Taste of Temptation

Draco barely remembered getting to Moonbrew, barely recalled Apparating at all, because by the time he arrived, he was already moving, already storming through the entrance with the kind of purpose that could level mountains, already burning so fiercely from the inside out that it felt like nothing short of claiming her, of owning her, of making her feel exactly what he was feeling, would ever settle him again. The door nearly came off its hinges from the sheer force of how he flung it open, the bells above it chiming in sharp, panicked protest, their delicate sound completely at odds with the absolute fucking storm raging inside of him.

It was too early for this. Too early for rational thought, too early for self-control, too early for anything other than the singular, maddening need that had driven him here like an animal following the scent of its prey. He hadn't even had a plan when he left his house, hadn't stopped to consider what he would say, what he would do, how he would handle the suffocating weight of everything that had happened the day before. He hadn't needed to. Because this was inevitable.

The moment he had left her standing there, still reeling from his kiss, still caught between whatever the fuck they were doing, this moment had already been written.

He had barely slept. His body had burned all night, restless, frenzied, spiraling further and further into madness, a madness that had her name carved into every inch of it. He had tossed, turned, seethed, clenched his jaw so tight it had ached, pressed his palms against his eyes as if that would somehow erase the memory of the way she had felt against him, the way she had gasped the moment he had pulled her in, the way her body had molded to his as if she had always belonged there.

But none of it—none of it—had been as bad as the pure, undiluted agony of hearing her call another man Rolfie, of watching her allow him to touch her, to lift her, to fucking hold her as if she were his to keep, his to claim, his to whisper soft words to.

She wasn't.

She never had been.

She never fucking would be.

She was his.

And if she thought he was going to sit with this feeling, let it go, let her slip away into whatever game she was playing without consequence, she was so fucking wrong.

The shop was quiet when he entered, too quiet, too calm, too goddamn peaceful, as if the walls themselves weren't aware of the carnage about to take place within them. Sunlight spilled through the windows, casting a soft, golden glow across the wooden floors, the delicate shelves lined with tea leaves and dried herbs. It looked exactly the same as it always did. But Draco wasn't the same. Draco was not the same man who had stood in this shop yesterday.

And then, he saw her.

Serene. Unbothered. Fucking devastating.

She stood behind the counter, moving with that same infuriating, effortless grace, her long, silver-spun hair tumbling down her back, her delicate fingers tracing over glass jars as if she had all the time in the world, as if she hadn't completely unraveled him piece by piece and left him to rot in the aftermath of her destruction. And when she turned to face him, when she met his gaze without an ounce of hesitation, without even the slightest flicker of surprise or guilt or nervousness, his pulse spiked so hard he nearly saw stars.

"Luna."

The sound of her name leaving his lips wasn't a greeting. It wasn't a question. It wasn't a plea. It was a demand.

It was sharp, rough around the edges, coated in something raw and dangerous, something that didn't just demand her attention— it fucking commanded it.

But she didn't even flinch.

If anything, she smiled.

It was slow, deliberate, amused, curling at the edges of her lips with the kind of knowing, teasing wickedness that told him she was enjoying every second of this, that she had been expecting him, that she had known— fucking known—that he wouldn't be able to stay away.

"Did you enjoy your performance yesterday?"

His entire body went rigid, his fingers curling into tight fists, his jaw clenching so hard his molars ached.

And the worst part?

She was leaning against the counter, casual as ever, relaxed, unaffected, as if she wasn't pushing him to the very limits of his sanity, as if she wasn't holding a match over a room already doused in gasoline.

"You'd rather get hit by a broom than go a minute without the attention on you, wouldn't you?"

It was taunting, teasing, infuriating, a knife slid effortlessly between his ribs, twisted with just enough pressure to be agonizing.

He moved before he even realized it, before logic could stop him, before reason could grab him by the throat and remind him that he was treading dangerous ground, because he was already closing the space between them, already prowling toward her, already positioning himself so fucking close that she would feel the heat rolling off of him, so close that if he wanted to— and fuck, he wanted to— he could back her up against the counter, cage her in, make her feel everything she had done to him.

"Who the fuck was he?"

The question wasn't a question.

It was low, dark, edged with something lethal, something territorial, something that curled like smoke around his voice, wrapping around her like an invisible force that demanded an answer.

And she—this girl, this impossible fucking girl— had the audacity to smile wider.

"My ex-husband."

The words hit him like a hex, slamming into his ribs, cracking through his composure like a perfectly placed curse that left no room for defense.

