hackthis_archive | Trade

TRADE

Previous sections here
Chapter IV

Spring in London tended to make people a bit soft around the edges; possibly because the sun was visible for the first time in months. It was as though an end to the dreary weather was a white flag for people everywhere to emerge from their offices and flats and run the streets in shirtsleeves and open-toed shoes. At lunch the parks were overrun with pale men and women, lying on newspapers and turning various shades of pink, and in the evening the pubs set out tables for punters to while away the hours.

Early spring in London was treated like summer, with people pretending it was much warmer than it actually was. Draco, however, was not fooled. His only concession to the weather, apart from an outside table at the café, was the thin salmon-coloured cashmere jumper he wore underneath his maroon leather jacket.

The brads on his jeans rubbed against the wrought iron chair underneath him when he shifted his weight and listlessly stirred the cup of espresso before him. He ignored the girls at the table two over, who were wearing impossibly short skirts while eying him curiously and pretending they weren't freezing their arses off.

Their twittering was growing increasingly grating to Draco's nerves, and he waved the waiter off when he approached with a menu. Neal's Yard on a Thursday afternoon was full of people on their lunch breaks mixing it up with tourists and kids skivving off school on their way to Neal Street.

It was entirely too much busyness for Draco's nerves, which were more suited to the Bluebird or a leisurely lunch in Kensington, but he had made the concession for his, now-tardy, lunch date.

Being late was not the way to make a good impression, and Draco was just starting to work himself into a lather when a shadow was cast over his table.

"Sorry I'm late," Harry said, leaning down and brushing his lips against Draco's cheekbone as Draco turned away.

Draco didn't believe in public displays of affection, but he didn't try terribly hard to get away, either.

Draco could feel the heat in his cheeks as the arm of Harry's eyeglasses bumped against his temple. Harry's lips were a bit chapped. Draco made a point of providing all his escorts with Kiehl's lip balm, and he felt the urge to reach into one of his jacket pockets and explain to Harry the reasons for men to use such a product. Except he was still tetchy about Harry's lateness -- there was no excuse for tardiness; it implied a lack of respect for the other person's time.

Draco glared as Harry pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, looking extraordinarily un-accountant like in a ratty tee shirt and corduroy jacket. The jeans were nice though, Diesel, which Draco easily identified as he was wearing a similar pair. It had nothing to do with Draco looking at Harry's tackle -- actually it did, but that was beside the point.

With all the unseemly tardiness on Harry's part, it took Draco a moment to notice the flowers. His upper lip curled in derision even as his stomach made little flipping motions. "Please tell me you didn't bring me flowers," Draco said.

Harry's grin was enormously toothy, almost a leer, and Draco began to feel a bit warm. The girls at the next table over tittered, and Draco scowled into his espresso.

"What do you think?" Harry said, picking up the rather large bouquet of lilies and roses and considering them thoughtfully. "I wasn't sure if you were a lilies sort of man, but the florist said everybody likes lilies."

Draco narrowed his eyes; Harry had to be taking the piss. "No, I am not a lilies man," he said hotly. "Lilies are for weddings and funerals -- neither of which I plan on participating in in the immediate future."

The grin on Harry's face fell dramatically, and Draco's stomach rioted while his brain tried to keep up with the situation. "Oh for the love of God," Draco began helplessly.

Draco wasn't the most religious person ever; the running joke in his family was that Anglican was just Atheist misspelled, but there was no way on anyone's earth that Harry could have seriously thought that bringing Draco flowers was the way to get in his trousers.

Draco was a man; he did manly things, like running an escort agency and supporting Chelsea. Harry knew about the latter, but the former hadn't quite made it into their conversations just yet.

Draco watched anxiously as Harry's face went through a variety of emotions before tightening into a rather hard look as he set the flowers back down. "I thought you might like it if I did something nice for you," Harry's voice raised incrementally, and Draco couldn’t help looking away.

Making a scene in public was so common; obviously it was to be avoided all costs. Especially with the waiter hovering by the cash register, pretending not to be eavesdropping, while the girls at the nearby table made no pretences of listening in.

