"Contact was made at approximately twenty-three hundred hours," Harry said, staring at a point somewhere to the left of Proudfoot's head. "The subject appeared... friendly."
Friendly.
In his mind, Daphne Greengrass was on her hands and knees in that corridor, her silver dress bunched around her waist, her perfect arse on full display. The g-string. The pink lips of her pussy peeking out on either side of that inadequate scrap of fabric. Her voice, husky with desire, telling him how wet she was, how tight she'd be, how good it would feel to have his cock buried inside her.
"Friendly," Proudfoot repeated, nodding sagely. He turned to his conspiracy board and drew a new line with his wand. "Excellent. She's trying to recruit you."
Harry blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"Classic tradecraft." Proudfoot tapped the board, where a moving photograph of Daphne was connected by red strings to at least fifteen other faces. "She identifies you as a potential asset, makes initial contact, establishes rapport. Next step will be to compromise you somehow. Draw you deeper into her web."
I want you to shove that big, thick cock into my tight little cunt.
"Right," Harry managed. "Her web. I'll watch out for that."
Edith Chambers consulted her parchment. "The subject spoke to you directly? For how long?"
Long enough to tell me exactly how she wanted to be fucked.
"A few minutes," Harry said. "Just... pleasantries. Nothing substantive."
"And her demeanour?" Edith's quill was poised over her notes. "Did she seem suspicious? Guarded? Did she give any indication she knew she was under surveillance?"
She told me she'd been watching me stare at her tits all night.
"She seemed relaxed," Harry said carefully. "Open, even. I think she was... comfortable with me."
Hamish Bletchley, the youngest member of the team, leaned forward eagerly. "Did you get a sense of her operation? Any hint of the smuggling network?"
I got a sense of her arse. Every curve. Every inch. The way her cheeks spread when she was on all fours.
"Nothing concrete," Harry said. "But I believe she's interested in... continued contact."
The team exchanged meaningful looks. Proudfoot nodded slowly, his expression grave.
"This is better than we could have hoped," he said. "She's taken the bait. Now we reel her in."
Harry's cock throbbed at the memory of her fingers squeezing him through his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"The Minister will be pleased," Edith added, flipping through her notes. "Your orders are to penetrate her inner circle. Get deeper into her operation." Proudfoot nodded along gravely. "Spread her thin, Potter. Find out what she's hiding underneath all that pure-blood armour and work your way in."
Penetrate her—
Harry thought about how close she'd been in that corridor. Her tits pressed against his chest. Her lips brushing his cheek. The heat of her body bleeding through his clothes.
"Understood," he said, his voice slightly hoarse.
The meeting concluded with handshakes and congratulations. Harry escaped to his office as quickly as he could, desperate for a moment alone to collect himself. He'd been half-hard through the entire briefing, and the constant memories of the night before weren't helping.
He pushed open his office door and stopped dead.
Daphne Greengrass was leaning against his desk.
She was wearing a skirt so short it barely qualified as clothing, the hem ending several inches above mid-thigh. Her legs were long and bare and perfect, crossed at the ankle in a way that made Harry's eyes trace the line from her heels up to the tantalising glimpse of inner thigh where the fabric ended. And her top... Merlin, her top. It was emerald green and criminally low-cut, her tits pushed up and together and practically spilling over the neckline. The fabric strained across her chest with every breath she took, and Harry could see the lacy edge of her bra peeking out between her breasts.
She smiled when she saw him. That same devastating smile from the corridor.
"Hello, Harry."
Harry's brain performed several emergency manoeuvres in rapid succession. First, it tried to form words. This failed. Then it tried to look away from her tits. This also failed. Finally, it succeeded in making his mouth hang open while his cock surged against his trousers.
"Daphne," he managed eventually. "How did you... this is a restricted area."
"Is it?" She tilted her head, blonde hair cascading over one shoulder. "Nobody stopped me."
Harry could imagine why. One look at those tits and any wizard would forget the meaning of words like "restricted" and "clearance" and "professional conduct."
He forced himself to close the door behind him, then immediately regretted it. Now they were alone. In his office. With her tits looking like that.
Focus, Potter.
He moved past her to his desk, putting the heavy wooden furniture between them like a barrier. It helped. Slightly. From this angle he could still see her cleavage, still see the way her breasts swelled above the neckline, still see that maddening hint of lace. But at least there was something between his cock and her body.
"About last night," he began.
