Infiltrating Daphne (Ch. 5 - The Parkinson Party) (Patreon)

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The firewhisky burned a path down Harry's throat, and he grabbed another glass from a passing tray before the first had even settled.

He was stalling. He knew he was stalling. He'd been standing in the entrance hall of Parkinson Manor for ten minutes now, watching guests drift past toward the ballroom, and he still couldn't make his feet move. The music was audible from here, strings and piano, the polite murmur of conversation, the clink of crystal. Somewhere beyond those doors, Daphne Greengrass was waiting for him.

You're a senior investigator on the Minister's Special Task Force, he told himself. You faced down Voldemort. You can walk into a fucking party.

But Voldemort hadn't looked at him like Daphne did. Voldemort hadn't knelt in a garden and begged Harry to paint his face with cum. Voldemort hadn't moaned around his cock like it was the greatest gift he'd ever received.

Harry downed the second firewhisky.

Thursday, he reminded himself. Find out what she's doing Thursday. That's all you have to do. Get in, get the intel, get out.

The team had narrowed down the shipment date while he'd spent the week alternating between cold showers and vivid fantasies. Edith's pattern analysis had pinpointed Thursday as the likely window, and all Harry needed to do was confirm Daphne's movements. Simple. Professional. The sort of thing he used to be good at, before a beautiful blonde in a backless dress had destroyed every shred of his professionalism.

He set down the empty glass and walked into the ballroom.

The Parkinson estate was trying very hard to prove it had moved past its Death Eater associations. The decor was bright and modern, the guests a careful mix of old pure-blood families and newer money, the atmosphere deliberately welcoming. Harry spotted several Ministry officials, a handful of Wizengamot members, and what looked like half the society pages of the Daily Prophet.

None of them mattered.

Because Daphne was already looking at him.

She stood across the room, champagne flute in hand, surrounded by a cluster of admirers who might as well have been furniture for all the attention she was paying them. The moment Harry entered, her eyes found his, and everything else fell away.

Fuck.

She was wearing white.

The dress was floor-length, elegant, almost demure at first glance. High neckline, sleeveless, perfectly respectable for a pure-blood gala. But the fabric. Merlin, the fabric. It was thin as gossamer, catching the candlelight in ways that made Harry's mouth go dry. When she moved, when she shifted her weight, the light played through it, and he could see the shadow of her body beneath. The curve of her waist. The swell of her hips. The long lines of her legs.

And she was walking straight toward him.

Time seemed to slow as Daphne crossed the ballroom. Every step brought her closer, and every step revealed more. The fabric clung to her tits, heavy and full, and Harry could see her nipples now, stiff peaks pressing against the white silk, dark circles visible through the sheer material. No bra. No anything, he realised with a jolt that went straight to his cock. She was naked under that dress. Completely, utterly naked, covered only by a whisper of fabric that hid absolutely nothing when the light hit it right.

From a distance, she looked angelic. A vision in white, ethereal and untouchable, the Ice Queen of pure-blood society in her element.

Up close, she was the filthiest thing he'd ever seen.

"Harry." She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, and her smile was radiant. "You came."

"I—" His voice caught. He tried again. "I came."

"I was starting to worry." She stepped closer still, rising on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered, warm and soft, and her tits pressed against his chest through that criminally thin fabric. He could feel her nipples, hard points of heat against his shirt. "I was afraid you wouldn't show."

"Wouldn't miss it," Harry managed.

She pulled back, but not far. Her hand found his arm, her fingers trailing down to lace through his. The possessive touch sent heat pooling in his groin, and his cock stirred, already thickening despite his best efforts to control it.

"I missed you," Daphne said softly, and the sincerity in her voice made his chest tight. "It's been a whole week, Harry. Do you have any idea how long a week feels when you're thinking about someone?"

I know exactly how long it feels, Harry thought. I've been lying awake every night replaying the garden. Her lips. Her tongue. The way she looked up at me with my cock in her mouth. The sound she made when I came.

"I might have some idea," he said instead.

Her smile widened, bright and genuine, nothing like the polished mask she wore for everyone else. This was the Daphne he'd seen in his office, in the garden. The warm, playful woman who hid behind the Ice Queen facade.