"It's not about the fucking flowers; they're just a gesture," Harry snapped.

Draco narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "I never asked for any gestures; I don't need some sentimental nonsense." Not that he didn't necessarily not want it, but this was so melodramatic.

Draco had twenty-five drama queens to contend with on a daily basis -- twenty-six counting Pansy -- he didn't need anything complicated and emotional in his personal life as well.

Draco fancied Harry because he seemed so -- not dramatic.

He didn't need this sort of nonsense in his life.

"I'm sorry that I wanted to do something nice for the bloke I fancy," Harry retorted, eyes bright behind his eyeglasses. "It won't happen again."

"Being on time," Draco said in a low voice, "that is what I consider a goodwill gesture. If you want to do something nice have some consideration that my time is just as important as yours, Mister Potter. I didn't trek across central London in the middle of the bloody work day for flowers."

One of the girls made a noise at Draco's pronouncement, and Draco gave the entire table the Malfoy Glare of Derision. He really didn't need this. "If you're so charmed by this gesture," he said grabbing the flowers off the table. "You take them," he said, thrusting the flowers toward the nearest girl, who sported bright pink streaks in her hair.

"Wait a minute," Harry said, reaching out and intercepting Draco's offer. "You can have the flowers," he said to the girl, "I just need to retrieve the gig tickets that I stuck in with them."

Draco reflexively dropped the flowers into Harry's hand, and he watched with no small sense of bemusement as Harry pulled out a cream-coloured envelope and handed off the flowers.

"I didn't think you were a flowers sort of bloke," Harry confessed sheepishly, setting the envelope on the iron tabletop before scratching the nape of his neck. "You don't strike me as a chocolates sort either."

Draco rubbed his jaw. "So this was all what? A red herring?"

Harry shrugged ruefully. "Surprise?"

"This sort of childish behaviour is making my trip worthwhile?"

Harry balked. "Childish behavior? And throwing a wobbler is acting incredibly mature?"

Draco glowered. "Excuse me?"

"Was there some part of that sentence that you didn't understand?" Harry's accommodating nature had vanished, and he seemed quite incensed. "You're not keen on the flowers, fine -- that's no reason to -- to --"

Harry waved his hands about as though he could catch the words in the air, and Draco's glower hardened. He wanted to throw something. He didn't need someone yanking his chain. He wasn't a fucking Alsatian. "I am not an Alsatian," he snapped. "Do not muck me about."

Harry's hands dropped onto the table, and Draco eyed Harry warily when his fingertips brushed Draco's own.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, "I did think the flowers were nice. I thought –- I don't know what I thought, I’d just wanted to get you something."

"You don't have to buy me things," Draco said coolly. "I am not here to be bought." There was a bitter taste in Draco's mouth at the idea of anyone trying to buy him; he ran the service, he was not for sale.

Draco could feel his own tension when Harry sighed.

Dating was hell -- Draco was never doing it again.

Harry pushed his eyeglasses on top of his head and pinched his nose. "I'd really just wanted to take you to the Damien Rice gig tonight," he said, replacing his glasses. "I don't suppose you'd want to go with me now though?"

Draco exhaled through his nose, and shifted in his seat again. The wrought iron chairs were appalling -- and they made his arse hurt.

"Go on!" said a girl with ginger hair at the flower table. "If you don't want to, I will."

Draco looked over with an icy stare. "You will do nothing of the sort."

"Does that mean you'll come with me?" Draco could hear the trace of hopefulness in Harry's voice.

Pushing back from the table, Draco zipped up his jacket. "Why do you persist in asking me questions you already know the answer to?"

Harry's smile stretched from ear to ear, and Draco rolled his eyes good-naturedly even as he got to his feet.

"Wait, where are you going?" Harry asked.

"I have appointments to keep."

"What about lunch?"

"I wasn't the one who was late," Draco said, catching his own reflection in the windows of the café and giving himself an apprising once over. He looked pretty fucking good -- no wonder Harry wanted in his trousers.

"You're leaving?" Harry was all incredulousness.

