A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

26

Zayn forced his hands away from Harry's chest and settled them on the curve of his waist instead; but it was harder by far to stop the driving movements of his tongue when he was clinging to him and answering and digging his nails into his back. When Zayn finally pulled his mouth an inch from his, Zayn wasn't certain if it was Harry or he who moaned with the loss before he leaned his forehead weakly against Zayn's chest. Eyes closed, his heart pumping fast, he dragged air into his lungs and slid his arms around Harry's back to steady him. But it was no use—he had to have Harry, all of him, now. Drawing a ragged breath, Zayn put his hand under his chin and tipped his face up. His eyes were closed, long lashes lying on his creamy cheeks, as he instinctively lifted his lips to him.

Zayn's control snapped. His mouth seized his with fierce desperation, forcing his lips to part as his hands pulled the silk tie of his robe open, then shoved it apart, pushing the material down his arms and sending it to the floor in front of the fireplace so that he could feast on the sight and touch of his skin.

Wrapped in his arms, Harry felt Zayn lowering him to the floor, but he didn't surface from his state of mindless pleasure until Zayn took his mouth and hands from him. He opened his eyes and saw Zayn hurriedly unbutton his shirt and yank it out of his pants, tossing it aside, but not until he looked up at Harry did he feel the first stirrings of panic. In the firelight, his eyes had a fierce glitter as they moved restlessly over Harry's body; passion had turned his face hard and intense, and when Harry lifted his arm self-consciously to cover himself, Zayn's voice was harsh: "Don't!"

Harry shivered convulsively at that stranger's voice, that stranger's face, and when Zayn pulled Harry's hand away and covered him with his upper body, Harry realized instinctively that the preliminaries were abruptly over and he was going to be driving into him in a matter of moments unless Harry slowed him down. "Zayn," he whispered, trying to make him listen without just blurting out the situation. "Wait!" The word didn't register with Zayn, but the panic in it struck a mildly discordant note, and so did the fact that Harry was shoving on his shoulders and squirming against his thigh in a way that was wildly provocative.

"Zayn!"

Zayn knew he was going too fast, cheating on the foreplay, and he thought Harry was objecting to that.

"There's something I need to tell you."

With an effort that nearly sapped his strength, Zayn made himself move onto his side, but when he bent his head to his chest to oblige Harry, he caught Zayn's face in his hands to stop him and forced it up.

"Please!" Harry said, looking into his smouldering eyes. He spread his fingers over his rigid jaw, softening it, and when Zayn turned his face into his palm and kissed it, Harry's heart swelled with relief and tenderness. "We have to talk first."

"You talk," he said gruffly, pulling him tighter to himself, kissing the side of his mouth and his neck, sliding his hand over his nipples, "I'll listen," Zayn lied, his fingers stroking down, past his flat belly, sliding into the v line of curls to touch him. Harry jerked beneath him, grabbing his hand, and the topic he chose to discuss was, in Zayn's opinion, the most inanely inopportune one ever brought up by any woman or this instance a man; in history at a time like this: "How old were you the first time you made love?"

He closed his eyes and swallowed an understandably impatient retort. "Twelve."

"Don't you want to know how old I was?"

"No," Zayn said tightly, moving up to kiss his nipples since for some reason, known only to Harry, he didn't want to be touched more intimately. Zayn's entire body was straining with need and he was trying his darnedest to touch Harry, feel his amazing erection, make him feel good; but Harry was not letting him anywhere near to his private parts. Zayn knew what he was doing even though after so many years of being with all kinds of women, this was going to be different; Zayn knew he was making love to a man, a beautiful, lovely sweet creature, he wasn't bothered about that, but the way Harry was not allowing him to touch anywhere was making him feel as if he was doing something wrong.

"I was twenty-six," Harry provided in a panicky voice when Zayn's mouth closed tightly on his nipple.

Zayn's blood was roaring in his ears; he heard the words but not the import. Harry tasted so good; he felt even better. His nipples were supple, they were pretty and exquisitely feminine, just like he was, and if he'd only be as receptive to Zayn as he'd been when they were standing up, he'd give him a climax now, before he came inside of him, and then afterward he'd make love to Harry properly. He had five years of pent-up desire to expend; he'd be able to make love to him all damned night without stopping if harry would just let him do this and stop clamping his legs together, and stop talking about how old he was the ... first time ... he had ... sex...