A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

Michelangelo's Madonna

Harry knew the moment it registered on him, because Zayn lifted his mouth a fraction of an inch from his skin, and his body went so still Harry had the feeling he'd stopped breathing. "This is the first time for me," he said shakily.

Zayn dropped his forehead on Harry's chest, shut his eyes, and swore. "Christ!"

The explosive whisper made it eloquently clear to Harry that he was not pleased by the revelation—a conviction that was reinforced when he finally raised his head and stared hard at Harry's face, his eyes minutely inspecting each feature as if he were hoping to find some proof he was lying. He was either angry or disgusted, Harry realized with a sinking heart. Harry hadn't wanted him to stop, only to slow down and not handle him like ... like a body that was used to being handled.

Zayn was not disgusted, he was dumbstruck. He was disoriented. Within his personal frame of reference, he had never heard of a twenty-six-year-old virgin, let alone a beautiful, witty, intelligent, desirable one.

But as Zayn gazed at his lovely, apprehensive face, suddenly everything about Harry that had puzzled him last night and tonight began to make some sense. He remembered his heartbroken outburst after the news program last night:

"My father is a minister!" he'd wept. "He's a respected man. I've spent the last fifteen years of my life trying to be perfect." Zayn remembered his answer when he asked him if he was engaged: "We're talking about it." Evidently, they'd been doing a lot of talking and no lovemaking. And last night, Zayn himself had likened him to a choirboy.

Now that he understood the past, he was more confused than ever by the present. Apparently, Harry had withheld his virginity from his own girlfriend, who obviously loved him and wanted to offer him respectability, children and a future. Tonight, however, Harry was willing to surrender it to an escaped convict who was incapable of loving anyone and who had nothing whatsoever to offer him. Zayn's conscience chose that moment to reassert itself for the first time in years by reminding him that Harry's almost-fiancée hadn't coerced him into surrendering his virginity; which is a miracle to him, if Zayn had any scruples, any decency whatsoever, he'd keep his hands off of Harry. He'd already kidnapped Harry, verbally abused him, and subjected him to public embarrassment and censure. Compounding all of that by robbing him of his virginity was inexcusable.

But the feeble protest of his conscience wasn't enough to deter him. He wanted Harry. He had to have Harry. He was going to have Harry. Fate had deprived him of his dignity, his freedom, and his future, but it had for some reason given Harry to him during these brief days of what was likely to be the end of his life. Neither his conscience nor anything else was going to deprive him of having Harry. Unaware of the passage of time, Zayn stared at him until his shaky voice snapped him from his thoughts, and his words were poignant testimony to his lack of experience with men. "I didn't expect you to be angry," Harry said, completely misinterpreting the reason for his silence.

With a harsh sigh, Zayn said, "I'm angry with myself, not you."

Harry searched his face. "Why?"

"Because," he said gruffly, "it isn't going to stop me. Because it isn't going to matter a damn to me that you've never done this before, not even with someone who loved you or who could stay with you. Nothing matters to me right now..." he whispered, lowering his mouth to Harry's, "but this..."

But his inexperience did matter. It mattered enough to Zayn to make him break off the kiss and try to get his lust under control, so that he could start over with Harry. "Come here," he whispered, gathering him into his arms and rolling onto his side so that he was facing Zayn, his head pillowed against Zayn's shoulder. Breathing deeply, he waited for his pulse to return to normal, slowly running his hand down Harry's trim back in a soothing caress, while he resolved to make this good for him, even if he died of unassuaged lust in the process. Somehow, he was going to have to arouse Harry thoroughly without arousing himself more than he already was.