Infiltrating Daphne (Ch. 3 - The Garden) (Patreon)

Daphne's estate stretched before Harry like a trap waiting to be sprung.

He stood at the edge of the ballroom, champagne flute in hand, watching the cream of pure-blood society mingle beneath crystal chandeliers that floated unsupported twenty feet above the marble floor. The Greengrass manor was everything he'd expected and worse: ancient magic humming in the walls, portraits of stern-faced ancestors tracking guests with disapproving eyes, and enough old money on display to make Gringotts weep with envy. Proudfoot would have killed for this access. Edith would have spent weeks mapping the floor plan, cataloguing the wards, identifying every potential hiding spot for dark artifacts.

Harry was doing none of those things.

He was watching Daphne.

She moved through the crowd like she owned it, which, he supposed, she did. Tonight's dress was midnight blue, clinging to her curves in ways that should have been illegal, the neckline plunging low enough that Harry could see the inner swells of her breasts every time she turned. Her blonde hair was swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck, and tiny diamonds glittered at her ears. She was radiant. Devastating. Every man in the room was stealing glances at her, and she pretended not to notice any of them.

Except Harry.

Her eyes found his across the ballroom, and she smiled. Not the polished smile of the Ice Queen, but the one he'd seen in his office, in that corridor. The one that promised things he was trying very hard not to think about.

Press the advantage, Proudfoot had said, clapping him on the shoulder before he'd left the Ministry. You've got her interested. Now get inside her operation.

Harry took a long sip of champagne and tried not to think about getting inside anything.

The problem was simple. Every excuse he'd used to fend off Daphne Greengrass was gone. He wasn't at the Ministry. He wasn't working. He was standing in her home, drinking her champagne, and she had made it abundantly clear what she expected from him tonight.

My lips around your cock. Somewhere you can't hide behind excuses.

His cock stirred at the memory, and Harry shifted his weight, trying to will it back down. It didn't work. It hadn't worked for days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her straddling him in his chair, felt her grinding against his erection, heard her voice whispering filth in his ear.

And now she was walking toward him.

"Harry." She stopped close enough that he could smell her perfume, could see the faint dusting of glitter across her collarbones. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come."

"Wouldn't miss it," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

"Liar." Her smile widened. "You look terrified."

"I'm not terrified."

"No?" She reached out and adjusted his collar, her fingers brushing the skin of his neck. The touch was light, casual, the sort of thing a hostess might do for any guest. Harry's cock didn't care about context. "Then why are you hiding in the corner?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm... observing."

"Observing." Her hand lingered on his chest, and Harry felt the warmth of her palm through his shirt. "And what have you observed so far?"

That your tits look incredible in that dress. That I can see the outline of your nipples through the fabric. That every time you move, your arse shifts in ways that make me want to bend you over the nearest surface.

"Nice party," he managed.

Daphne laughed, low and delighted. "You're sweet when you're nervous." She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. "Don't worry, Harry. I'm not going to jump you in front of everyone. I have some self-control."

"That's reassuring."

"For now."

She pulled back, still smiling, and slipped her arm through his. "Come on. Let me introduce you to some people."

What followed was two hours of exquisite torture.

Daphne kept him at her side as she worked the room, introducing him to ancient witches with more titles than teeth, pompous wizards who clearly resented his presence, and socialites who looked at Daphne with barely concealed envy. Harry smiled, nodded, made appropriate noises, and remembered absolutely nothing anyone said to him. His entire attention was focused on the woman beside him.

She never stopped touching him.

Small things. A hand on his arm when she laughed at someone's joke. Fingers brushing his back when she guided him through the crowd. Standing close enough that her hip pressed against his when they paused to chat. Each touch was innocent on its own, the sort of casual contact that happened at any party. But Harry felt every single one like a brand.

And then there were the angles.

Every time she reached past him to accept a fresh glass of champagne, he got a view straight down her neckline, her tits swelling magnificently against the fabric. When she bent to whisper something to a seated matron, her arse pressed back against Harry's thigh, round and firm even through the dress. When she turned to introduce him to yet another pure-blood relic, her breasts brushed against his arm, soft and warm.

She knew exactly what she was doing. He could see it in her eyes, in the little smile that played at her lips every time he stiffened or shifted or tried to create some distance between them. She was patient. Methodical. She had all night, and she was going to use every minute of it.

By the time the party began to wind down, Harry was half-mad with want.

The older guests had started to drift toward the Floo, and the remaining crowd had splintered into small groups, laughing and drinking in various corners of the manor. Daphne had steered them to a quieter section of the ballroom, near a set of glass doors that opened onto the gardens. The night air drifted in, cool against his overheated skin.

"You've been very good tonight," Daphne murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his forearm. "Very patient."

"Have I?" Harry's voice came out rougher than he intended.

"Mm." She tilted her head, studying him. "Most men would have tried something by now. Dragged me into a closet. Made some excuse to get me alone."

"I'm not most men."