And then, she killed him.

"The one who knows how my cunt feels and tastes like. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

His brain short-circuited.

His vision blurred.

His blood turned molten.

He swore the entire fucking room spun, his pulse so erratic he thought he might actually pass out, his thoughts a hurricane of red-hot rage and pure, primal need, a contradiction so severe it could have torn him apart.

"The man who once made me squirt in his face is my ex-husband."

The sound that left him wasn't human.

He was frozen, stunned, utterly fucking ruined, his entire body locking in place as if she had cast Petrificus Totalus, as if the very act of speaking those words aloud had just rewritten the fabric of his goddamn existence.

His chest was heaving, his hands trembling, his head spinning, his control— gone.

Dirty, dirty mouth that girl has.

And then, he moved.

Before he could think, before he could hesitate, before he could stop himself from giving her exactly what she wanted, he grabbed her.

Hands tight on her thighs, pulling her toward him, dragging her against his body with the kind of rough, unapologetic force that made her gasp, made her grip his shoulders, made her eyes widen just slightly, just enough for him to see that she wasn't as unaffected as she pretended to be.

She had pushed him too far.

She had cut too deep.

She had taunted him with words that she knew would ruin him, and now—

She was going to face the consequences.

His hands found her face next, his fingers spanning the delicate curve of her jaw, his thumb dragging a slow, reverent path over the soft, infuriatingly perfect skin of her cheek, his grip firm but careful, as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to worship her or ruin her beyond recognition. She was standing so still, barely moving beneath him, but he could feel the tension in her body, the sharp inhale of breath she tried to disguise, the way her lips parted just slightly, like she was on the verge of saying something, like she was waiting—waiting for him to break first, waiting to see if he would be weak enough to let her go. And fuck, fuck, fuck, he couldn't.

This had never been a game for him. This had never been something casual, something fleeting, something he could just walk away from the moment it got too complicated. It had never been a matter of if he wanted her but rather when—how soon, how deeply, how irreversibly he would take her, how completely he would make sure she belonged to him and no one else. The need had always been there, coiled beneath his ribs like a serpent, growing stronger, tighter, more suffocating every time she so much as breathed in his direction, and now it was finally too much.

And then—because he was a selfish, greedy, possessive bastard, because he wanted to break her, wanted to wreck her, wanted to ensure that this moment was burned so deeply into her soul that she would never be able to scrub it from her memory, not even in a thousand lifetimes—he moved closer, just enough for his lips to brush against the corner of hers.

The contact was barely there, just a ghost of warmth, just enough to make her feel it, to make her ache for more, to drive her absolutely fucking insane with how much he wasn't giving her. 

But he knew she felt it. Knew it in the way her breath hitched against his lips, in the way her body swayed, in the way her fingers clenched, in the way she stood completely still—as if she were fighting against something just as violently as he was.

And because he was a cruel, cruel man, because he wanted to push her to the edge and watch her shatter, because he needed her to understand—he whispered.

"Good morning, love."

The words were low, deliberate, smooth as sin, wrapping around her like a spell, slipping beneath her skin like they belonged there, like they had always belonged there.

Her lips parted, just barely, just enough for him to watch the way her breath trembled, the way she exhaled the smallest, most delicate sound, the way she hovered so fucking close that it would take nothing, nothing at all, for him to close the gap completely and claim her the way he wanted to.

And then—just when he thought she might push him away, might snap at him, might remind him that she was still untouchable, still untamed, still something far too wild for him to keep—she didn't.

She stayed there, still, soft, unbearably calm in the face of his absolute fucking destruction.

"Good morning, darling."

Her voice was quiet, teasing, too composed, too fucking perfect, and it wrecked him.

Because that was it.

That was the moment Draco Malfoy realized there was no coming back from this.

She was his.

She was always his.

She just didn't know it yet.

Luna wasn't sure when this had begun, when the air between them had thickened, when the banter had sharpened into something barbed with intent, when the teasing had turned slow, heavy, like honey dripping too slow from a spoon, like a tension stretched too tight between them, trembling on the edge of something irreversible. She had once thought of this as a game, lighthearted, amusing, an experiment in patience and control, but somewhere along the way, it had changed, morphed into something else entirely, something that coiled around them like a binding spell, leaving no room for escape, no room for doubt. 

It had started with words, with sly remarks traded like currency, with veiled taunts designed to test, to tease, to prod at the cracks in each other's defenses, but now it had become something heavier, something deeper, something dark and inescapable and intoxicating.

