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She likes it when he kills for her.
She likes the knowledge that he's doing this for HER, that he lets her watch as he selects his prey, stalks them, leads them on and then kills them. Sometimes he uses Cruciatus, sometimes he uses Imperius, sometimes he uses Avada Kedavra, and other times, he simply uses a knife.
She likes the knife best; somehow it seems more immediate, more personal. The sharp scent of fear, the desperate pleading for mercy, the soft laugh of her paramour, and then the metallic tang of blood. She finds it intoxicating. Often she will grab her beloved and kiss him after such acts. She will kiss him violently, her fingers knotting in his fine hair, her mouth and tongue demanding him to take her there, in the very place where he has just killed.
Because he loves her more than life itself, he does what she wants. They fuck against dirty, slimy walls, with the smell of garbage and death in their nostrils and the sounds of desire for each other in their ears. It is base, it is debauched, and it is addictive. She loves it. As she loves him.
They will return home after such exploits, his hands will still be covered with blood and she likes that too. She likes that he is filthy, sweat beading his face, dried blood on his hands, excrement upon his expensive, tailored boots. The servants will be discreet - as loyalty to the House of Malfoy requires them to be, but she knows there is more to it than simple loyalty.
All who serve the Lord of Malfoy inevitably fall under his spell. They are charmed by him, fall in love with him, and wish to serve him. Servants have been in the Malfoy family for generations as father trained son or mother trained daughter. Tradition has always been important to the Malfoy line.
So the discreet servants will clean up the mess left behind them, the detritus from the streets of London that stain the polished marble floors, they will collect the dirty clothing and launder it without question, they will tend to the Master of the House's requirements without him ever having to issue an order. She loves this about him as well.
She loves his power, the way he uses it, with such absolutism. She loves that what he wants, he takes, and that in the taking, he makes it his, forever. She surrenders to him with all that she is, reaffirming the truth of their bond - she is his, he is hers, their love is for always.
They are in their private rooms now, and the stench of death is upon the air, thick and heavy. She kisses him hard, again, wanting him, wanting him to touch her, to caress her, to taste her. She wants him to possess her, to thrust deep inside her, to suckle upon her breasts, his fingers teasing her sex as she screams for more, please, Lucius, more.
And he gives it to her - he always gives her what she wants for she is his Venus, his Aphrodite, his Kali. He peels off the expensive fur coat she wears, letting the garment pool to the floor in a heap of soft mink. He undoes her silk blouse then her wool skirt and unfastens her suspender belt. He pushes off the fine Italian silk stockings, as she steps out of her leather shoes and stands naked before him.
He is panting now, with the adrenaline of another night of killing - for
her: never let anyone mistake that he kills for anyone other than her - and with desire. Her skin is like marble, her hair like honey wine, her eyes burning with the fire of the blue of the flame - the most dangerous part of the fire. Her nipples are hard and pale shell pink, and he can smell her desire. His gaze takes in the thatch of hair below her navel, slightly darker honeyed gold than the tresses upon her head.
She watches him watch her and slowly she spreads her legs so he can see the glistening moisture between her thighs. She wants him, wants him so much that the mere thought of him inside her, having her, excites her more than anything in the world. He shucks his own clothing - swiftly yet gracefully - and moves to her. He trails one finger down the centre of her body, between her breasts, over her stomach, down her pelvis to between her legs, where he slides his finger inside her and gently strokes her clitoris.
She moans as he does this - she cannot stop herself. She loves everything he does to her, everything he does for her. She clutches at his arm as his gentle strokes slowly grow faster and harder, and as she approaches orgasm, he drops to his knees and presses his face between her legs, sucking, licking, tasting.
Her body shakes with need and desire as her orgasm rips through her - she clutches him tightly, her head thrown back as waves of indescribable pleasure tear through her.
They move to the bed and he lowers her down onto her back. His silvery eyes are darkened to slate grey with desire as he straddles her, and as he thrusts his cock into her body, she arches up against him, wrapping her arms and legs around him.
He nibbles upon the pale flesh of her neck as one hands finds her breast and cups it, the thumb running over her nipple, teasing the sensitive flesh. She cries out as he thrusts deep within her, and it is not long until he comes, buried inside her, holding her tightly.
They pull apart slightly and gaze into each other's eyes. They understand each other perfectly. They love each other. There is no one else. He does what he does for her, and she does what she does for him.
And tomorrow, he will kill for her again.
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