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Chapter Thirty—An Intention to Seduce

Harry didn't know what he was doing.

That fact gradually began to tell on him through the frenzy of nipping and kissing and caressing; he couldn't keep his hands off Draco's shoulders and back and eventually his arse, or his lips away from his face or neck. And Draco was hardly complaining. He was moaning, tilting his head back, his hair spilling around Harry in a series of light, fluffy touches, unexpectedly striking sparks from his cheeks and the hollow of his throat when they hit.

But eventually they would have to move on from kissing to more complicated things.

And Harry still didn't know what he was doing.

He began to step back from Draco, to ask what he should do, only to find out that he had a small problem: Draco didn't want to let him go. The arms that had been around his shoulders immediately rose to his neck and yanked him back into another kiss. And it wasn't that Harry objected, so much as, well, there was still the fact that he had no idea what to do.

"Draco," he whispered, and Draco gasped as if Harry's breath across his collarbone were the best sensation he'd ever felt. Harry was tempted to say that it probably was and to try and persuade Draco to say so, too, but—well, it wasn't true.

"Harry," Draco said, or groaned. Harry shifted. His cock was making itself known less as a pressure and more as an ache.

"I—Draco, there's a problem," he said, and pulled away enough to regain his breath, then placed his arm gently across Draco's chest when he tried to lunge forwards and claim Harry's lips again. Draco blinked and only then seemed to take what Harry had said into account. He bit his lip and looked somewhere between vexed and amused.

"You're going to make me wait again?" he breathed. "You're about to say that you know how to make love to your wife, but not to me?"

"That's it exactly," Harry said, glad that Draco understood so well. "I mean, I don't want to wait, but I don't know how to make love to a man. Can you show me?"

"Take the lead?" There was a glint in Draco's eyes like the shine of sunlight off snow, as if he were considering the possibilities that would offer to him.

"No," Harry said, surprising himself by his vehemence. "Not this time," he added, when Draco's eyebrows crept upwards. "But—I simply—can you tell me what I can do so as not to hurt you?"

"Never use your teeth in a blowjob," Draco said immediately.

Harry laughed in spite of himself. His emotions, storming through him when he first initiated the kiss, had calmed down considerably. Now he felt as if he could make love to Draco slowly enough to leave them both breathing when they were done with it.

Draco wasn't going to run away. He wasn't going to refuse this opportunity with some platitude about how Harry should consider his marriage, which Ron or Hermione certainly would have said if they were here right now.

Draco loved him.

With that knowledge like sunlight under his skin, Harry held Draco's eyes. His own voice was huskier than he had imagined it could be, more seductive. "I was hoping for more advanced instructions than that."

There was a great, quiet gladness moving through Draco, like the presence of a sea serpent under the prow of a ship. It represented less danger—

No, maybe it doesn't. There's no telling what it will be like to make love with someone I care for as much as I do for Harry, when I've never done it before.

"First," he said, "I really do like foreplay, and not as a duel, either. Can we go back to the kissing for a while?"

"Of course," Harry said, and then reached out, cradled Draco's head in his hands, and brought their mouths together again.

This time, he went more slowly and thoughtfully, but when Draco grumbled against his lips, he increased the pressure, though not the speed. Draco opened his mouth, and this time their tongues came together with care aforethought, not the accidental tangling they'd already experienced. Harry's fingers were trembling, flexing, combing through his hair. Draco sighed in happiness, and Harry trembled more noticeably, so he did it again.

Harry made an odd bending motion with his hips, and Draco realized smugly that he was trying to get pressure against his cock, like some randy adolescent boy.

I wonder if his wife ever got him this excited.

Then Draco dismissed the idea, because thinking about Ginny Weasley was hardly productive right now. He had not had enough kissing—he could never have enough kissing when he knew the person kissing him like he knew Harry—but he thought he was ready for the next step. He reached up and gently pushed against Harry's chin, nudging him back.

Harry went. The angle allowed Draco to get his first good glimpse of Harry's eyes since the kiss had started again.

Multiple knots in his belly and chest and groin tightened. Harry's eyes were an odd, deep green, not quite black, more like the color of understory leaves in a forest far from the sun. His lips bore the marks of tongue and teeth, and his pulse fluttered quickly enough in his throat to be visible, but it was those eyes that captured Draco, and made him feel that they could do this, after all, and it would not be a disaster.

"Good," he said quietly. "Now, did you know that some men's nipples are as sensitive as some women's?"

"Yours?" Harry guessed.

Draco nodded, and lifted his hands to unbutton his robes, only to find that Harry's fingers were already there to do it for him.