"No." Her eyes dropped to his lips, then lower, to where his erection was making itself known despite his best efforts. "You're not."

She took his hand.

"Come with me."

Harry's heart slammed against his ribs. "Daphne—"

"Just for some air." Her fingers laced through his. "It's warm in here, don't you think?"

It was. Or maybe that was just his blood running hot, his body responding to her touch the way it had been responding all night. Either way, he didn't resist when she led him through the glass doors and out into the gardens.

The Greengrass gardens were extensive, a maze of hedgerows and flowerbeds and winding paths lit by floating lanterns that cast pools of golden light across the manicured grass. The sounds of the party faded behind them as Daphne led him deeper, past a fountain carved with frolicking nymphs, past a stone bench where two guests were sharing a bottle of wine, past a hedge archway wreathed in climbing roses.

They emerged into a small clearing, enclosed on all sides by tall hedges. A single lantern floated overhead, and the grass was soft beneath their feet. The hedges blocked the view from the manor, but someone wandering the gardens could still stumble upon them.

"Daphne." Harry's voice was strained. "We can't—"

"Can't what?" She turned to face him, still holding his hand. The lantern light caught her features, painting her in gold and shadow.

"Someone could see."

"Could they?" She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the heat of her body. "Then I suppose you'd better be quiet."

"That's not—"

"Harry." She placed her free hand flat against his chest. "What exactly are you objecting to?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

What was he objecting to? Not whether. He'd stopped objecting to whether in his office, when he'd sat there with his hands on her hips and let her grind against his cock. He wasn't saying no anymore. He was just saying not here, not now, not like this.

Which meant he was saying yes to everything else.

Daphne watched the realisation cross his face. Her smile sharpened.

"That's what I thought," she murmured.

She sank to her knees.

Harry's breath caught as he looked down at her, this beautiful, impossible woman kneeling in the grass of her own garden, looking up at him with those devastating blue eyes. The Ice Queen of pure-blood society, heir to one of the oldest families in Britain, lowering herself to the ground like she belonged there.

"I've been thinking about this all week," she said softly, her hands sliding up his thighs. "Wondering if you'd actually show up. Wondering if you'd finally stop pretending you don't want this."

Her fingers found his belt. Started working it open.

"Daphne—"

"I touched myself every night." The belt came loose. She started on his trousers. "Lay in bed with my fingers between my legs, thinking about you. About your cock. About what I was going to do to it when I finally got it in my hands."

The button popped free. The zip slid down. Harry's trousers loosened around his hips, and he felt her fingers hook into his waistband.

"I kept imagining how big you'd be." She pulled his trousers down, just enough to free his cock, and it sprang up between them, thick and hard and aching. Her eyes widened, her lips parting, and for a moment she just stared. "Oh, fuck."

Harry's cock twitched at the naked want in her voice.

"Better than I imagined," Daphne breathed. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and her hand looked small against his girth, barely able to close around him. "So much better."

She stroked him once, slow and tight, and Harry groaned.

"Is this what you wanted?" He barely recognised his own voice. "When you were touching yourself?"

"Yes." She stroked again, twisting her wrist at the top. "I wanted to know what you felt like. What you tasted like." She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the head of his cock. "What you looked like when I made you come."

Harry's hands clenched at his sides.

"Go on then," he heard himself say. "Find out."

Daphne's smile was radiant.

She parted her lips and took him into her mouth.

The wet heat of her engulfed him, and Harry's head fell back, a groan tearing from his throat. She didn't tease. Didn't work up to it. She just sank down on his cock, taking inch after inch until he felt the back of her throat, then pulled back and did it again. Her lips were stretched tight around his shaft, pink and wet and obscene, and the sight of her was almost as overwhelming as the sensation.

"Fuck," Harry gasped. "Daphne, fuck."

She pulled off with a wet pop, still stroking him. "Tell me how it feels."

"You know how it feels."

"I want to hear you say it." She licked a long stripe up the underside of his cock, from base to tip. "I want to hear Harry Potter admit he likes having his cock in my mouth."

"I like it." The words came out strangled. "I fucking love it."

"Mm." She swirled her tongue around the head, and Harry's hips bucked. "What else?"

"What do you—"

"Tell me what you thought about." She pumped his shaft while she talked, her hand slick with spit. "In that corridor. When you saw me on my hands and knees with my arse in the air. What did you want to do to me?"

The image flooded his mind. Her perfect cheeks. The g-string. The pink lips of her pussy peeking out on either side.

"I wanted to fuck you."

"Where?" Another lick. Another stroke.

"Right there. On the floor. I wanted to spread your cheeks and shove my cock inside you."

"Mmm." She took him back into her mouth, deeper this time, and the vibration of her moan ran through him like lightning. She pulled off again, gasping. "And in your office? When I was grinding on you?"

"I wanted to bend you over my desk." Harry's hands were shaking with the effort of not grabbing her. "I wanted to rip your panties off and pound you until you couldn't walk."