Draco just smirked as he stepped away. "Don't forget to pay for my espresso," he called, heading north towards the tube. "And don't be late, or you'll be eating those tickets, Harry Potter."

"Good afternoon, Master Draco." Dobson H. Elph answered the door of 28 St Edmunds Terrace with the sort of haughty imperiousness that only very old and very well connected servants possessed.

Draco couldn't help the amused smirk that crossed his face as he slipped his keys back into the pocket of his jacket. "Afternoon, Dobson," he said, smiling genially at the Malfoys' tiny, grey-haired butler as he crossed over the threshold into the house.

In the twenty years that Dobson had been with his family, and the fifteen years that Draco had had his own key to the front door, he had never managed to open the door from the outside before Dobson could open it himself from the inside.

Apart from the two weeks Dobson took every year when he went to Cornwall to visit his 'lady friend', Winky, Draco couldn't remember Dobson ever not being there. The whole lady friend thing smacked highly of Remains of the Day to Draco, but the one time he had said as such to his mother she had given him a withering glare and remarked icily that Malfoys did not poke their noses where they did not belong.

Even when Draco and Julian were home for university break, and had been out trawling until the wee hours, Dobson still managed to open the door before they could get their drunken fumblings together.

"Master Julian and the Mistress are in the sunroom," Dobson said, waiting with stiff legs and a straight back as Draco removed his jacket and smoothed out the invisible wrinkles in his jumper.

"How ever did you know?" Draco said, heading towards the rear of the house as Dobson shut the door behind him. "Also, I'm a bit famished --"

"I shall bring out a selection of sandwiches directly," Dobson said, giving Draco a sharp bow before disappearing into the ether. Shaking his head, Draco turned on his heel and made his way down the hall. Taking a right through the sitting room, he paused outside the French double doors, which led to the solarium.

The brightest room of the house year round, and full of plants and wall-to-wall windows, the solarium was Narcissa Malfoy's favourite room. It housed her writing desk, a roll-top from the 18th Century, the first antique she had ever bought at Sotheby's and various other pieces she had collected over the years.

Draco could hear Julian's voice coming from somewhere, but when he looked inside he only saw his mother standing by the west window, leaning over several potted plants and cosseting them as only she could.

As always, Narcissa Malfoy was impeccably dressed in something no one else would be able to get away with; Draco guessed it was Valentino or Givenchy. He couldn't actually remember a time when his mother had ever looked anything less than resplendent.

Pushing through the doors quietly, Draco turned his head sharply to the left and found Julian firmly ensconced on an antique green velvet lounge with a slim book opened on his lap. "Afternoon, all," he said, moving forward so his mother could kiss his cheek.

"Darling, what a lovely surprise," his mother said, greeting her son with a smile. "Have you come for tea?"

"I was in the neighbourhood," Draco said turning towards Julian as his mother stepped away, back towards her plants. "I thought it might be good to call."

"You mean you missed lunch and needed to eat," Julian said, closing the book in his lap, and setting it on the floor, before giving his brother his full attention.

Draco's retort was drowned out by his mother's voice. "Julian was just reading to me from the most delightful book I picked from this little bookstore called Nocturne Alley. It's all about plants and their uses."

Draco motioned for his brother to make room for him on the chaise, but Julian refused to move. "It sounds fascinating," he said dutifully, while physically trying to force Julian to budge over.

Draco spent the majority of his day, if not his life, being guarded about where he was, who he was with, and what he did. It was extraordinarily relaxing to be with his family and not have to be in charge and professional and horribly proper all the time.

"Don't be condescending," his mother said over her shoulder without so much as glancing in Draco's direction. "Julian make room for your brother on the sofa; sometimes I feel as though you're both still in short trousers."

Julian made a face, but reluctantly allowed Draco a bit of room. "Still here I see," Draco said conversationally. "And wearing my jumper as well."

"It's left over from university," Julian said of the black polo neck he wore.

"That's not the point."

"Boys," their mother chided.

Julian smirked. Draco frowned.