"Come on." She tugged his hand. "Let me get you a drink. You look like you need one."

He needed several. He needed to be so drunk that he forgot why he was here, forgot about Thursday, forgot about the investigation entirely. Because looking at Daphne Greengrass in that dress, feeling her fingers threaded through his, all he could think about was how easy it would be to drag her into a dark corner and bury himself inside her.

Thursday, he reminded himself desperately. Find out about Thursday.

But Daphne was already leading him deeper into the party, and his resistance was crumbling with every step.

She kept him close for the rest of the evening. There was no pretence of professional distance anymore, no careful hostess act like at her party. She simply stayed at his side, her hand in his, her body pressed against him whenever they stopped to talk to someone. She introduced him to people whose names he immediately forgot, steered him away from conversations that bored her, and laughed at his terrible jokes like he was the wittiest man in the room.

And she kept touching him.

Her hand on his arm. Her fingers brushing his chest. Her hip pressed against his when they stood together. Each touch was deliberate, intimate, a constant reminder that she was right there, warm and willing and barely clothed beneath that sinful dress.

Harry tried to focus. He was supposed to be gathering intelligence, cataloguing contacts, noting anything suspicious. Instead he was tracking the way the candlelight played through her dress, counting the moments when the fabric went transparent and he could see everything underneath. The shadow of her nipples, dark against the white silk. The curve of her arse when she turned. The long lines of her thighs when she shifted her weight.

Nothing underneath. She was wearing absolutely nothing underneath, and every time she moved, the dress shifted with her, clinging to her body in ways that made his cock ache.

"You're staring," Daphne murmured, leaning close enough that her breath tickled his ear.

"Can you blame me?" Harry's voice came out rough. "That dress is..."

"What?" She pulled back to look at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Too conservative? I was going for demure tonight."

Harry choked on his champagne.

"Demure," he repeated.

"Mm." She smoothed her hands down the fabric, the motion pulling it tight across her tits, her nipples pressing through in sharp relief. "Don't you think I look respectable?"

"That's not the word I'd use."

Her smile sharpened. "What word would you use?"

Obscene. Filthy. Fucking devastating.

"You look beautiful," Harry said, because it was true, and because he didn't trust himself to say anything else.

Daphne's expression softened. She reached up to touch his face, her fingers light against his jaw, and for a moment she just looked at him.

"Dance with me," she said.

It wasn't a question.

Harry let her lead him onto the dance floor.

The music was slow, strings and piano weaving together in something sweet and aching, and Daphne stepped into his arms like she belonged there. Her hand found his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist, and they began to move together, swaying in time with the melody.

"I thought about you all week," she murmured against his chest. "Every night. Couldn't stop thinking about the garden."

Harry's cock twitched. "Daphne—"

"The way you grabbed my hair." Her voice was low, meant only for him. "The way you used my throat. I touched myself every night, Harry. Remembered how you tasted. How you looked when you came."

His hand tightened on her waist.

"You can't say things like that here," he managed.

"Why not?" She looked up at him, her blue eyes innocent. "It's the truth."

"Because I'm trying very hard not to fuck you in the middle of a crowded ballroom."

Her smile was wicked. "Who says I'd stop you?"

Harry groaned, a low sound in the back of his throat, and pulled her closer. The movement pressed her body flush against his, her tits soft against his chest, her hips aligned with his. She had to feel his erection now, the thick length of him straining against his trousers, pressed right against her belly.

She definitely felt it. Her breath caught, and her hips shifted, grinding against him just slightly.

"Oh," she breathed. "Harry."

"Your fault," he muttered. "Wearing that fucking dress."

"You like it?"

"I can see your tits."

"That was the idea." She rolled her hips again, a slow, deliberate movement that dragged her body against his cock. "I wanted you to see. Wanted you to know what you'd missed all week."

Harry's hand slid lower on her waist, settling on the curve of her arse. The fabric was thin enough that he could feel the heat of her skin through it, the firm swell of her cheeks filling his palm. Nothing underneath. Just Daphne, naked and warm, separated from his touch by nothing but a whisper of silk.

"We should stop," he said, even as his fingers squeezed.

"Probably," she agreed, pressing closer. "Should we?"

They didn't stop.

