Blaise's touch is assured, never wavering. His fingers press into her soft skin as if it were the finest velvety dough, yielding effortlessly beneath his grasp.

He relishes the suppleness of the tender buns, each luscious curve enticing his lips to explore and taste. The flavour of candied rose lingers on his tongue, a sweet intoxication that edges him towards madness, as though he has downed the most exquisite firewhisky. He knows, with certainty, that unveiling the fabric will reveal something far sweeter than honey waiting beneath the layers of her silken student robe.

Just for his eyes, his hands, his lips; all for him alone. Today, she has been a naughty girl, seemingly forgetting the warmth of his firm hand and the lessons he imparts. He reminds her, guides her; she won't forget.

Her softness is his refuge. He savours it greedily. In her he finds everything he has ever longed for⎯sensuality that flows like ambrosia, a warmth that responds to his every touch with eager invitation.

“What d'ya say to me today, eh?” he breathes warmly against the smooth folded velvet, his lips barely grazing the fabric as his fingers gently squeeze her side. “Can't handle ya, can I? Oi, me darlin', you're silly,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle.

The warmth courses down to her ankles, making her gasp for air through her parted lips. His beloved nearly slips off the wooden bench, but the bookshelf catches her, the spines of the books digging in painfully. She arches her lower back slightly, the discomfort prompting her to roll her eyes and bite down on her lips with her snow-white teeth, stifling any sound that might attract Filch and his ever-watchful cat.

“Don't worry, love, I'll remind ya,” his voice teasing as his teeth gently nip at her skin. “Or you won't be feelin' my hands for a week,” he warns, playful yet serious. His knees press firmly into the cold floor, the tension in his body evident as he holds her steady. The fabric of the trousers is painfully tight, yet his lips press to the tender pink rose petals again.