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Draco is putting his foot down.
Enough is enough.
Per usual, Potter struts around the Auror Trainees’ locker room as if he owns the place.
In the nude.
As a rule, Draco has no qualms about the human body naked and on display. He, himself, is often unclothed. As he should be; he’s a fine specimen. And, by extension, the locker room is an appropriate place for wizards to congregate in various stages of undress.
But must Potter always select the shower stall within Draco’s direct line of sight?
Apparently, it’s not enough that Harry fucking Potter—Ministry darling and the bloody Chosen One—is bestowed with magic so powerful it oozes from his flawless skin and disrupts Draco’s heartbeat.
No, in addition to all the privileges graced upon him, Potter’s Golden DNA seems to have twisted within its double helix the formula for a perfect bubble butt.
Draco stands under the shower, fingers pruning. If the daggers he stares were knuts they’d bounce right off that firm arse.
One by one, the showers turn off and the locker room empties until only he and Potter remain.
Harry glances over his shoulder. “You got a problem, Malfoy?” Soap bubbles shunt down through the valley between plump cheeks.
“You’re my problem.”
Harry snorts. “Kiss my arse.”
“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” Draco sneers.
Harry presses his palms against the wall and widens his stance, presenting. “I would. How about you?”
Draco’s blood ignites, flooding his groin. In two long strides, he’s in Harry’s stall, crowding him against the tiles, grinding his erection against him.
Harry’s moan strengthens Draco’s resolve.
Enough is enough.
But Draco discovers it’s difficult to put his foot down when he’s on his knees.