"Lucky bastard," Harry grumbled as he ran his fingers over Draco's nipples, causing him to jump a bit, and then bent to take one in his mouth. His words emerged muffled as he licked and sucked. "Does nothing for me."

"It—does—something—" Draco broke off with a breathy cry that he would have felt rather embarrassed about were this anyone but Harry. His hands flailed for a moment, and then settled on Harry's shoulders and the back of his neck, as if that might provide him with a better grip to ride out what was happening.

And then Harry, in a marvel of coordination, somehow managed to keep his mouth where it was but move one of his hands down so that he was gripping Draco's erection lightly through the cloth of his robes—

Why am I wearing robes? Draco thought, suddenly reminded this was a dream and that, if the sensation of Harry's hand rubbing against cloth and providing welcome pressure with the heel of his palm was real, his nakedness might as well be real, too.

Harry let out a surprised gasp, and tried to pull away again. But as far as Draco was concerned, there had been enough of that already. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands to keep Harry in place, and gave himself up to the strumming of his nerves that the tongue and fingers were creating.

Harry had expected to feel awkward sucking a man's nipples, but, well—he had played with Ginny's breasts, and he had never found that embarrassing. And she had liked it. If Draco liked this, then why should he complain or worry about doing something else?

He kept his mouth moving, therefore, laving and licking, his lips working in concert with his tongue now, even as his hand tried to get used to the expanse of lovely, warm, nude skin beneath it where there had been only cloth before.

He kept waiting for awkwardness to pounce on him, but it never did. The most awkward thing about this was that he kept expecting it to be awkward, he thought, as he brought his teeth into play and bit gently.

"Oharrrrh," Draco said, or some such sound that Harry was going to remember for later and use to taunt him with. His hands clenched down again, but Harry was salivating—literally—now in his desire to explore lower. Gently, he pushed his way free and slithered down Draco's body before Draco could object.

And then, for the first time, he was faced with another man's cock.

No, not another man's. Draco's.

That was all he needed to get past the biggest moment of potential awkwardness, and to reignite his wonder and his hunger. He licked his lips and bent his head slowly, eyes darting up now and then to make sure that Draco had no problem with this. If he did, however, he was much too enthralled with watching Harry to voice it. He seemed to be holding his breath.

And then—

Then he wasthere.

Harry opened his mouth wide, and then, after a glance at Draco's erection, wider again. He did remember to fold his lips over his teeth before he started sucking, though. So Draco could not accuse of him of not attending to his lessons.

And then—

It was harder to hold in his mouth than Harry had expected. Apart from anything else, the moment Draco registered what Harry supposed was the warmth and wetness of his mouth, his hips thrust, and Harry found himself gagging and drawing backwards. He had always had Ginny lying on a bed or standing next to a wall when he did this, and he had been able to hold her hips in place more easily than he thought he would be able to hold Draco's. Draco didn't have the same kind of coiled muscle Harry did that came from hexing people and running away from those who tried to kill him, but he was far stronger than Ginny.

But nothing as simple as the difference between men and women was going to defeat him, so Harry stubbornly lowered his head again.

Especially when I think that I'm going to spend the rest of my life with a man.

Or maybe not, but at the moment, Harry didn't think he could want anything else. His hands clung to Draco like a dragon's claws to a piece of food. Interest lit his body, made his legs and his knees and even his tongue tremble—which was a new experience—with want, and made him long only for this.

Because it was Draco.

He licked and sucked, and held Draco's hips back as much as he could, and guided Draco's erection, carefully, around his mouth until he found an angle that would let it point down his throat but not gag or stab him. He wondered if this was what he had heard people call deep-throating. Then he decided that, no, deep-throating was probably deeper still.

He drew his head back slowly, and, holding just the head in his mouth, blew curiously out towards Draco's balls. Did he like that? Harry had only had it done to him once or twice, and that was accidentally. Maybe—

Draco shrieked and came.

Well, I suppose he likes that, yes, Harry thought, while he was trying to decide if he should swallow or not. This was a dream world. Maybe he could spit it out on the floor and will it to vanish, and no one would notice.

Worth trying, anyway.

I think anything is, here.

Draco was attempting embarrassment by thinking that he should be embarrassed. He knew he should. But it was hard when all his muscles had gone limp with utter languor, and when he was with someone he knew would never make fun of him for his stamina.

He did indeed see Harry turning his head to the side and discreetly spitting, however. That the white liquid vanished the moment it hit the floor of the cavern-like room…well, that Draco could deal with, since he thought it was only unfamiliarity and not disgust that made Harry do that. In due time, of course, he would teach Harry the pleasures of swallowing.

