Pureblood soirées are exhausting. All that posturing, all those hollow conversations—I'd rather be in my dorm with your thighs wrapped around my head. Imagine the scandal if they knew the heir of Nott House spends his nights fantasizing about muffled moans and the taste of you on his tongue. Still... there’s something delicious about knowing I’m the only one who gets to see you come apart. (Mood: darkly amused)