"I assure you wearing your clothing wasn't my first choice, but I can't very well go out looking like a hooligan, now can I?" Julian said pointedly rubbing his jaw just below where Draco had struck him.

"It's been two weeks," Draco said, pointedly ignoring the blueish-green mark on his brother's cheek.

"Would you care for one of your own, so you can see how long it takes to fade?"

"If it's all the same, I'll pass."

"You always did abhor physical violence, which really never explained your predilection for football, but perhaps that had more to do with your team-mates." Julian barely dodged Draco's elbow to his ribs.

"Don't you have to go into work or something?" Draco glowered at his twin. "Surely MI-6 is missing your fine manners and scintillating conversation, or do they just let their operatives run about like headless chickens?"

"Aren't you a fine one to talk -- don't you have an escort agency to run?"

"I have people who do that for me, or didn't they teach you about outsourcing in Spy School?"

"They teach us lots of things in Spy School, as you so aptly put it, like how to not deal with stress. Speaking of which, has your hair has stopped falling out?"

"This from the man who returned from gaol looking like a plucked chicken."

"I was on holiday," Julian said disdainfully.

Draco didn't attempt to repress a derisive snort. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

"Ah, someone's knickers are in a twist," Julian said with a laugh.

"Children," their mother said, turning this time and fixing them both with a Look. "Honestly, you're twenty-five if you're a day. Julian, stop taunting your brother; Draco stop bringing up unpleasant subjects, and I'll thank you not to strike your brother so I can't take him out in public."

"I thought he was in hiding anyway," Draco protested, wincing when Julian's elbow met his ribs.

"He is not in hiding," Narcissa said, picking up a set of pruning shears and going to work on some plant with enormous thorns that Draco didn't recognize. His mother handled the plant as though it were harmless. "Malfoys don't hide. Your brother is recuperating from his recent travels and spending time with his poor, elderly mother. The Queen herself couldn't object."

Julian and Draco snorted in unison -- Narcissa Malfoy was many things, elderly was not one of them. For as long as Draco could remember his mother had looked the same; her hair never showed grey or silver, and her face was just as unlined as that of someone half her age. On more than one occasion, Draco himself had escorted his mother to events only to have to fend off men his age from trying to chat her up.

Draco opened his mouth to say something about the Queen objecting to everything, but closed it again when there was a knock at the solarium door, and Dobson entered. He carried a silver tray piled high with sandwiches, glasses and a small carafe of some liquid, which he set down on the end table next to the chaise.

"Thank you, Dobson," Narcissa said.

Dobson inclined his head slightly before taking his leave, and Draco leaned over his brother to pick up a cucumber sandwich. Dobson had been a part of the Malfoy family long enough to know all their secrets, but all parties appreciated the pretence of privacy.

Julian poured three glasses of Robinson's Lemon Barley Water and walked one over to their mother along with two sandwiches. After downing three sandwiches and two glasses of barley water, Draco's stomach felt less combative, and he sat next to his brother quietly, watching their mother attend to her plants.

"I've decided that we're to have dinner at The Ivy," Narcissa said eventually. "Severus is coming around; he has tickets for the opening night of a new production at the Old Vic. Will you be accompanying us?"

Draco exchanged a look with his brother at the mention of Severus' name -- their mother claimed no lingering romantic interest in Severus Snape, yet the two had been resolutely not dating for as long as Draco could remember.

"I'm sorry, Mother, I'm afraid you'll only have one escort this evening. I have a date."

Draco smirked when his mother looked up at him inquisitively.

"A date?" Julian parroted. "With whom?"

"Another person," Draco said, dodging another elbow to the ribs.

"I don't think dolls count," Julian shot back, unable to contain a snigger.

"Julian, be quiet," Narcissa said, eyeing her sons. "Draco, is it anyone we know?"

"Has Blaise met him? Does he approve?" Julian interrupted.

"Julian, don't interrupt."

"He's an accountant, Mother. He works in the City." Giving his brother the evil eye, he added. "And Blaise has nothing to do with it."

"That would be a 'no,' then, I take it," Julian said.

"Julian. Draco, I'm sure he's lovely."