Harry caught him as he drifted towards the floor and arranged Draco next to him. His hands were gentle, almost reverent—and there was another potential cause of embarrassment, if Draco had been in the mood. As it was, he felt—

Well, that's quite extraordinary.

Draco stretched, making sure to keep it as unselfconscious as possible, and realized that it was no coincidence. Harry's eyes did follow his movements with something like adoration.

Draco had had no lover who did that. There was Marian, of course, and that had been indifferent and then it had been a disaster, and there were the infrequent male lovers he took because of the loophole in their marriage vows that said they could fuck whom they liked, as long as they didn't do it under the roof of Malfoy Manor, the house they shared with each other. But those partners, though they'd pleasured him physically more than Marian had managed, had been just as furtive and hurried as he had, and after only the same thing. And they had made Draco feel dirty and shameful for seeking them out. It was only done to soothe his needs, and his parents had taught him that a Malfoy should never have only one purpose for doing anything.

Not one had ever looked at him like this.

And so no one had ever made him feel like a more mature version of his fourteen-year-old self, the self that he had been so sure would conquer the world.

Harry wiped his hand absently off on the stony floor beneath them, then shifted and groaned a little. Draco smirked. Wishing his robes away had done nothing to get rid of Harry's. "Having difficulties?" he murmured, and reached out to smooth his hand along the side of Harry's right thigh, a few teasing inches from his groin.

"Thank you for saying that instead of making some horrible pun," Harry grumbled.

"I'm not sure that having you think it is much better," said Draco, and his hand skimmed back the other way. Harry was actually holding his breath, he noted with some amusement. Once again, he avoided Harry's cock. "And meanwhile, you still haven't told me what you want to do about this."

Harry hesitated.

"Believe me," Draco said, and rolled over so that he could come eye-to-eye with him, "after that, nothing you can say or do or ask for will surprise me."

Harry gave a shallow nod. The look on his face was unexpectedly fragile, as if he thought that his words would come out the wrong way and offend Draco. "I really would," he said. "Like to." He took a deep breath, reminding Draco of the way he had acted before they went up on their brooms against the Masked Lady on her dragons. "I would like to fuck you," he said. "But gently."

Draco blinked, twice. He didn't mind Harry asking for it; he had simply assumed that a straight man's hang-ups would get in the way.

"I have absolutely no problem with that," he said. "And I can show you how to do it, too."

And Harry's mask cracked.

The fragility, Draco realized with a small, dazed gasp, had been nothing but a sheet of parchment over a blazing furnace. Harry leaned nearer and nearer, and still Draco couldn't move, caught in a fascination not far from terror. Were someone's eyes supposed to burn like that? Was it natural?

"Good," Harry whispered.

Draco had done his work better than he suspected, Harry thought, as he began kissing again, and this time without hesitation or holding back, now that he knew how Draco liked it. Harry had decided that it was all right for him to want things again. And now that he had, he would go after them with a vengeance.

"First," he whispered into Draco's mouth, when he had him trembling and panting and writhing as if that alone would get him back to full hardness again, "I think that we should make this ground a bit softer."

He concentrated, and the grainy gray stone beneath them melted and flowed, reshaping itself like foam into a mattress. Harry half-rolled, half-pushed Draco back onto it—whatever the name for the movement might be where he pushed his partner along while never releasing his mouth from a kiss. He was stirring his tongue deliberately now, unhurriedly, making sure that he got the chance to taste every corner of Draco's mouth.

His desire had leaped to the point that he thought it would consume him alive if he didn't find release, but the release didn't have to be immediate. Which was fine, because from what he had heard, it would take some time to prepare Draco in any case.

He did stand up when he thought Draco was panting too loudly to speak in interference, and began to unbutton his robes.

As it turned out, he had underestimated Draco's lung capacity. "You could just wish yourself naked," he said. At least there were gratifying gasps in between the words, Harry thought. "You know, like I did."

Harry lifted his head and peered at Draco. He wasn't sure what his face looked like, but it made Draco seize up for one moment, and then begin breathing again noticeably faster than before.

"No," Harry said quietly. "I don't think so." He stripped his robes off slowly and deliberately, shrugging out of them, and then reached up and began to pull off his shirt, aware that Draco's eyes were dragging across every movement like a pair of hands.

"But why?" Draco whispered. It took him three tries. Harry smiled, a smile that felt unfamiliar on his face. Of course, it was a long time since he had looked at Ginny with an intention to seduce her, and with anyone else it hadn't even been an option until now.

