Needs and Wants

I don't know what possessed me to do it.

No . . . that's a lie.

I knew exactly what possessed me to do it: I was tired of being "little Miss Goody two-shoes." I was sick of spending all of my time in the library—studying—instead of experiencing life. I was sick of always doing as I was told. I was sick of always worrying about my actions and the consequences that would follow.

I was sick of being with guys who kissed me, who touched me, who made love to me like I was made of glass . . . like I was absolutely fragile . . . like I would break.

Really, I was just sick of being good—always so Goddamned good.

I had had enough. And finally, I just snapped.

I had needs . . . I had wants:

I needed to feel alive.

I needed to feel good.

I neededto feel a thick piece of hardened flesh throbbing between my thighs.

I needed it rough and tumble—completely animalistic—with no remorse or discretion. And with no strings attached.

To put it crudely: I needed to be fucked.

Not romanced . . . not loved . . . not swept off of my feet . . . Hell, not even respected.

Just fucked.

Biting, sucking, licking, slapping, scratching, grunting, moaning, screaming.


And I knew exactly who I wanted it from.

He had been the object of my obsession for years. It had happened quickly . . . and entirely unexpectedly. One minute, he was dead to me—completely invisible . . . a shadow . . . a nothing—and the next . . . .

Well, let's just say that my eyes had been opened.

School had started like every other year. It was exciting to see everyone again after such a long break . . . well, almost everyone. When I first caught sight of him on the train, I was prepared for the wave of contempt that normally washed over me. I was prepared to feel the familiar feeling of loathing . . . of absolute hate . . . .

But then, I took a closer look . . . and I wasn't prepared for what I felt.

It was a completely foreign feeling to me . . . one that I couldn't quite describe in words . . . and I found myself staring at him, my eyes slowly roaming his body—tracing his features—in an attempt to put my finger on this new reaction that I was experiencing.

The summer had been good to him.

The summer . . . and his years of playing Quidditch, no doubt. He had grown taller, yet his body stayed lean and slim—muscular. He was dressed in a dark suit—tailored to fit his body perfectly. He was pristine—immaculate in every way.

His skin was still pale—unnaturally pale—and flawless. But his face had thinned out, causing it to lose some of the boyish quality. His jaw line was strong and masculine—serious as he flipped nonchalantly through some papers.

His hair had grown too. And he had chosen to wear it differently. Instead of being pulled back—slicked against his skull—it now laid shaggily against his forehead—hanging slightly in his eyes. It looked silky and smooth as he flipped it from his face with a shake of his head.

And his eyes.

I had never taken notice of them before that moment. Not even during all of the times that I had been nose to nose with him . . . staring him down in hatred.

His eyes were the purest shade of silver that I had ever seen. They shone brightly from behind heavily covering eyelids.

I remember being mesmerized by him—mesmerized by his strength, by his seclusion, by his secrecy.

And it never got better.

Year after year, the feelings remained—got stronger even —until it became a total obsession. I wanted to be with him, wanted to touch him, wanted to have him touch me.

I found that I put myself into situations just in order to be closer to him. And the things that used to make me detest him—every insult, every contemptuous glare, every snide remark—didn't repulse me anymore. Instead, they only seemed to fuel the fire.

Fuel the desire.

I spent years lusting after him, but I knew that there was no way of it ever happening. He would never want me . . . would never soil his name by uttering mine. And I accepted that in quiet compliance.

Until now.

It was my last year in school and he had been my fixation for too long. I had fantasized about an intimate encounter with him for too long—fantasized about what he would be like in bed . . . how he would be stronger than the other boys I had been with. How he would be more experienced. How he would know exactly how to touch me to make me scream. How his tight, hard body would feel under my fingers.

And too many times, I was forced to resort to masturbation to ease the ache that I felt for too long—my fingers never quite satisfying me as well as he could . . . as well as his stiffened manhood could.

So, this was the year that it was going to change. I was determined.

I just didn't know how.

But, I was a smart witch. I just needed to figure out a plan.

It shouldn't be difficult. I just needed one night, I was sure of it. Just one night, and I could put my obsession behind me. It's like when you get a song stuck in your head . . . stuck for days . . . yet, as soon as you hear it, it just disappears. Just like that. You just need to experience it once. I just needed to experience him once and I and know that I would finally feel fulfilled . . . my desires would go away.

So, it was decided. By the end of the year, it was going to happen: Draco Malfoy was going to fuck me.

I just needed a plan.