Luna wasn't sure when it had changed, wasn't sure of the exact moment when her fascination had ceased to be mere curiosity and transformed into something visceral, something she could feel under her skin, something that curled hot and low in her stomach every time he looked at her like that, every time his fingers twitched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from touching her, every time his pupils blew wide and dark with something deeper, something possessive, something dangerous. It was no longer just a lingering glance, no longer just a smirk exchanged in passing—it was hunger. It was need. It was a war neither of them had admitted to, but both of them had already lost.

She had spent years thinking of him as a distant thing, as a shadow in the corridors of her past, as a name whispered in reverence and in fear, a boy tangled in bloodlines and power and cruelty and war. But that boy had died long ago, buried beneath the weight of his own mistakes, and the man who stood before her now was something else entirely, something undone, something sharp and rough and teetering on the edge of losing control. 

She could see it in him. See the way he gritted his teeth when she got too close, see the way his breath stuttered when she dropped her voice just low enough to make him wonder how she might sound whispering his name in the dark, see the way his hands clenched and unclenched like they were itching to grab her, to take something that he knew, deep in his marrow, was already his.

And fuck, she wanted him to.

She needed to know—needed to know how it would feel when his hands finally stopped hesitating, when they finally landed on her with the force of everything he had been holding back. She needed to know what it would feel like to have him above her, against her, inside her, to have him completely unraveled, completely ruined, completely hers. She needed to know if he would break first, if he would curse her name as he finally lost his composure, if he would let himself fall apart at her mercy.

But deep down, she already knew the answer.

Because Draco Malfoy would make her beg.

He would make her plead for it, make her feel every inch of what she had done to him, make her pay for every teasing glance, every flirtatious remark, every single moment she had spent pushing him further and further toward the edge of madness. And Luna, Merlin help her, she wanted to.

Because this wasn't just attraction, wasn't fleeting desire, wasn't some careless experiment in temptation—this was fate.

She had already won.

She had already wormed her way under his skin, had already torn his restraint to shreds, had already made him lose his grip on the carefully curated self-control that had been his armor his entire life. He wasn't the same man who had walked into her shop weeks ago, wasn't the same man who had convinced himself he could want her at a distance, wasn't the same man who thought this was something he could deny.

She had already cracked him open.

But that wasn't enough.

She needed more.

She needed to break him completely.

She needed to find the thing that would finally, finally bring him to his knees.

She needed to find his Achilles' heel.

And when she did, when she discovered the exact thing that would make him come undone, when she tipped him over the edge and left him ruined beneath her touch, when he was too far gone to deny it, too far gone to fight it, too far gone to ever let her go—

She would drag him down with her.

Draco still stood between her legs, his body a wall of heat, his presence suffocating in the best possible way, pressing against her with an intensity that should have made her retreat, should have made her flinch, should have had her second-guessing everything that had led to this moment. But she didn't retreat, didn't flinch, didn't even think of pulling away, because this was exactly what she wanted, exactly what she had spent weeks working toward, exactly what had been simmering beneath every lingering glance, every sharp-edged remark, every single moment they had spent pushing and testing and taunting each other toward this inevitable conclusion.

He was so close, but not close enough, the tension rolling off him in waves so palpable she could almost taste it, his restraint hanging by a thread, stretched thin, frayed, ready to snap. She could feel it in the way his hands hovered just above her skin, could see it in the way his jaw was clenched so tight it might shatter, could hear it in the slow, uneven breaths he was forcing himself to take as if oxygen alone might save him from what was about to happen.

She liked it, the control. Liked the way he was holding himself back, the way he was making himself wait, the way he was letting her set the pace—even though they both knew he was barely holding on, even though she could feel the raw, caged energy thrumming beneath his skin like he was one wrong move away from completely losing himself.

And that was the thing, wasn't it? She wanted him to lose himself.

She wanted to see the moment he gave in, the moment he shattered, the moment that tight, rigid control finally slipped from his grasp and left him desperate, reckless, ruined. She wanted to strip him bare, to peel away the layers of composure, to pull apart the seams of his carefully cultivated self-restraint until there was nothing left but raw, aching, unfiltered need.

So, with deliberate, lazy ease, she touched him.

