairly certain he’s standing there, staring into nothing, mouth slightly open like an imbecile.
“Potter,” Malfoy snaps, cool grey eyes narrowing in impatience. “Are you well?”
Harry blinks, then nods. “Yes. Sorry, sir. I’ll call about the air-con.”
He quickly turns to leave. His hand is on the doorknob when Malfoy calls out again.
“Oh, and Potter?”
Harry turns only his head, trying his best to conceal the growing crisis in his groin. “Sir?”
“Drink some water,” Malfoy says. “You look close to fainting. I can’t have that.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry replies breathlessly. “Thank you.”
He closes the door and practically jogs back to his desk, collapsing into his chair and letting his forehead thud against the wood.
“Buggering Christ,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
His hand strays between his legs. He allows himself one tight squeeze to ease the ache of his erection before forcing it away.
He straightens and summons the most revolting images he can manage: Umbridge from HR in a leather teddy. Filch the caretaker slick with oil. His neighbour Hagrid shaving his back.
But his treacherous mind keeps wandering off course, bringing up images of flushed cheeks, pouty lips, bruises blooming against an elegant, swan-like neck.
“Fucking hell,” Harry breathes into his hands.
All this—over two undone buttons and a sliver of skin? Is he a bloody Victorian?
“Get it together,” he tells himself under his breath before reaching over to grab the phone.
He dials, crossing his legs, pressing his thighs together.
“Hello,” he says when the receptionist answers. “Sorry to call again so soon. Mr Malfoy wanted to enquire about the status of the repair…”
Harry sets his tray down with a slight smile on his face. He's rather pleased with himself for timing everything well enough to be able to have a hot lunch in the cafeteria today rather than just digging out a stale protein bar from the abyss of his desk drawer.
As he bites into his sandwich, Ron drops into the seat opposite him.
“Hey, mate!” he says, grinning. “Haven't seen you down here in ages. I was beginning to believe that Malfoy was keeping you tied to your chair.”
Harry chokes, scrabbling for his water and taking several frantic gulps.
“No,” he says once he can breathe again. “Just—busy.”
“How is that knobhead treating you these days, anyway?” Ron asks. “Still riding your arse?”
Harry’s fists clench as his brain very helpfully supplies images he absolutely does not need.
Ron raises a brow. “That bad, huh?”
“No,” Harry says quickly. “He's been fine. I mean—no worse than the usual.”
“That's good,” Ron says. “Reckon it's been a while since he's given you a proper bollocksing, hasn't it?”
Harry’s sandwich nearly slips from his hand while he's bringing it to his mouth. Are all these innuendos deliberate?
Ron carries on eating cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to the effect his word choices are having on Harry.
“I haven't given him any reason to complain,” Harry says.
“Well yeah,” Ron replies. “You're the best assistant he's ever had, I reckon. You've lasted loads longer than any of the others.”
“Damn right,” Harry says, chin lifting. “I am the best.”
“That one woman—the weepy one. What was her name? Yertle? Like the turtle?”
“Myrtle,” Harry says.
“Ah, Myrtle. She lasted—what? Three hours?”
It's true. Malfoy goes through assistants like he does tissues. Harry had panicked when he’d first been promoted to directly assist the CEO, fully expecting to be job-hunting within a month. But somehow after a few bumps at the beginning, Harry has learned how to manage Malfoy and his moods, anticipate his needs, and keep everything going relatively smoothly.
That is why Harry must get his weird Malfoy-related horniness under control.
It's making him slow, distracted, and stupid.
Every ill-timed boner nudges him closer to a future of tinned beans and toast.
Should he download Grindr again?
“Potter!” a shrill voice shouts from across the room.
“Fuck,” Harry mutters, instinctively hiding behind his napkin. “What does Pansy want?”
Pansy catches sight of him and stalks over, sharp acrylics gleaming and poised to kill. “What are you doing?” she sneers. “Draco’s upstairs bellowing his head off because you aren't at your desk.”
“Sorry—” Harry begins.
“He’s eating lunch, isn’t he?” Ron cuts in, incredulous. “Surely he’s allowed to eat? Or is he not permitted to take a shit either?”
“Ron!” Harry hisses, scrambling to his feet and wrapping what’s left of his sandwich in a napkin.
“I’ll go up there immediately,” he tells Pansy. “Thanks for coming to find me.”
Pansy lifts her chin and strides off, Louboutins clacking against the tile.
“Your job is a bloody nightmare,” Ron groans.
Harry shoves the rest of the sandwich into his mouth in the lift and bins the napkin by his desk on the way to Malfoy’s office.
He knocks.
“Enter,” Malfoy says, sounding harried.
Malfoy is already at his desk, hastily stacking files.