Julian made a derisive noise. "An accountant? How boring."

"Not everyone wants to date our co-workers, Mr. Super Spy." Draco shot back hotly.

"Boys," Narcissa interjected sharply. "I know you missed each other but that's no reason to act like hooligans. Draco, does this young man have a name?"

"Potter," Draco said, ignoring his brother's leer. "Harry Potter."

Harry's stride was slightly shorter than Draco's, but he made up for it by taking more steps; Draco noticed this as they walked towards into the tunnel right before Waterloo Bridge. There were a few buskers selling copies of the Big Issue along the way, but Draco kept his head down and eyes forward.

He'd thought they would walk to the Waterloo tube, but his feet seemed to be taking them towards the Charring Cross station instead, which was a bit odd.

There was a perfectly good hired car waiting back at the Royal Festival Hall, but Draco wanted to walk. He needed to walk. He wasn't terribly certain where he was going, but the tube seemed as a good a destination as any. London was bright and shining around them; the weather just on the other side of crisp.

Draco walked alongside Harry with his hands in his pockets, listening as Harry droned on about what exactly it was that private accountants did. Words like 'taxes' and 'Inland Revenue' had a soporific effect on Draco second only to Jonathan Ross's droning lisp.

There was a slight wind that seemed intent on whipping Harry's hair into its usual mess, and Draco momentarily lamented the loss of the styling that had obviously gone into Harry's date preparation.

The concert had been good -- brilliant in fact -- but by the time Damien Rice had got on stage at the Royal Festival Hall, his performance was quite secondary to the one Harry was putting on for Draco; and Draco was quite impressed, he had to admit.

Harry had arrived at 11 Langland Gardens three minutes before seven by hired car. His usual clunky black eyeglasses were gone, presumably having been replaced by contact lenses, which laid bare the verdant nature of Harry's eyes and made him almost too fetching. He wore dark denim jeans with an absolute cracking D&G three pocket-blazer over a white linen shirt with tiny silver streaks that Draco himself had eyed at Harvey Nichols.

The second thing he had noticed, after Harry's habiliment, was that his hair was in some semblance of order as opposed to the usual riot of unruliness. Draco couldn't even begin to imagine how much product had been involved in such an undertaking, but he was quite pleased by the result.

He had kept Harry waiting on the doorstep until exactly seven o'clock just to make his point, but had greeted him with a quick kiss after taking a moment to let Harry appreciate that Draco looked just as good, if not better, than his date.

The trim of Draco's black DKNY blazer matched the eggshell-coloured shirt with grey stripes, which were salmon coloured on the inside cuffs and around the neck. He, too, had worn jeans as a concession to their plans, but had made a point of wearing a new pair of Ferragamo loafers.

Overall, they made a striking appearance, which Draco was quite pleased with. The head of Malfoy Escorts couldn't be seen with someone who looked less than immaculate at all times -- and Harry certainly looked the part.

The hired car had driven them to Fitzrovia for dinner at Hakkasan, which Draco had never been to before. The name of the restaurant had seemed rather Indian, and he had wondered if they were going for a curry. He'd then had some rather uncharitable thoughts about Harry treating this like a lad's night out.

The restaurant had turned out to be far more posh than Draco had been expecting, and between the incense, and the dark lighting and the food (Chinese as it turned out) was excellent. Dinner, however, had turned out to be less about the food – although the roast pork and red rice were excellent – and more about talking and flirting.

There had been long discussions about Harry's family – he'd been raised by his godfather and his partner after his parents' untimely death in a car crash – and Chelsea's prospects, which Draco had thought were quite good considering they were at the top of the league.

Draco had mockingly threatened to leave when Harry had confessed to supporting Arsenal, but Harry had grabbed his wrist and pulled him across the table with quite a bit of force.

Under the blue-tinted lighting, Harry had looked even more alluring than normal, and Draco had licked his bottom lip self-consciously under Harry's piercing stare.

His eyes were drawn downwards when Harry licked his own lower lip, and Draco had to summon up great resolves of inner strength not to climb across the table and snog Harry senseless in front of the entire restaurant. Clearly that was what the discreetly placed decorative screens were for, and rather than completely suppress all his urges, Draco leaned forward into Harry's grip and let his tongue flitter over Harry's lower lip.