She started slow, her hands smoothing over the taut ridges of his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, the way his breath hitched when she dragged her nails just lightly across his skin, leaving goosebumps in her wake. She moved higher, trailing over the solid plane of his chest, pressing her palm against the heavy, erratic beat of his heart, feeling it race beneath her hand in a way that betrayed him completely. He was trying—trying to appear unaffected, trying to maintain that arrogant, self-assured mask he always wore—but his body had already betrayed him.

By the time she reached his face, he was already leaning into her touch, his body moving before his mind could stop it, submitting to her so effortlessly it almost made her laugh. Her fingers traced the sharp lines of his jaw, smoothing over his cheekbone, brushing over the corner of his mouth with a featherlight touch. His lips parted slightly, his breath ghosting over her skin, his entire body wound tight as a bowstring, as if he was waiting—waiting for permission, waiting for her to push just a little further, waiting for her to do something to make him snap.

She smiled, slow and knowing, tilting her head just slightly as her thumb finally traced over his lower lip, pressing against it lightly, dragging against the heat of his mouth, watching as his pupils dilated, as his chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven movements, as his hands flexed against her hips like he was barely restraining himself from grabbing her.

And because she wanted to see just how far she could push him, because she knew exactly what words would send him spiraling, because she was cruel enough to wield them like a knife—she leaned in and whispered, voice soft and teasing, a purr of pure, lethal destruction.

"Were you a good boy?"

His reaction was immediate, violent in its restraint, devastating in its intensity. His fingers tightened on her hips, his body going rigid, a slow, shuddering breath leaving him as if she had just physically struck him, as if those four little words had wrecked him beyond repair.

She could see the war in his expression, see the flickering, helpless moment of realization that she had found something, that she had uncovered a weakness, something he wasn't even sure he had until she had spoken it into existence.

His lips parted, his mouth twitching at the corners, his eyes dark and completely ruined as he exhaled his confession, rough and raw and entirely unfiltered.

"No."

"Absolutely not."

The words were gritted, forced through clenched teeth, thick with something dangerous, something utterly wrecked, something that made her pulse quicken, her stomach clench, her body ignite.

"What did you do?"

She didn't have to ask. She already knew.

But she wanted to hear him say it.

She dragged the pad of her thumb over his lip again, watching the way he exhaled sharply, watching the way his entire body trembled with restraint, watching the way his jaw clenched so tightly she swore she could hear his teeth grinding.

"Destroyed my home."

She blinked, not in shock, not in surprise, but in understanding, in satisfaction, in the undeniable realization that she had driven him to ruin.

She could see it now.

Draco Malfoy, alone in his grand, empty manor, tearing through his own belongings in a fit of uncontrollable rage, his fingers ripping at priceless heirlooms, his magic crackling in the air, wild and unrestrained, fueled by nothing but the unbearable thought of her in another man's arms.

She hummed, not at all surprised, not even a little.

"Why?"

The question was unnecessary, but she wanted to hear him say it.

"Were you jealous, darling?"

There was no hesitation, no denial, no feigned indifference.

His hands tightened, his grip bruising, his body coiled so tightly she thought he might snap right then and there.

"Incredibly."

It was spoken like a confession, like an admission of sin, like something that had been rotting inside him for far too long, and fuck, she loved it.

She loved the way he said it without shame, without hesitation, without the faintest trace of reluctance, because Draco Malfoy did not beg, did not plead, did not admit weakness.

But with her, he did.

And she was going to break him apart for it.

"I don't love that man anymore."

She murmured it soft, intimate, a whisper against his lips, watching the way he twitched at the words, watching the way his fingers dug into her skin, watching the way his body shifted closer, like he wanted to press himself against her, like he wanted to burn the words into his skin.

"You have nothing to be jealous of."

It wasn't just reassurance, wasn't just comfort, wasn't just words.

It was a truth wrapped in an invitation, an acknowledgment that whatever was happening between them was real, that he wasn't imagining it, that he wasn't alone in feeling this madness.

But that wasn't enough.

Not yet.

She needed more.

She needed to see just how far she could push him, just how much of himself he would give to her, just how thoroughly he would let her ruin him before she let him ruin her in return.

She moved with an agonizing slowness, every motion deliberate, every inch of space between them closing at a pace that felt like pure torture. She was pulling him into her orbit, drawing him in with nothing more than the gentle pressure of her fingers curling against the back of his neck. It wasn't forceful, wasn't commanding, wasn't anything more than a subtle suggestion, and yet, he was helpless against it, his body responding instinctively, his pulse hammering, his breath coming in short, uneven pulls. The space between them was vanishing, dissolving into something thick, something electric, something that crackled like static between their lips, and Draco was afraid to breathe. One wrong move, one twitch of muscle, one shattered breath, and the tension might snap, sending him spiraling into something he wouldn't be able to control.