“We have to go down to conference room B and meet with that utter fuckwit from Hufflepuff Candle Co,” Malfoy says. “I need you beside me to take notes and keep my coffee cup filled and do all the other things I pay you for.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Harry says, moving to grab a prepared stack. “Anything you need.”
“Potter!” Malfoy barks.
Harry freezes and, inexplicably, puts both hands up like he’s being arrested.
Malfoy’s eyes are fixed on Harry’s chest, expression unreadable.
Harry looks down and groans inwardly at the curry sauce splashed across his shirt.
“Oh. Sorry, sir,” he says. “I can go clean up—”
“No,” Malfoy cuts in. “There's no time for that. Come here.”
Harry takes a confused step forward.
“I said, come here Potter,” he says, patting his thigh as if summoning a dog.
Harry moves in, brain spiralling. Is Malfoy going to tug his shirt off? Touch his chest? Lick—
No. Bad Harry. Focus.
When Harry is standing so close that they're practically sharing the same air, Malfoy reaches into his desk and produces a bleach pen. He then tugs the soiled portion of Harry’s shirt towards him and begins removing the stain.
Malfoy’s brows furrow in concentration, teeth worrying at his lower lip.
Harry turns his eyes heavenward, trying with all his might to not think of Malfoy’s mouth or teeth or how bloody close they're standing. He thinks of Zacharias Smith’s horrifying Botox disaster and how he looks wrapped in cling film.
That should completely annihilate any of the reasons for Harry’s cock to start stirring.
A warm hand presses flat to Harry’s chest, smoothing the fabric for a second—or three—too long.
Malfoy steps back and looks over Harry appraisingly. “Good enough, I suppose,” he sighs. “Thought you really should be ordering your shirts bespoke—”
“Bespoke?” Harry squeaks.
Malfoy shoves a stack of files into Harry’s arms and picks up the other.
“You have an athletic build,” he says casually as they head for the door. “Bespoke will flatter you far more.”
Sound advice, Harry thinks, if Wiltshire Home Furnishings paid its employees anything approaching bespoke money.
Walking a step behind Malfoy, Harry bites down on his lip to keep from laughing.
Harry was always of the opinion that blue balls was just a term randy blokes used to pressure their girlfriends into having sex with them.
Lately, he’s reconsidering.
His prick has never—ever—behaved this way. He wasn’t even like this when he was a hormonal teenager.
Then again, teenage fumblings hadn’t exactly been a priority, what with the inbred cultists trying to sacrifice him to their snake god and all.
But all of that is in the past now, and it appears that Harry’s cock has just now decided to catch up. Unfortunately, it’s chosen his boss as its fixation.
It’s not as if Harry can just sneak off for a wank when the urge strikes. If he spends more than five minutes in the loo, Malfoy is ready to send the cavalry after him.
Besides, Harry suspects that indulging himself to thoughts of Malfoy would open a dam and flood his entire world. He would only want Malfoy more, and after that doing his job would be impossible.
The phone on his desk rings, startling him out of his thoughts.
“Harry Potter speaking.”
“Potter,” Malfoy says. “I need you.”
The tone is brusque, perfectly CEO-appropriate, but somehow Harry’s brain immediately begins to adjust the pitch—until he imagines Malfoy needing something else entirely.
Harry’s cock twitches in his trousers, and he bites back a groan.
“I’ll be there right away, sir,” Harry says, and promptly slams down the phone hard enough that it rattles.
He stands and breathes—deep in through his nose, out through his mouth—then glares down at the faint bulge in his trousers.
“Down, boy,” he mutters, to no effect.
He waddles to Malfoy’s door, idly wondering if it’s actually possible for his bollocks to combust from unsatisfied arousal.
Would that sort of situation be covered by workers’ comp?
“Enter,” Malfoy says.
Harry straightens his shoulders and strides inside, hoping to exude easy confidence. If Malfoy happens to glance down at the growing situation between Harry’s legs, hopefully he’ll just believe that Harry’s trousers are a touch too tight—and that he has a generously sized cock.
Harry mentally spritzes himself with a squirt bottle and offers Malfoy a genial, professional smile.
Malfoy looks up from his paperwork, something puzzled in his expression.
“What are you doing, Potter?” he asks.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“That is true,” Malfoy says. “But why are you smiling like that? It’s unnerving.”
“Er—” Harry smooths his expression back to neutrality. “Sorry, sir.”
Malfoy leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk. His eyes take Harry in with an intensity that sends a chill down his spine. His lips curl into a smirk.
“Do you have yourself a girlfriend?” Malfoy asks. “Is that why you’ve been so distractible as of late?”