Harry made a strangled noise, and had just been leaning forward himself when the waitress appeared with the dessert menu.

Draco had shaken Harry's hand off his wrist and leaned back into his chair to smile smugly at the way Harry seemed a bit befuddled. After that, the rest of the evening had been nothing but innuendos and too much time in each other's personal space.

During the gig, Harry had practically been in Draco's lap, which although interesting, was not necessarily what Draco had wanted; he faintly recalled something about Zacharias having a booking for the same concert. Eventually, it had got to be too much, and Draco had whispered that he wanted to leave early.

Harry had protested feebly, but followed when Draco slipped away.

"This was a rather good evening," Draco said segueing back in the conversation as they descended into the tunnel underneath the roundabout. "You must be very good at what you do – for an Arsenal supporter."

Harry grinned and deliberately bumped Draco's shoulder. "I provide a service; nothing more."

Draco looked at Harry sharply, but Harry didn't seem to be taking the piss. Draco, however, was nothing if not innately suspicious. One didn't grow up with a mother who ran an escort service and not learn to be thorough.

"A service?" Draco mocked. "What sort of services does your establishment offer?"

The lighting in the tunnel was yellowing and suspect, like most tunnels, and Draco caught Harry glancing at him out the corner of his eye.

"The usual sort of stuff," Harry said with a shrug. "Advice about taxes and tax shelters. International banking. Offshore accounting. Stocks and good investments. Computers and software are always good investments – that's a free tip," he added with a smile.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Offshore accounting? You're not laundering dirty money, are you?"

"Do you want me to be laundering dirty money?"

"I don’t know," Draco said, pausing thoughtfully. "I'm sure it'd be quite exciting to date someone working for organised crime."

Harry paused a step ahead and turned back. "You've been watching too many American films."

"You're probably right," Draco admitted. "But it does seem very exciting."

Harry took a step forward, directly into Draco's personal space. "Do you want me to be very exciting?" he asked. His breath warmed Draco's cheeks, and Draco blinked. He took a step back when Harry stepped forward again. "Do you want me to be dangerous and daring and all that James Bond business, is that it?"

Harry seemed to be crowding Draco, which was impressive for someone an inch shorter than him. Draco took another step backward and ran directly into the tunnel wall. He licked his lips as Harry took another step forward and set his hands on the wall on either side of Draco's head.

"I can be whoever you want me to be, you know," Harry said, leaning close enough that his lips brushed Draco's mouth with every word. "Or I can just be myself. A plain, old boring accountant."

There was a slightly yellowish tinge to Harry's skin because of the lighting, and the wind had whisked his hair back into a black fury of untidiness, but the heat that had been pooling in Draco's groin all evening didn't really give a toss. "I like plain, old boring accountants," Draco said simply. "I don't need a lot of excitement; that's what films are for."

"Good," Harry said, leaning in and pressing his mouth against Draco's softly once, twice. "That's good to know."

Draco had had something else he'd wanted to say, but changed his mind. Grabbing a fist full of Harry's shirt, he pulled him forward, but instead of kissing Harry directly on the mouth, he aimed for the corner of his lips and then for Harry's jawline.

Draco could feel the stubble just beginning to grow in from where Harry must've shaved before their date. He parted his lips slightly, leaving a trail of tiny nips and kisses along Harry's jaw and the side of his neck.

Harry smelled like mu shu duck, soap, Chateau Margaux and Marc Jacobs aftershave, which was what several of Draco's escorts preferred, and it threw Draco off for a moment. His fingers loosened their hold on Harry's shirt, even as Harry's fingers slid into his hair and pulled him up for a proper kiss.

The gentle, soft kisses were gone, replaced by the warm heat of Harry's tongue as it brushed against Draco's mouth seeking entrance. When Draco parted his lips, Harry's tongue slipped in, flickering against his own, and Draco gasped when Harry pulled back and his teeth nipped at Draco's bottom lip.