He could feel the heat of her body in the minuscule space that remained, the warmth rolling off her in slow, hypnotic waves, sinking into his skin, wrapping around his lungs, making it impossible to think, to do anything but exist in this unbearable moment of restraint. His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling at his sides, desperate to reach for her, desperate to grab hold of something solid, something tangible, something real, but he held himself still, every muscle locked with anticipation. This wasn't his moment to take—this was hers to give. And fuck, he would let her take him apart if that was what she wanted.

Then, just when he thought he couldn't bear it a second longer, just when he felt like the pressure might physically destroy him, she moved. A slight tilt of her head, a shift in the air, a whisper of motion, and then—contact. The faintest, lightest, most maddening press of her lips against his. Featherlight, teasing, just a taste.

It wasn't enough.

It wasn't nearly enough.

It wasn't the kind of kiss that would shatter them both, wasn't the kind of kiss that would ruin him, wasn't the kind of kiss he had imagined a thousand times, the one where he would finally be allowed to have her, take her, devour her. No, this was worse. So much worse. This was a tease, a whisper of something he couldn't chase, a touch that set him on fire but offered no relief. It was a single drop of water to a man dying of thirst. It was fucking torture.

His body reacted instantly, every muscle tensing, every nerve screaming, every primal instinct clawing to the surface, demanding more. His lips parted before he could stop them, his breath stuttering as he tried—tried—to deepen the kiss, to pull her back, to take what she was so cruelly denying him. But just as his mouth opened, just as his hands twitched to grab, hold, keep, she was already gone.

She pulled away, and Draco barely held back a growl.

His entire body snapped taut, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened, to understand how the fuck she had the audacity to do that and then just walk away like it was nothing. His lips still tingled from the ghost of her touch, his heart still pounded in his chest, his restraint still teetered on the absolute fucking brink of destruction. He was one second away from demanding, begging, taking when she did something even worse.

Her thumb pressed against his mouth, slow and deliberate, slipping between them, tracing the shape of his lower lip with an agonizing precision. Her touch was teasing, testing, ruining him completely. He felt the drag of her skin against his, the heat of her fingertip pressing, lingering, holding him in place. The message was clear—stay still. Do nothing but feel the absence of her. Do nothing but suffer.

His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast, his entire body on the verge of complete collapse, but she was calm. Of course she was. Completely in control. Untouched. Unbothered. Her lips were curved in a small, lazy smile, her eyes glinting with something knowing, something devastating, something that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

And then she spoke, and Draco nearly lost his fucking mind.

"I have to go to the bank, okay?"

His brain short-circuited.

She was leaving.

She was fucking leaving.

After that? After this? After setting him on fire and then walking away like he was nothing more than an afterthought?

"Of course."

The words barely scraped past his lips, rough and uneven and completely fucking wrecked. His breath still ghosted against her thumb, his entire body still desperate, aching, undone. He shouldn't be this weak, shouldn't be this affected, shouldn't feel like his entire world had just tilted off its axis because she had kissed him and then pulled away like it meant nothing.

But fuck, he did.

His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding, his fingers twitching with the violent urge to grab her, keep her, make her stay, make her finish what she started, but he didn't move. Because this was her game, and he had already lost.

"Gods, Luna, what are you doing to me?"

Her smile deepened, her eyes soft, full of something that mocked him and soothed him all at once, something that made him want to destroy and worship her in the same breath. She was so fucking dangerous.

"Kissing you."

His stomach twisted, clenched, burned, his entire body still buzzing with the ghost of her touch, with the realization that he would do anything—anything—for her to kiss him again.

And then she was already moving, already turning away, already slipping from his grasp before he could even process what was happening, before he could stop her, before he could make her stay. But just as she reached the door, just before she disappeared from sight, she glanced back.

She looked at him over her shoulder, voice light, teasing, fucking deadly.

"See you tomorrow?"

Draco couldn't breathe.

His throat was tight, his chest was tight, everything was fucking tight. He had never felt this kind of want before, never felt this kind of hunger, this kind of raw, clawing, bone-deep ache that wouldn't let him go.

Somehow, through the fog of his absolute destruction, he forced the words past his lips.

"See you tomorrow."

And then she was gone.

And Draco Malfoy was officially, undeniably, fucking ruined.