"I was hoping you'd bring that up." Daphne pushed off from where she'd been leaning and rounded the desk to his side. Harry's stomach clenched. She hopped up onto the edge right next to his chair, crossing her legs in a movement that made her skirt ride up even further. "I came to apologise."
Harry's eyes dropped to her thighs. He couldn't help it. From this angle, seated while she was perched above him, he could see straight up her legs. The hem of her skirt had bunched around her upper thighs, and if he leaned forward just slightly...
She caught him looking. Her smile widened.
"It's fine," Harry said quickly, dragging his gaze back up to her face. "No apology necessary. You were drunk, things got a bit—"
"I'm not apologising for coming on to you, Harry."
He blinked. "You're not?"
"No." She uncrossed her legs and crossed them again the other way, giving him a flash of inner thigh that made his cock throb. "I'm apologising that you didn't get to fuck me."
Harry's mouth went dry.
"You see, I've been thinking about it all night." She leaned back slightly, bracing her hands on the desk behind her, and the movement pushed her tits forward magnificently. "About what should have happened in that corridor. What you should have done to me."
"Daphne—"
"You should have grabbed my hips the moment you saw me on my hands and knees." Her voice was low, intimate, washing over him like warm honey. "I was right there, Harry. My arse in the air, my dress up around my waist. That tiny little g-string barely covering anything."
The image flooded his mind. Her perfect arse. The thin strip of silver fabric disappearing between her cheeks. The pink lips of her pussy peeking out on either side.
"You could have had me," she continued. "Right there on the floor. All you had to do was spread my cheeks and pull that g-string to the side."
Harry's hands gripped the arms of his chair. His cock was straining against his trousers now, achingly hard.
"I was so wet for you." Daphne bit her lip, and the sight of her teeth pressing into that soft pink flesh made Harry want to groan. "If you'd touched me, you would have felt it. My cunt dripping, aching to be filled. All for you."
"You were drunk," Harry said weakly. It was his only defence. His pathetic, inadequate defence.
"I was horny," Daphne corrected. "There's a difference." She tilted her head, studying him. "Do you want to know what I imagined? While I was lying in bed last night, with my fingers between my legs, thinking about you?"
Merlin help me.
Harry didn't answer. Couldn't answer. His cock was throbbing so hard it was actually painful.
"I imagined you shoving me face-first into that marble floor," she said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Pinning me down with one hand while you used the other to rip that g-string off my body. I imagined feeling your fat cock pressing against my entrance, stretching me open, making me take every inch."
Harry's grip on the chair arms tightened until his knuckles ached.
"I would have been so tight for you," she murmured. "So wet and warm and tight. You would have felt my cunt squeezing around you, trying to pull you deeper. And I would have moaned so loud, Harry. I would have screamed your name for the whole party to hear."
She slid off the desk.
For one brief, delirious moment, Harry thought she was leaving. Thought the torture was over. But she didn't walk toward the door. She walked toward him. And before he could process what was happening, she was sliding into his lap, straddling him, her skirt bunching up around her hips as her thighs settled on either side of his.
"Daphne—" His hands flew to her hips without conscious thought. To stop her. That was the intention. To push her away.
He didn't push.
Her tits were right in front of his face now. He could see down her top, could see the lacy green bra cupping those perfect breasts, could see the valley between them where her skin looked impossibly soft. If he leaned forward just slightly, he could bury his face between them. He could—
"I'm not drunk now," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.
Her hips rolled against him, grinding down onto his erection, and a groan tore out of him before he could stop it. The heat of her pussy pressed against his cock through their clothes, and he could feel... Merlin, he could feel how thin her panties were. Just that tiny scrap of fabric and the material of his trousers. That was all that separated them.
"Feel that?" Her breath was hot against his ear. "Feel how ready I am for you?"
Harry's hands were still on her hips. Still not pushing. If anything, they were pulling her closer, fingers digging into the curve of her waist.
"You're so hard," Daphne murmured, rolling her hips again. "Your cock feels so big. I can't wait to see it. Can't wait to wrap my fingers around it and feel how thick you are."
She reached down between them and squeezed him through his trousers. Harry's hips bucked involuntarily.
"Fuck," he gasped.
"That's what I want." She squeezed again, stroking him through the fabric. "I want you to fuck me, Harry. I want you to bend me over this desk and shove that fat cock inside me until I can't think straight."
Her hand worked him through his trousers, tracing the outline of his shaft, and Harry could feel his resistance crumbling. Every stroke of her fingers sent sparks through his body. Every roll of her hips made his cock throb with desperate need.