Harry shakes his head, pulse kicking. “No. I’ll do better, sir.”
“See that you do,” Malfoy says coolly. “Remember—when you’re in this office, you belong to me.”
Heat coils low in Harry’s belly and climbs his chest. His fingers lift to his collar, nearly undoing a button before he catches himself.
“I need you,” Malfoy says, gaze intent.
There’s a pause. Harry's feet automatically carry him forward.
An elegant finger lands on top of a file. “To summarise these reports.”
Harry snatches up the file, suddenly desperate to flee as quickly as possible.
“Right away, sir.”
Harry sits at his desk, idly rolling a pen between his fingers.
For once, he has nothing to do. He’s thought about it—agonised, frankly—trying to work out what vital task he’s forgotten, but comes up short.
The phone on his desk hasn’t rung in hours. Malfoy is sequestered in his office and made it very clear this morning that he was only to be disturbed in the event of an emergency.
In a week, Malfoy’s father—the founder of the company, who now heads the branch in France after a minor tax-related hiccup—is visiting.
According to many, Lucius Malfoy is such a monster that his son is considered soft by comparison.
Which is almost funny. Draco Malfoy is not soft. Nothing about him is soft.
Except his skin. And his hair, when he doesn't put product in it.
Speaking of which, Malfoy must be properly rattled by the upcoming visit, because he hasn’t used hair gel in three days. Three.
Harry feels a twinge of sympathy at how his boss looks even paler than usual, his pointed features lined with worry.
Mostly, though, Harry can’t stop thinking about how that white-blond hair—slightly wavy when left alone—would feel wrapped around his fingers. About what Malfoy might look like if Harry pulled.
Would he be the type to fuss and whinge about it? Or would his mouth fall open, breath hitching, body going slack?
Harry looks down at his mobile to distract himself from where his thoughts have wandered.
He has a text from Ron, informing him that it’s somebody’s birthday in the marketing department and that Harry should come over for a cupcake.
He’s tempted. And it’s not as if he’s actually busy at the moment.
But he knows better. The second he leaves his desk, Malfoy will need him. Harry will have to sprint upstairs with frosting on his face.
Maybe on his shirt. Or his trousers.
And then Malfoy would have to bring out the bleach pen again—
The phone rings.
“Hello. Harry Potter speaking.”
“I need to speak to Draco Malfoy.”
It’s a woman’s voice, crisp and posh.
“This is his assistant,” Harry says. “May I ask who’s calling?”
A long, weary sigh. “This is his mother. I cannot fathom how I’ve been deemed so unimportant that I don’t have access to his direct line.”
“I apologise,” Harry says swiftly. “I’ll transfer the call right away.”
“No,” Mrs Malfoy interrupts. “Put me on hold and go tell him directly.”
Harry rolls his eyes. This woman is not his boss.
Though she is his boss’s mother, which might be worse.
“Hurry, if you please,” Mrs Malfoy snaps.
“One moment,” Harry says, placing the call on hold.
He stands and—without thinking—opens Malfoy’s office door without knocking.
Harry stops dead in the doorway, eyes widening in shock.
Malfoy is sitting on the couch, trousers pulled down and cock out, a pale hand tightly gripping his shaft as he strokes himself.
Oh. Oh no.
His head is tipped down, eyes closed, teeth biting into his lower lip.
Despite the shock squeezing the air from Harry’s lungs, his body reacts instantly and unhelpfully.
Malfoy’s eyes fly open.
They stare at each other. Malfoy’s pupils are blown wide and his mouth is open in horror.
“H-Harry!” he yelps.
And then—because apparently this isn't already horrible enough—his cock jerks in his hand and he comes, spurting over the silk Persian rug.
Harry makes a strangled noise and snaps his gaze away from Malfoy’s cock, which is—annoyingly—quite pretty.
“YOUR MUM IS ON THE OTHER LINE,” Harry shouts.
He slams the door and bolts.
Well, Harry thinks as he helplessly slumps into his chair, that’s me out of a job.
In this cesspool of an economy, no less.
Should he start clearing out his desk now, or is that presumptuous? Maybe he should at least wait until Malfoy fires him to his face.
Hopefully, Malfoy will have the heart to send Harry off with a decent recommendation. Or Harry might even be able to convince him to shuffle him off to another department—far enough away that they’ll never need to make eye contact again.
If all else fails, Harry reckons he can join Luna’s commune-cum-polycule and grow radishes and raise yaks. He’s never desired to use a composting toilet, but he’ll learn if he must.
At least he’s had a decent run as Malfoy’s longest-lasting assistant. Maybe they’ll put up a commemorative plaque when he goes.