"Because I want to see your face when you see me," he responded, and pulled back the shirt as if it were the cocoon he was emerging from.

Does he know how handsome he looks like that?

He can't. Or he would have quit the Ministry and become a sex slave for hire long since. He could make Galleons!

Draco couldn't stop the chatter of his brain, as stupid and irrelevant as it was, as he watched Harry emerging slowly from his clothes. And emerging was the right word. Draco had the distinct sense that Harry was shedding layers along with the clothes—years of restraint, inhibitions that had told him he wasn't allowed to be happy unless everyone around him was, politeness that had kept him from saying what he really wanted.

And his hair, which curled in an untidy mess around his ears and the nape of his neck.

And his eyes.

Draco looked at the other parts of Harry's body as he revealed them, but he never quite managed to look away from those eyes. Harry wasn't guarding his emotions. Of course, he wasn't good at it anyway, but now he wasn't even trying. The looks he kept giving Draco were ravenous, devouring, demanding. By the time he stepped out of his pants and knelt next to the mattress, showing off long expanses of pale skin and scars and hard muscles, Draco was fully erect again.

Harry deigned to notice it with a faint smile, but most of his attention was for Draco's face. "Tell me what to do," he said.

Draco licked his lips. The mood had shifted again, from the playful, teasing validation of the blowjob to this—seductive, and heavy, and just a little dark. And he was so excited that he had to think carefully before he could answer Harry's question.

Damn, he really has scattered my wits.

"Lubrication," he whispered. "Wish for that."

Harry half-closed his eyes, and then held up his right hand, which sparkled with a clear oil that caught the sourceless light here with odd glints. "Like this?"

"God yes," Draco said, barely checking a moan, and then thought that was ridiculous, his moaning over lubricant. But dream-world or not, it looked like nothing so much as Harry doing wandless magic.

To know that someone of such power was close—well, Draco was sorry if anyone found him blameworthy for it, including Harry, but power was damn attractive.

"And now?" Harry asked, sliding down between Draco's legs and looking with an interest that Draco could hardly have credited a few hours ago at his arse. Draco lifted his legs and slowly spread them, knowing that he had nothing to be ashamed about in any part of his body. The only scars he bore were the ones he shared with Harry, in one form or another, and it was wonderful what magic one could work when one had almost ten years to care about it.

"Cleaning spell," Draco whispered.

"Er." Harry looked uncertain for the first time, and Draco wondered if he was about to ask whether Draco was sure he wanted this. But he only said, "A cleaning spell without a wand?"

"Then don't call it a cleaning spell," Draco snapped. He was rather irritated that Harry was getting hung up on semantics now. "Just wish me clean, the way that you wished for the lubricant—"

Harry shot him a look that shut him up immediately. Then he bent down, nodded, and stared intently at Draco's arse. A moment later, he reached out, gently stroking his fingers down Draco's entrance.

Draco sucked in a startled breath. It wasn't so much the feel of the oil on Harry's fingers, though that was cold, but the fact that he could clearly see that the hand was connected to Harry Potter, whom it now seemed he had desired most of his life.

"All right there?" Harry asked. His voice was soft, but he didn't smile.

"Yes," Draco said, small-voiced, and that got him a smile. Then Harry turned back, fascinated again, as he worked one finger inwards.

Draco let his head fall back, and it occurred to him that they could, after all, have wished him stretched and lubricated and relaxed in the same way that they had wished for the cleaning spell and the oil. But he rejected the option of mentioning it to Harry.

It was for the same reason that Harry had stripped for him instead of allowing Draco to remove his clothes. Some things were better slow.

Harry didn't know exactly when it had changed, but he no longer felt half-panicked and as if he would make a mistake at any moment. Beneath his excitement surged a high, heady confidence, as if he had done this again and again before, as if this were normal for him.

But not routine. Harry couldn't imagine that sex with Draco would become the routine, monotonous affair that it had with Ginny, no matter how many times they had it.

For a moment, Ginny's voice was there in his head, pounding like a storm. You think that now, and the moment you stop being so fascinated with him, then you'll find someone else to fuck and convince yourself that you're in love with them in turn—

Harry shook off the voice, banished it to nothingness like a botched Transfiguration, and then focused once more on Draco's body.

It was such a trusting act, for Draco to give himself up like this. Harry told himself that he was going to deserve that trust as he worked his finger in and out, drawing partially on hazy memories of the Gryffindor dorms and the half-transfixed, half-disgusted, discussions about what two blokes would do in bed together, and partially on his trust of Draco. Draco would tell him if anything hurt, if Harry did something that he wasn't supposed to, or stuck something where it was not supposed to be stuck.