"Can you imagine it?" she breathed. "Me bent over your desk, my skirt up around my waist, my panties pulled to the side. You behind me, spreading my cheeks, watching your cock slide into my tight little cunt."
He could imagine it. He could imagine it perfectly. Her arse in his hands, her pussy stretched around his shaft, the wet sounds of their bodies meeting.
"I'd be so good for you." Her voice was pure sin. "I'd moan so pretty while you fucked me. I'd squeeze your cock so tight you'd forget your own name."
Her hand squeezed him again, and Harry groaned out loud.
"Daphne, I'm... I'm at work."
It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. But it was the only excuse he had left.
"So?" She ground down on him harder, her tits pressing against his chin. If he looked down, he'd be staring directly into her cleavage. He looked down. "Then fuck me quick. Shove that big cock inside me and make me come before anyone notices."
Her hand was working him faster now, squeezing and stroking through his trousers.
"Or..." She paused, biting her lip again. "If you're really that worried about work... at least let me suck your cock."
Harry's entire body clenched.
"Just a quick blowjob," she continued, her voice sweet and innocent and devastating. "No one has to know. I'll get under your desk and wrap my lips around you and make you come so hard you see stars. I'll swallow every drop like a good girl."
She looked down at him with those impossibly blue eyes, and Harry saw something there that made his heart stutter. Want. Real, desperate want. She wasn't playing a game. She wasn't trying to manipulate him. She wanted him.
"Please, Harry." The word was barely above a whisper. "Please let me taste you."
Harry was done. He could feel it, the last shred of resistance snapping like an overstrained thread. His hands moved from her hips to her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and he could picture exactly what he was about to do. He was going to stand up, spin her around, bend her over the desk. He was going to shove that skirt up and rip those panties off and finally, finally bury himself inside her. He was going to fuck her until she screamed, until the whole Ministry heard them, until—
Daphne's expression changed.
Something flickered across her face. A tiny crack in her confidence. And then, before Harry could process what was happening, she was climbing off his lap.
"Fine," she said, and her voice was different now. Smaller. "I understand."
Harry blinked, his brain still several steps behind his body. "What?"
"You don't want me." She straightened her skirt, not meeting his eyes. "It's fine. I get it. I'll leave you alone."
What?
"That's not—" Harry started, but she was already moving toward the door, her shoulders tense, her movements quick and brittle.
He watched her go, utterly bewildered, his cock aching and his hands still tingling from where they'd gripped her thighs. She was nearly at the door when she stopped, one hand on the handle.
"You owe me, though."
Harry's breath caught. "I... what?"
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. Her expression had shifted again, some of that confidence returning, but underneath it Harry could see something vulnerable.
"You've left me wanting twice now." She lifted her chin, her voice steadying. "The corridor. And now this. That's not fair, Harry."
He didn't know what to say. His cock was still straining against his trousers, his body still screaming at him to grab her and pull her back into his lap and finish what they'd started.
"So you owe me." She held his gaze. "My lips around your cock. Somewhere you can't hide behind your desk and your excuses."
Harry said nothing.
He should refuse. He should tell her this was inappropriate, that she was a suspect, that this was a case, that everything he was feeling was compromising months of work.
He didn't refuse.
Daphne's lips curved into a small, triumphant smile.
"I'll be in touch," she said, and then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
Harry sat in his chair, breathing hard, cock throbbing, staring at the space where she'd been. Through the door, he could hear the fading click of her heels on the corridor floor.
He thought about her arse in that tiny skirt. The way her hips swayed when she walked. The way she'd ground against him, hot and wanting, her pussy pressed against his cock through their clothes.
He thought about her face when she'd climbed off his lap. That flicker of hurt. The way she'd thought he didn't want her.
If only she knew.
He groaned, letting his head fall back against his chair.
Proudfoot's words echoed in his mind: She'll try to compromise you. Get you on her side. Classic tradecraft.
Harry stared at the ceiling.
She had walked into a restricted Ministry floor. Found his office without any apparent difficulty. Straddled him in his chair and told him in explicit detail exactly how she wanted to be fucked. She had nearly gotten his cock out. She had nearly gotten him to bend her over his desk and pound her until neither of them could walk.
She was dangerous. Possibly the most dangerous witch in Britain.
And the next time she put herself in front of him, Harry knew with absolute certainty that he was going to fold. There was no more resistance left in him. No more excuses. The next time Daphne Greengrass wrapped her hand around his cock, he was going to give her exactly what she wanted.
He closed his eyes and saw her on her hands and knees, her arse in the air, her pussy wet and waiting.
Fuck.