In Memory of Harry James Potter: Whose Career Somehow Managed to End on an Even More Humiliating Note than Myrtle
And—well. He did see Malfoy’s cock. Circumstances notwithstanding. Once the dust settles, Harry will almost certainly be filing that memory away for the personal spank bank. No guilt required when he’s living in a yurt and making yak cheese.
But actually—
Harry hadn’t done anything wrong.
Well, aside from not knocking, which is hardly a fireable offence.
It had been Malfoy lounging about with his cock out in the middle of a workday. On his couch. Door unlocked. With a private loo right there.
Harry finds himself thinking back on all of Hermione’s politically charged rants he’s half-listened to over the years. The one per cent truly are shameless.
And Malfoy had said Harry’s name as he came.
Most likely because he was already on the edge and blurted it out in shock at Harry’s sudden presence.
Except—Malfoy never calls him Harry. Only Potter. Harry isn’t even convinced Malfoy knows his first name.
Surely he does. It’s on all his paperwork. Unless HR handles that.
Harry is also a very common name.
Malfoy might have been tossing off to thoughts of Prince Harry. Considering his obscene wealth, it’s not impossible that the two of them are acquainted.
They’re about the same age, actually. Perhaps they gave each other hand jobs at Eton.
Harry’s fist slams painfully against his desk.
No. Stop that.
Right. Decision made. When Malfoy calls him in to sack him, Harry isn’t going down without a fight. He has never backed down in his life, and he’s not about to start—no matter how fit the arsehole across the desk may be.
The blinking light on his desk phone indicates that Malfoy is still talking to his mother. How much longer could this conversation possibly last?
Long enough to nip to the loo and tame the erection that refuses to go away?
Harry doesn’t want Malfoy thinking he’s running. Even if he did—technically—run.
The phone rings.
Harry lunges for it, slightly breathless when he answers. “Harry Potter speaking.”
“Potter,” Malfoy says, his voice strangely soft. “Will you come into my office when you have a moment? Please?”
Oh.
He’s being polite.
This cannot be good.
“I’ll be right there,” Harry says, and hangs up the phone.
He reaches down to adjust himself before standing. He shakes his limbs loose, then walks over to the office door and knocks.
“Come in,” Malfoy calls.
Reminding himself—firmly—that he is not in the wrong, Harry opens the door and barrels inside.
Then he actually looks at Malfoy.
Malfoy is at his desk, looking pale and utterly wretched. Harry’s momentum dies. He stutters into an awkward lope, then corrects to a dignified stroll and stops at his usual spot by the desk.
“Have a seat,” Malfoy says, gesturing towards the chair. “Please.”
Please. Twice in one day. After a year of none. Is Malfoy going for a punch card?
Harry sits, feet bouncing despite himself. It seems that once faced with Malfoy, all his righteous fury has evaporated.
It’s Malfoy’s fault—sitting there like a sad, soggy cat while remaining infuriatingly hot.
“I’m really sorry,” Harry blurts, staring at his knees. “I should have knocked. I don’t know what came over me.”
No. This wasn't the plan. Harry wasn’t meant to admit fault this early. He was going to negotiate, damn it.
Malfoy sighs. “Don’t worry about it. Trust me, I understand how difficult it is to say no to my mother.”
“Oh,” Harry says weakly.
“Besides,” Malfoy continues, “I’m the one who ought to be apologising.”
Harry glances back up to find Malfoy flushed and rigid with discomfort. Makes sense. It's possibly the first time the man has apologised in his life.
“I’m sorry,” Malfoy says. “You were never meant to see any of that. I’m deeply ashamed.”
“Well,” Harry starts gently, “you probably should’ve locked the door, but it’s really not that big of a—”
“And Christ!” Malfoy cuts in, burying his face in his hands. “What I said! I’m sure you’re entirely disgusted with me.”
What he said? Harry’s name?
Malfoy inhales shakily and continues, still refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.
“I knew I should have transferred you elsewhere as soon as my feelings for you became less than professional—”
Hold on.
“But you’re the only competent assistant I’ve ever had. You’re downright perfect, to be honest. I was reluctant to let you go. Besides, it’s not as if my… perversions are your fault.”
Harry crosses his legs as heat floods him. Malfoy is having… perversions? About him?
“Anyway,” Malfoy says, finally looking at him, “I am sure you no longer wish to work with me directly. You may remain at Wiltshire, of course. I’d happily place you in any department you choose—”
“Wait!” Harry interrupts, nearly leaping out of his chair.
Malfoy jolts, staring at him with wide, startled eyes.
“I don’t want to stop being your assistant!”
Malfoy blinks. “What? But I’ve behaved appallingly!”
“Yeah, well,” Harry huffs. “Me too.”