Draco could feel various bits flushing with blood and heat, but he seemed to be shuddering quite a bit. There was something very wrong about losing so much control so quickly.

His breathing was shallow and erratic, and he blinked when Harry's mouth moved away and Harry began nuzzling his neck. What started sweet quickly degenerated into a frenzy as Harry's mouth latched onto the side of Draco's neck, and he nipped him sharply.

It took Draco a minute to realise that Harry was trying to mark him, and he opened his mouth to protest, but the only thing to escape was an encouraging moan.

Draco released his hold on Harry's shirt and moved both his hands lower, slipping them inside Harry's blazer to pull him closer. Draco's erection bumped against the answering hardness from Harry's groin, and his hands lost all sort of propriety and began freely groping Harry's bum as they snogged enthusiastically against the tunnel wall.

Draco jerked his head back, banging it against the concrete when Harry's hand slipped between them to palm Draco's erection, and he bit his lip as Harry watched him through hooded eyes.

Draco's breath hitched as Harry's fingers stroked his cock through his jeans, and he thanked some random god that he'd worn the silk boxers instead of cotton this evening. There'd been no doubt that he would be getting laid, if he so desired – but years of shagging shallow models and vapid minor royalty had left Draco jaded and less interested in what his partners might find alluring.

Harry stared unblinkingly, leaning one hand against the wall, and stroking Draco with the other, as Draco ran his hands over Harry's face and shoulders.

It was all well and good to get off, but it seemed a bit wrong to be the only one. He wasn't going to even begin thinking about the ramifications of a random policeman walking by; his brother was a dodgy spy pretending to be evil while working for the queen, and he himself ran a sodding escort agency.

This was clearly insane.

Stupid bloody accountants.

Harry stumbled a bit when Draco pushed his hand away, and instead insinuated his right leg between Harry's thighs.

Harry got the picture soon enough when Draco gripped his hips and rubbed Harry's erection with his thigh. Draco slammed his head against the wall for the second time when Harry pushed forward, plastering Draco to the wall as he began rutting against him.

When Harry's hands slipped around to grip Draco's backside, he released his own hold and slid his fingers through tangled black hair to hold Harry still enough to kiss.

With each thrust, Harry gasped against Draco's mouth, and Draco could feel his control crumbling bit by bit. His head ached and he was ruining his jacket, but Harry felt really fucking good, and Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd been with someone he really fancied. Running the escort service and hearing about other people's strange predilections had done wonders for killing his sex drive – but now, with Harry's whimpering and vice-like grip on his arse, Draco was feeling like a randy twenty-five year-old single, gay man.

He needed more sex – quite possibly with Harry, and that was enough to get him off.

Coming was like replacing his bones with warm plasticine, and Harry grunted as he thrust three more times before coming with a shudder of his own.

Draco panted against Harry's neck, trying not to think about the enormous dry cleaning bill he'd just made for himself. He exhaled a shaky breath as Harry pressed tiny kisses along the side of his neck and just below his ear.

He didn't do things like dry humping accountants underneath the roundabout for Waterloo Bridge. It was unseemly and apt to draw attention where it wasn't wanted. It was all Harry's fault. He made Draco reckless and stupid, and yet, Draco wasn't certain he wanted that to end. Obviously he was developing feelings of some type, which was simply all wrong; it wasn't what he did. Draco regularly shagged and left; it was the only way to keep his sanity.

Clearly it was all Harry's fault for actually being charming and fanciable; Draco would have to talk this over with Blaise and Julian.

He shivered slightly at the feel of Harry's lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I have tickets to the theatre next week. You're coming with me."

Draco pulled back to look at Harry. Harry's mouth was wet and swollen, and his shirt had large wrinkles in the front from where Draco had held it bunched in his fist. "I am? Don't you think you might ask first?"

"You said I'm not supposed to ask questions I already know the answer to," Harry reminded him, leaning forward and kissing his forehead.

Draco just nodded. "Ah, good point."

--Chapter V--

Author's Notes:

+ Go to Hakkasan.

+ Betas by the irreplaceable