The music shifted into something slower, and they swayed together in the crowd, and Harry let his hands wander. He couldn't help it. The dress was too thin, her body too perfect, and she was making soft little sounds against his chest every time his fingers found somewhere new.

Her arse was incredible. Round and firm, the cheeks fitting perfectly in his palms, the crease between them barely hidden by the clinging fabric. He spread them slightly, felt her gasp, felt her hips rock forward against his cock.

"Harry," she breathed.

"Mm?"

"Someone will see."

"Don't care."

And he didn't. Merlin help him, he didn't care anymore. Let them see. Let the whole ballroom see Harry Potter groping Daphne Greengrass on the dance floor, his hands full of her arse, his cock rock hard against her belly.

She turned in his arms.

The movement was smooth, natural, like they'd practised it a thousand times. One moment she was facing him, her tits crushed against his chest, and the next she had her back pressed to his front, her arse grinding against his erection, her head tilted back against his shoulder.

Fuck.

Harry's hands found her hips, steadying her, and she rolled against him with a soft moan that made his cock throb. She was properly grinding now, her arse working against him in slow circles, the friction maddening even through their clothes.

"That's better," she sighed.

Harry couldn't think. Couldn't remember why he was here, what he was supposed to be doing. His hands slid up from her hips, over the smooth plane of her stomach, higher, higher, until his palms were full of her tits.

They were magnificent. Heavy and warm through the thin fabric, her nipples hard against his palms. He squeezed, felt her arch into his touch, and she made a sound that went straight to his cock.

"Right there," she gasped. "Merlin, Harry, right there."

He was cupping her tits in the middle of a crowded ballroom. Anyone who looked their way would see exactly what he was doing, would see Daphne Greengrass pressing her arse back against his cock while Harry Potter fondled her tits through her dress.

He squeezed harder.

Daphne moaned, her head falling back, her hips grinding frantically against him. His cock was nestled between her cheeks now, the thin fabric of her dress doing nothing to hide the shape of it, and she was rocking against him like she couldn't stop herself.

"I want you," she breathed, her voice ragged. "Merlin, Harry, I want you so badly."

Thursday, a distant voice in his head reminded him. You're supposed to ask about Thursday.

But his hands were full of her tits, and her arse was grinding against his cock, and the last vestiges of his self-control were dissolving faster than he could gather them.

"Thursday," Harry blurted.

Daphne stilled. "What?"

Smooth, Potter. Real fucking smooth.

"Thursday," he repeated, his brain scrambling to catch up with his mouth. "What are you... I mean, I was wondering what you're doing on Thursday."

She turned in his arms, and the movement dragged her body against his cock in a way that made him bite back a groan. Her face was flushed, her lips parted, her eyes bright with something he couldn't quite read.

"Thursday?" she repeated. "Why?"

"I was just... wondering. If you had plans."

A smile spread across her face. It started small, just a curl at the corners of her lips, but it kept growing until she was beaming at him like he'd given her the best news of her life.

"Harry Potter," she said slowly, "are you asking me on a date?"

No. Yes. Fuck.

"I—" Harry stammered. "That's not—I mean—"

She laughed, bright and delighted against his chest.

"You're so cute when you're nervous." She stepped closer, her hands sliding up his chest, and she was looking at him with such warmth that his chest ached. "I'd love to."

"You'd love to what?"

"Go on a date with you. Thursday. I'm free."

Harry's mind was spinning. He hadn't actually asked. He'd been trying to gather intelligence, to find out what she was doing so the team could plan around her movements, and instead he'd somehow ended up with a date.

Fuck fuck fuck.

"That's... good," he managed. "Thursday. Good."

Daphne laughed, bright and delighted, and rose on her toes to kiss him. It was quick, just a brush of her lips against his, but his cock throbbed all the same.

"Now," she murmured against his mouth, "I think we should find somewhere more private. So I can thank you properly."

She took his hand and pulled him off the dance floor.

She led him through a side door, down a corridor lined with portraits of disapproving Parkinsons. Harry followed in a daze, his cock straining against his trousers, his mind still trying to process what had just happened.

The room she found was some kind of parlour. Plush sofas, heavy curtains, a fire crackling in the grate. Empty, except for them.

Daphne turned to face him, and her smile was wicked.