Malfoy frowns. “No, you haven’t,” he says. “You’ve been nothing but professional and courteous this entire time—even when I’ve behaved like a tyrant.”
“Not in my head, I haven’t!”
Malfoy lets out a laugh. “It’s only natural to think murderous thoughts when your boss is an arsehole. I wouldn’t fault you for that.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Harry says. “Well—sometimes. But not overall.”
He realises he’s looming now, chest heaving, looking like a utter fucking lunatic.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow,” Malfoy says.
Fine. Harry will just say it.
“I’ve also been having unprofessional thoughts,” Harry says. “Perversions. Like, properly depraved ones. Constantly.”
Malfoy’s mouth drops open.
“About you,” Harry clarifies.
Colour floods Malfoy’s cheeks; his lips press thin. “Is this meant to be a joke?”
“What? No!” Harry shouts. “I mean it! Do you not realise how ridiculously fit you are? I’ve been out of my mind, sir. You make me hard. Every single day. And I can’t do anything about it! At least you could!”
“I make you hard,” Malfoy repeats softly. “Every single day?”
“I’m hard right now!” Harry bellows.
“Oh,” Malfoy breathes.
Then his eyes flick down to the front of Harry’s trousers. “Oh!”
Abruptly mortified, Harry sits and folds his hands over his lap. “I mean,” he says, much quieter, “I’m just saying you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Not that I’m expecting anything, obviously.”
“Is that so?” Malfoy says, a slow, sultry smile spreading across his face. “But I was about to offer to help. After all, you’ve been so very helpful to me.”
Is Harry dreaming? He pinches his thigh, just to check.
“You’ve been taking care of me for over a year,” Malfoy continues. “It’s about time I returned the favour, don’t you think?”
Harry swallows hard.
“How about this,” Malfoy says, leaning forward. “You sit on the couch, and I lock the door.”
Harry moves like he’s sleepwalking. This feels alarmingly like the opening scene of a porno. Still, he sits on the couch and watches Malfoy cross the room and slowly turn the lock.
Harry reckons Malfoy has it right about bespoke clothing. The trousers Malfoy has on fit his arse so perfectly they look painted on.
Christ. Is Harry actually about to touch that arse?
When Malfoy said he was going to take care of Harry, what exactly did he mean by that?
Fuck. Harry really wants to grab that arse. Squeeze it. Maybe slap it. Put some fingers in there. His cock—
Malfoy drops to his knees in front of him, nudging Harry’s legs apart.
“Don’t be shy now,” Malfoy says. “Show me how hard I’ve made you.”
Harry reaches for his zip. Malfoy’s eyes track the movement, and before Harry has fully comprehended what’s happening, his cock is out and pointed right at Malfoy’s face.
Malfoy licks his lips. “You’re even bigger than I imagined.”
“You’ve—er—imagined?”
Malfoy nods, moving close enough that Harry can feel the heat of his breath ghosting against the tip of his cock. “Extensively.”
Only then does the weight of the situation hit Harry. This is his boss. The CEO of the company. Who is, right now, preparing to suck Harry’s cock. In the middle of the workday.
There are so many ethical violations occurring at the moment that Hermione would be producing actual smoke from her ears.
Not that Harry wants to stop, of course—but perhaps he should remind Malfoy, just in case—
Malfoy meets Harry’s eyes and smirks.
“Sue me,” he says, leaning in, “if you must.”
“That won’t be necess—”
The rest of the sentence disappears as Malfoy takes him into his mouth and swallows down.
Harry grips the leather sofa, completely enthralled. He doesn’t know if Malfoy learned how to suck cock at Eton or elsewhere, but he’s a bloody professional.
Malfoy pulls back, eyes bright. He swirls his tongue around the tip of Harry’s cock before taking it back in.
This would probably be a good moment for Harry to say something a bit sexy, but Malfoy’s mouth is so overwhelmingly hot and tight that all he manages is a sound that wouldn’t be out of place in a wildlife documentary.
Cheeks burning, Harry clamps a hand over his mouth.
Malfoy pulls away at once. He reaches up to clasp Harry’s wrist, yanking it down.
“None of that,” he says firmly. “I want to hear how you sound when I make you fall apart.”
Malfoy’s mouth returns to his cock, and Harry stops trying to hide the reactions it draws out of him. The noises he makes only grow more wrecked and profane the deeper Malfoy takes him.
It’s been a while since anyone has done this to Harry, and it’s never been anywhere near as good as this. He’s fairly certain that Malfoy doesn’t possess a gag reflex.
Does Malfoy do this often? And with whom? Harry wants to find them all so he can punch them in the nose.
Malfoy looks up at him through hooded eyes, clear grey shining. Harry reaches out to rake his fingers through that head of blond hair. Then—gently at first—he tugs.