"You should have." She kissed the tip of his cock, her lips coming away wet. "I would have let you. I would have loved it."

"Daphne—"

"Do you know what I want right now?" She looked up at him, and her eyes were dark with desire. "I want you to come on my face. I want to feel it. I want to know what Harry Potter looks like when he completely loses control."

She took him in again, and this time she didn't stop.

Harry watched, transfixed, as the Ice Queen of pure-blood society bobbed her head on his cock. Her cheeks hollowed with each suck, her lips stretched obscenely around his girth, and her eyes stayed locked on his, watching his reactions, feeding on them. She took him deeper and deeper, gagging slightly when he hit the back of her throat, but she didn't pull away. She just kept going, kept swallowing around him, her tongue working the underside of his shaft.

It was too much. It was perfect. It was everything he'd been imagining for days, and it was about to be his undoing.

And that was when the thought struck him.

This can't become a habit.

He was compromised. Completely, utterly compromised. A suspect was on her knees in front of him with his cock in her mouth, and he was letting it happen. Encouraging it. The mission was fucked. His career was fucked. Everything was fucked.

But maybe. Maybe he could still salvage something. Maybe if he pushed her far enough, hard enough, she'd realise this wasn't what she wanted. She was the Ice Queen, used to men falling at her feet, worshipping her. What if he didn't worship? What if he took?

Harry's hand moved before he could second-guess himself.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair.

Daphne's eyes widened, but before she could react, he thrust forward, shoving his cock down her throat.

She gagged, her hands flying up to grip his thighs, but Harry didn't stop. He pulled back and thrust again, deeper this time, holding her head in place while he fucked her mouth. Her throat spasmed around him, tight and wet, and he could feel her swallowing desperately, trying to accommodate his size.

"Is this what you wanted?" His voice was rough, unrecognisable. "This what you've been fantasising about all week?"

Daphne made a choked sound around his cock, her nails digging into his thighs.

He thrust again, burying himself to the hilt, holding her there with his cock lodged in her throat. She couldn't breathe like this, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything except take it. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, her eye makeup starting to run, and she looked absolutely wrecked.

Good, Harry thought savagely. See how you like being used.

He pulled back, letting her gasp in a breath, then thrust forward again. And again. And again. He set a brutal pace, fucking her throat with no mercy, using her mouth like it was made for this. Her lips were swollen and red, stretched tight around his shaft, and the wet, obscene sounds of her choking filled the garden.

"Fucking take it, you slut!" Harry growled, his fingers tightening in her hair. "Take every fucking inch."

Daphne moaned around him. Actually moaned, the vibration running through his cock, and Harry looked down to see her eyes rolled back, her cheeks flushed, her whole body trembling. She wasn't fighting him. She wasn't pulling away.

She was loving it.

One of her hands dropped from his thigh, and he realised with a jolt that she was reaching between her own legs. She was touching herself while he fucked her throat. Getting off on being used like a common whore in her own garden.

Merlin.

The sight of her destroyed the last of his control. He thrust harder, deeper, chasing his release with single-minded desperation. His balls were drawing tight, his cock swelling, and he could feel it building, building, building—

He wrenched her head back.

Daphne gasped as his cock slipped free of her mouth, her lips wet and swollen, her face a mess of tears and spit and ruined makeup. She looked completely debauched. Completely perfect.

Harry grabbed his cock and aimed at her face.

"Open your mouth," he commanded.

She obeyed instantly, her lips parting, her tongue extended, her eyes fixed on his cock with desperate anticipation.

Harry stroked himself once, twice, three times, and then he was coming.

The first rope of cum hit her across the cheek, thick and white and obscene. The second landed on her lips, dripping onto her tongue. The third streaked across her nose, her forehead, into her perfectly styled hair. Harry kept stroking, kept coming, painting her face with his release while she knelt there and took it all.

"Fuck," he groaned, his cock pulsing in his fist. "Fuck, fuck."

When it was finally over, he stood there, panting, his cock still twitching in his hand. Daphne was a mess. Cum covered her face in long, glistening streaks, dripping down her chin, pooling in her cleavage. Her makeup was ruined, her hair dishevelled, her dress grass-stained at the knees.

She looked up at him.

And she was beaming.

Not just smiling. Not just satisfied. She was radiant with joy, her eyes bright despite the cum on her lashes, her lips curved into the most genuine smile he'd ever seen on her face. She looked like he'd given her exactly what she'd always wanted.

"That was amazing," she breathed.

Harry stared at her.

He'd just face-fucked her. Used her throat like a toy. Covered her face in cum like she was nothing more than a receptacle for his pleasure. And she was looking at him like he'd hung the moon.

Fuck.

Proudfoot was right. He'd been right about everything. She had identified Harry as a target, drawn him in, compromised him completely. And now she was kneeling in her garden with his cum on her face, smiling like he'd just given her a precious gift.

The most dangerous witch in Britain had him right where she wanted.

And he was absolutely, catastrophically fucked.