"I've been waiting all week for this," she said, her voice low.

She pushed him.

Harry stumbled backward, caught off guard, and the backs of his knees hit the sofa. He sat down hard, and before he could react, Daphne was climbing into his lap.

She straddled him, her knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips, her arse settling onto his thighs. The dress rode up with the movement, bunching around her waist, and Harry looked down to see her naked cunt pressed against the bulge of his cock through his trousers.

Fuck.

"Daphne—"

"I told you I wasn't wearing anything underneath." She rocked her hips, dragging her wet pussy along the length of his crotch. Harry could feel her heat even through the fabric. "Do you feel how wet I am, Harry? That's what you do to me. Just standing next to you all night, feeling your hands on me, your cock pressed against my arse."

Harry's hands found her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She was so wet that he could feel it soaking through his trousers, and the sight of her bare cunt grinding against him was making it very hard to think.

"We should—"

"What?" She leaned forward, her tits pressing against his chest. "Stop? Is that what you were going to say?"

Harry opened his mouth. Closed it.

No. Merlin, no.

"I didn't think so," Daphne murmured.

She kissed him.

Her lips were soft and eager, her tongue sliding against his, and Harry surrendered completely. His hands came up to cup her arse, spreading her cheeks, and she moaned into his mouth as his fingers found the crease between them.

"Need you," she gasped against his lips. "Need you inside me."

Her hands were already working at his shirt, fumbling with buttons, pulling fabric aside. Harry helped her, shrugging out of his jacket, yanking his shirt open, and then her hands were on his bare chest, her nails dragging through the hair there, and she was kissing down his neck like she wanted to devour him.

"Daphne." His voice was wrecked. "Slow down."

"No." She sat back, her eyes wild. "I've been thinking about this for a week, Harry. I'm not slowing down."

She reached for the straps of her dress and pulled them down her shoulders.

The white fabric slid down her body like water, pooling at her waist, and her tits spilled free.

Fuck.

Harry had been fantasising about these tits since that first party. Watching them strain against her dresses, catching glimpses of them through sheer fabric, imagining what they'd look like bare. The reality was better than anything he could have dreamed.

They were full and heavy, crowned with dark nipples, swaying gently as Daphne breathed. Her areolas were dusky pink, pebbled with arousal, and her nipples were stiff, aching to be touched.

Harry reached up and cupped them.

Daphne moaned, her head falling back, her spine arching to press her tits harder into his hands. The flesh was so soft it made his breath stutter, warm and yielding, and when he squeezed, her whole body shuddered.

"Yes," she breathed. "Merlin, yes."

He leaned forward and took one nipple into his mouth.

She cried out. Her hands flew to the back of his head, tangling in his hair, holding him against her chest. Harry sucked and licked and teased, swirling his tongue around the stiff peak, and Daphne writhed in his lap, her hips grinding against him with increasing desperation.

"Harry!" She was panting now, her voice high and needy. "Harry, please, I need—I need—"

He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, and her fingers tightened in his hair hard enough to sting.

"Your cock," she gasped. "I need your cock."

Her hands dropped to his trousers, fumbling with his belt. Harry didn't help her this time. He was too busy worshipping her tits, sucking and biting and licking while she squirmed and moaned above him.

The belt came loose. The zip came down. And then her hand was wrapping around his cock, pulling it free from his trousers, and Harry groaned against her breast as her fingers squeezed his shaft.

"Merlin," she breathed, looking down at where she held him. Her fingers tightened, stroking him slowly, tracing the thick vein along the underside. "I've been thinking about this cock all week, Harry. Every single night."

Harry let her nipple slip from his mouth and looked down as well.

His cock jutted up between them, thick and hard and flushed dark with need. Daphne's hand looked small wrapped around it, her fingers barely meeting, and the sight of her stroking him was obscene.

"I need it," she whispered. "I need it inside me."

She rose up on her knees, positioning herself above him, and guided the head of his cock to her entrance.

Harry looked up at her. Her tits hung heavy above him, her hair cascading around her face, her blue eyes dark with lust. She looked like a goddess. She looked like the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

And then she sank down onto his cock.

"Fuck!"