Malfoy’s eyes flutter shut. He moans around Harry’s cock and takes him even deeper.
His reaction is more beautiful than Harry could possibly have imagined. It makes Harry realise that he’s desperate for more.
“Sir,” Harry says.
Malfoy carries on as though Harry hasn’t spoken.
“Mr Malfoy?”
Malfoy still doesn’t respond.
“Draco,” Harry moans.
Draco’s eyes open, and he smiles around Harry’s length.
Harry’s cock twitches, and he comes straight down Draco’s throat.
Draco doesn’t pull away, sucking him through the aftershocks. Harry grips the seat, hips jerking as his body empties itself.
When Draco finally pulls off, Harry feels completely spent. He tips sideways and collapses onto his back, eyes shuttering.
“Sorry I came in your mouth,” Harry pants once he can breathe again. “I tried to warn you.”
“I wanted you to,” Draco says, laughter in his voice. “That’s why I didn’t stop.”
Harry’s mouth curves into a soft, satisfied smile.
There’s the sound of shuffling against the carpet, followed by a weight on top of him—Draco straddling his hips.
A cool hand lands on his forehead, gently pushing back his fringe.
“You aren’t falling asleep on me, are you?” Draco asks. “That would hardly be fair.”
He shifts, and Harry feels Draco hard against him.
Harry’s hands slide to Draco’s waist, fingers tightening.
“Just need a moment,” Harry says, pulling him closer. “But do feel free to carry on doing that.”
Draco grinds against him with a soft moan. “Here I was thinking young men had more stamina.”
“Go around with many young men, do you?” Harry asks, a bit tartly.
Draco chuckles, dropping his mouth to Harry’s neck. “You’re adorable.”
Harry scrunches his nose.
“I don’t,” Draco says, nibbling at his earlobe. “You’re the only one I’m interested in.”
“Good,” Harry replies.
The pressure, combined with Draco’s needy little sounds, is enough to coax Harry’s cock back into hardness. His eyes crack open, but instead of being met with the sight of Draco—luminous and moving above him—Harry finds himself face to face with the hideous peacock sculpture, its sharp beak pointed threateningly at him.
Harry props himself up and reaches for Draco’s suit jacket.
“Careful, darling,” Draco drawls. “That’s Alexander McQueen.”
With Draco’s assistance, the jacket comes free. Once it’s in Harry’s hands, he drapes it nearly over the peacock.
Draco bites back a laugh.
“Harry,” Draco says with an evil smirk, “do you not like my peacock?”
The peacock must mean something to Draco, considering its presence. Harry chooses to tread carefully.
“It’s… fine,” he says. “I just didn’t want it staring at us, is all.”
Draco’s gaze locks on him. “I don’t think you’re being honest,” he says primly.
Without warning, Draco catches Harry’s wrist, pins his arm above his head, and smiles down at him.
Harry’s breath stutters.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Draco murmurs. “The absolutely filthy looks you give my peacock every time you walk in.”
“Er—”
“Admit it,” Draco says, pressing down harder. “You hate my peacock.”
“I don’t—”
Draco nips Harry’s jaw—hard.
“Don’t you lie to me, Potter.”
“Okay! Okay!” Harry wriggles helplessly against the leather. “I don’t like the peacock! I think it’s really ugly! Are you happy now?”
Draco goes very still.
Then his face does something odd. He releases Harry’s wrist, folds forward, and buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck. His shoulders start to shake.
Harry strokes his back, bewildered and slightly panicked. Does the peacock really mean that much to Draco? Has Harry ruined everything now?
If Draco couldn’t handle the truth, why was he being so insistent on it?
Draco sucks in a breath and lifts his head.
He’s laughing.
Laughing so hard tears glisten at the corners of his eyes.
“I—” he gasps. “I despise that fucking peacock!”
Harry bursts out laughing too, relieved that Draco isn’t actually upset and a little awed by how cute he looks all soft like this.
Harry tilts his chin up and kisses him. They’ve done things a bit backwards—not that Harry minds—but Draco’s lips are soft and warm, and Harry doesn’t even mind the taste. In fact, it only turns him on more.
When they pull apart, Harry asks, “If you hate that thing so much, why do you have it?”
“My father gave it to me when I took over this branch of the company,” Draco says. “He’d have a fit if it vanished. But every time I see it, I consider burning it.”
Harry raises a mischievous brow. “I’m sure an accident could be arranged.”
Draco snorts. “I considered locking it in a cupboard and hauling it out when he visits, but it’s absurdly heavy. Deceptively so.”
“I’m pretty strong,” Harry offers.
“Oh, are you?” Draco squeezes his biceps, humming. “I imagine you can lift quite a lot with these.”
“I can.”
“Like me against the wall, for instance,” Draco says softly.
Harry nods immediately, cock throbbing. “Yes. That. Is that what you want?”
“Eventually,” Draco says, “but what I’ve truly been dreaming of all this time is riding that gorgeous cock.”
“Right,” Harry says faintly. “Be my guest. Hop aboard, er—Captain.”
His ears burn. Draco throws his head back, laughing.
“I’ll need to fetch us some lube and a condom first,” he says.
Draco lifts off him and stands. Harry’s hand reaches for him on instinct. He misses—but just barely brushes Draco’s arse as he moves away.
Draco glances back over his shoulder, smiling wickedly.
“You can touch all you like in a moment.”
Harry wants to touch him right now—immediately. But Draco strides over to his desk and opens one drawer, then another, searching.
Harry’s cock aches with impatience, but alongside it there’s a sense of relief. At least Draco isn’t so accustomed to liaisons in his office that he knows exactly where everything is.
Not that it should matter to Harry if Draco sleeps with other people. It’s not as if they’re beholden to each other. This could just be a one-time thing.
But Draco had said that he would let Harry have him against the wall eventually. So, obviously he wants to do this again, right?
But does he want an assistant with benefits, or something more?
Should Harry be getting naked right now?
“Found them,” Draco calls as Harry is shucking off his trousers.
Harry freezes, his hand caught in his waistband.
“Well, go on,” Draco says. “Let me see you.”
His cheeks heating, Harry speeds up. Soon enough, he’s entirely nude, clutching his clothes. Should he fold them?
Draco takes them from him gently and, with a smirk, tosses them onto the floor. Then he presses a hand to Harry’s chest, guiding him down and climbing over him.
“You’re still wearing far too much,” Harry comments.
Draco tilts his chin in challenge. “Do something about it, then.”
Harry reaches up and pulls Draco’s tie free with a sharp tug. He pauses, thumb brushing over the expensive silk.
“Just throw it on the ground,” Draco says. “You don’t need to be careful with my things. Or with me, for that matter.”
Emboldened, Harry throws the tie aside and scrambles for the buttons of Draco’s shirt. Moments later, it joins the tie on the floor.
Harry pauses to take in Draco’s bare chest—the smooth, pale skin, the pearl-pink nipples already stiffened. He flicks one lightly. Draco shudders and moans.
“Sensitive?” Harry asks, doing it again.
He leans in and takes it into his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue around the nub. Fingers thread into his hair, tightening as Draco bucks and moans.
Harry pulls back and looks up at him, drinking in the rosy flush spreading over Draco’s skin.
“Tell me,” Harry murmurs. “Tell me you need me.”
“I need you,” Draco sighs, pressing closer. “Please, I need you.”
Harry grits his teeth. He feels dangerously close to coming just from hearing those words in that exact tone he’s been imagining for so long.
He reaches for the button of Draco’s trousers, fumbling slightly. Draco helps, a flicker of impatience in his eyes.
At last, Draco straddles him, completely bare.
His cock is long and hard, leaking at the tip—beautiful, like the rest of him. Harry can’t resist wrapping his hand around it, stroking slowly.
Draco moans, breathy, thrusting up into Harry’s hand.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Harry says.
It still feels like a dream—Draco letting him touch him like this. Harry feels an urgent need to move faster, as if he might wake up before he gets the chance to be inside him.
As if reading his mind, Draco presses the bottle of lube into his hand.
“I can’t wait much longer,” he says softly. “Open me up.”
Draco lifts his hips, but Harry doesn’t go for his hole immediately. Instead, he grips Draco’s arse, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs pressing deep.
“Like my arse, do you?” Draco asks, smugness curling at the edges of his mouth.
“Very much,” Harry says. “I want to bury my face in it.”
“As lovely as that sounds, if you don’t put your cock inside me soon, I may perish.”
Grinning, Harry keeps massaging the rounded curves until Draco’s pretty pink lips form into a pout.
“Stop teasing.”
“You told me I could touch all I liked,” Harry says innocently.
After one final squeeze, Harry pulls his hand away and coats his fingers generously with lube. He presses one slowly into Draco’s tight heat, earning a wrecked moan. Draco clenches around him, pulling him in deeper.
Harry works his finger in and out steadily. Draco wraps a loose hand around Harry’s cock, circling the head with his thumb. It’s exquisitely frustrating—too much and not nearly enough.
“Who’s teasing now?” Harry quips.
Draco gives him a sly smile and tightens his grip just enough to make Harry twitch against his palm.
Harry adds a second finger, picking up the pace. He curves them, reaching deeper, until he brushes the spot that makes Draco cry out.