The cry tore from both of them at once. She was so tight, so wet, so searingly hot around him. She took him inch by inch, her cunt stretching to accommodate his girth, her mouth falling open, her brow creased, eyes squeezed shut as if she couldn't decide whether to scream or beg for more.

"So big," she whimpered. "Merlin, Harry, you're so fucking big."

She kept going. Sinking lower. Taking more of him. Harry watched his cock disappear inside her, watched her lips stretch around his shaft, and it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

Finally, she bottomed out. She was sitting fully in his lap now, impaled on his cock, and for a moment they both just breathed.

"Fuck," Daphne whispered. "I can feel you in my stomach."

Harry's hands found her hips, steadying her. She was trembling, her walls fluttering around him, adjusting to his size.

"You okay?" he managed.

"Better than okay." She started to rise, and Harry groaned as her cunt dragged along his shaft, tight and slick and maddening. She rose until just the tip remained inside her, hovering there, looking down at him with hooded eyes. "I've wanted this since the moment I saw you."

And then she dropped.

"Yes!" Daphne threw her head back, crying out as his cock filled her to the hilt. She rose again, then dropped, finding a rhythm that made them both moan. Her tits swayed with each movement, heavy and perfect, and Harry couldn't tear his eyes away.

She was riding him. Daphne Greengrass, the Ice Queen of pure-blood society, was riding his cock on a sofa in the middle of the Parkinson party, her tits swaying with every roll of her hips, her cunt gripping him so tight he could barely think.

"This is what I needed," she gasped, her pace increasing. "All week, Harry. Thinking about you, touching myself, wishing it was your cock instead of my fingers."

Harry's hips bucked, meeting her rhythm. She felt incredible, so tight and wet, and every time she dropped down onto him he could feel himself bottoming out, his cock pressing against her cervix.

"I kept imagining this," she moaned, her walls clenching around him. "Your cock stretching me open. Filling me up. Making me scream."

"Daphne—"

"Fuck me, Harry." She looked down at him, her blue eyes wild. "Fuck me like you mean it!"

Something snapped inside him.

Harry grabbed her hips and thrust.

Daphne screamed. He slammed up into her, burying his cock to the hilt, and she convulsed around him. He did it again, harder, faster, fucking up into her while she bounced in his lap.

"Yes!" She was sobbing now, her nails raking down his chest. "Yes, yes, yes!"

Harry lost himself in her. In the slap of flesh against flesh, the obscene sounds of her cunt swallowing his cock, her tits dancing before his eyes with every thrust. She was magnificent above him, golden hair flying, mouth open in a constant stream of moans and cries, her whole body trembling with pleasure.

"I'm close," she gasped. "Harry, I'm so close, don't stop, please don't stop—"

Harry didn't stop. He couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. He grabbed her hips and yanked her down harder onto his cock, slamming up into her, and Daphne wailed, her head thrown back, her walls clenching tight.

"Come for me," Harry growled. "Come on my cock, Daphne."

She shattered.

Her orgasm tore through her, her whole body seizing, her cunt gripping his cock so tight it was almost painful. She screamed his name, actually screamed it, loud enough that anyone in the corridor must have heard, and Harry didn't care. He kept fucking her through it, kept driving into her quivering pussy while she sobbed and moaned above him.

"Fill me," she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Harry, please, I need to feel you come inside me. I need your cum, please, please—"

Harry lasted three more thrusts.

"Take it!" he roared. "Take my fucking seed, Daphne!"

His cock pulsed, and he buried himself as deep as he could go, pumping rope after rope of cum into her spasming cunt. Daphne cried out, her hips grinding against him, milking every last drop from his cock while her orgasm rolled through her in endless waves.

They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together on the sofa, both of them trembling. Harry's cock was still buried inside her, still twitching with the aftershocks, and he could feel his cum leaking out around the base of his shaft.

Daphne collapsed against his chest.

"Fuck," she whispered into his neck. "That was... fuck."

Harry couldn't argue. His brain had melted. He'd been sent here to gather intel on a suspected dark artifact smuggler, and instead he'd just fucked her on a sofa while she screamed his name loud enough for half the party to hear.

"Thursday," she murmured drowsily, her lips brushing his throat. "It's a date."

Fuck.

Proudfoot was going to kill him.