“For fuck’s sake, Potter,” Draco groans. “Put it in.”
Harry wants to. So much it makes his head spin. But Draco is still so tight.
“I need to stretch you out more.”
Draco’s eyes flash with something feral. “Now, Harry.”
Harry withdraws his fingers, breath catching. “Alright. But you have to tell me if it hurts.”
Draco lifts his chin defiantly. “You won’t hurt me.”
With a rush of exasperated fondness, Harry tears open the condom packet and rolls it on, then slicks himself thoroughly—perhaps excessively, given Draco’s stubbornness.
Draco braces a hand against Harry’s chest and lifts, then slowly lowers himself.
At first, when he presses against the rim, Harry thinks he won't fit. But Draco spasms around him, taking him in. With a breathy moan, he sinks down inch by inch.
It feels so incredible—the hot, tight squeeze—that Harry has to force his eyes shut to keep from thrusting up. He lets Draco set the pace, even though the animal inside him wants to flip Draco over and drive into him with reckless abandon.
Harry’s hands clamp around Draco’s waist as he fills him completely. Draco stills, face tightening as he adjusts.
“Alright?” Harry asks, voice rough.
“Perfect,” Draco replies with a soft, satisfied smile. “You fill me so very nicely.”
“You feel incredible,” Harry says. “So tight.”
Slowly—achingly slowly—Draco begins to lift himself up. Then he guides himself back down at the same languid pace.
Harry’s fingers dig into Draco’s sides as a desperate moan falls from his lips. Draco looks devastating like this—like an angel carved from marble—and Harry wants to stay inside of him forever.
And yet, if Draco doesn’t speed up soon, Harry is fairly certain he’s going to lose his mind.
From the haughty curve of his lips, Draco knows exactly the effect he’s having on Harry—and he's relishing in providing this most exquisite torment.
It isn’t surprising, really. Harry has known for quite some time how cruel Draco can be. For some reason, Harry likes that about him.
Maybe that says something troubling about Harry’s mental health. Any therapist worth their salt would tell him he shouldn't be fucking his boss—but there’s no chance he’s taking that advice now that he knows exactly how Draco feels wrapped around him.
He refuses to think about how horribly wrong this might go.
Draco’s thumb smooths over the crease between Harry’s brows.
“Focus,” he breathes.
Then he lifts his hips and drops back down, fast enough to knock the breath from Harry’s lungs.
“Fuck,” Harry moans.
“That’s it,” Draco says, smiling. “Eyes on me.”
Harry watches, awestruck, as Draco moves above him, eyes rolling back as he takes his pleasure.
His gaze has gone glassy, the flush across his chest deepening.
Draco leans down and kisses him, mouth parting, controlled even now—while Harry feels seconds from falling apart. He wants to see that composure shatter. Wants to watch Draco unravel.
Harry’s hips snap upward, drawing a startled gasp. An even harder thrust pulls a desperate, strangled sound from him.
“More,” Draco says. “Please. Need you.”
It’s absurd how much power those simple words hold. Harry wants to give him everything. Every last drop.
Draco rises and falls as Harry drives into him, back arching, throat exposed. Harry adjusts his rhythm until every thrust wrings another helpless noise from him.
Harry wraps a hand around Draco’s neglected cock and strokes in time with his movements. Draco’s mouth opens, words dissolving into breathless moans and gasps.
Then Draco shudders and comes, his release spilling across his chest. The sight sends heat flooding through Harry. He leans forward, tongue tracing a slow path through it as he continues chasing his own release.
Draco trembles, sensitive, as Harry tastes him, then presses heated kisses against his skin.
Arms wrap around Harry, clinging tight as he rocks forward.
He wants to say something reckless and possessive. He wants Draco to tell him he’s the only one who can make him feel like this.
“You’re perfect,” Harry gasps. “Like you were made for me.”
“Harry,” Draco says, voice breaking.
Heat coils at the base of Harry’s spine, then detonates. Pleasure surges through him as he comes, hips stuttering through the last of it.
Spent, Harry collapses back against the couch, his damp skin sticking to the leather. Draco follows him down, their sweaty foreheads pressing together as they catch their breath.
Even as Harry softens, he’s reluctant to pull away. As fussy as Draco can be, Harry half expected him to insist on cleaning up immediately. Instead, he seems content to linger, basking in the quiet afterglow.
Slowly, Draco lifts his head and offers Harry a beautiful, satisfied smile.
“Was my performance satisfactory, sir?” Harry asks, his voice rough.
Draco kisses him, catching his lower lip between his teeth.
“Exemplary,” Draco replies. “In fact, I believe I’m prepared to offer you a promotion.”