"Two now, I think," Draco said, his voice full of effort.

Harry wanted to ask if he was sure, but bit it back. He wouldn't have asked if he wasn't sure. And he's not like Ginny. He won't ask for something just to make you feel good and then blame you in silence later.

Harry grinned as he urged in another finger beside the first. That at least was an advantage to having a selfish, Slytherin lover.

More moments, more wonder at the strange tightness around his fingers—not a barrier, he thought, but an inviting warmth—and then Draco instructed him to put a third finger in. This time, Harry watched his face, and saw the moment when Draco arched with a rippling motion, his mouth opening in what would have looked like a yawn if the expression on his face resembled ecstasy less.

Harry tried to sit up. "What did I—"

"Somehow you knew about preparation," Draco said, his voice high and tight, "and you didn't know about the prostate?"

"Just wasn't sure it existed," Harry murmured, and pushed a few more times, purely for the pleasure of watching Draco try to answer in between writhes and pants and pulls of breath.

"Yes, it does," said Draco. "And now, I think that's enough for you to fuck me."

Harry swallowed. But he still wasn't fearful, or hesitant, only aware that this was a moment which, at least for him, changed things.

Carefully, he considered their respective positions for a moment, then withdrew his fingers and lifted Draco's legs over his shoulders. Draco grunted approval and locked his ankles in place. Harry licked his lips, carefully aligned himself, and then—

In.

And there was bliss.

At least three sources of it, Harry realized hazily, as he held still to give Draco a chance to adjust and keep himself from coming. There was the sheer, all-consuming pleasure of the thing, which would have been enough. And there was the fact that he hadn't felt like this in too long, so he had a chance at release from the chains of the marriage vows that he had never thought he would have.

And there was the fact that this was Draco, whom he had wanted.

He opened his eyes, though it took him some effort, and leaned forwards to run his hands gently over Draco's torso. That propelled him inwards more than he had known it would. He gasped, and felt Draco tighten around him, maybe deliberately and maybe just in reflexive surprise, and he felt as if he were going to burst from the inside.

"All right?" he whispered.

"God, Harry," Draco whispered back, and shut his eyes tightly, a sheen splayed across his forehead that didn't seem like the glow of pain.

Harry decided that would do in the absence of a "yes." He pushed a little more, and found the resistance slowly melting, giving way to slickness and a heat that made him feel like laughing, though he wouldn't have been laughing at anything.

He held himself still, with a tremble in his thighs, until Draco forced one eye open and panted, "What—the fuck—do you need? A chart?"

Harry laughed aloud then, and began to thrust, the motions stronger and harder than he remembered making with Ginny—he had no fear of breaking Draco—while he reached down and began tugging on Draco's erection with an insistence he hadn't known was in himself. But, as wonderful as the envelopment was, he thought it would be worth nothing if Draco didn't get an orgasm out of this as well.

Generosity was sleeting through him; he was half-distracted from the sensations in his own body by the look on Draco's face, the way he clutched the mattress Harry had dreamed up and hissed through his teeth, how he twisted his head to the side and shut his eyes as if that would aid him in seeing more than just the dim, distant wall of their dreamscape. Harry wished he could kiss him, but the angle was too awkward for that.

And then, just at the moment that Harry's body started to speed things up whether or not he wanted it to, Draco murmured, "You can go faster."

Harry pushed, and his hand sped up at the same moment. And that increased the speed of his hips again, and that in turn increased the speed of his hand, and his hips again, and his hand again, as if they were joined with a vibrating chain that transmitted impulses of power up and down. Harry made a choked sound that mixed up Draco's name and the sentence, "I love you," leaving him unsure of what he would have said.

And then joy and pleasure rose together as one and burned him like phoenix fire.

Harry's eyes slammed themselves shut as random colors streaked across his vision, and his hand tightened. He felt wetness spray across his fingers. His body tightened so much that he gasped. And then the orgasm was drawn out of him in one strong, steady, continuous pull, as wondrous to experience for itself as for what it brought with it, and Harry collapsed on top of Draco, exhausted, trembling, sated, and spent.

And he had never—

He could not remember, even when his marriage to Ginny was new, feeling so utterly happy.

He breathed heavily, and was silent, though he tried to convey his emotions by the way his trembling hand sought out Draco's face.

Draco knew he should move. His legs were already starting to ache, and he thought other parts of his body would start if they remained where they were.

But he couldn't.

It wasn't just the exhaustion, or the fact that Harry had collapsed on top of him like a slab of wood. He felt the moment hovering around them on shining wings. They would undoubtedly have better times together after this, but there would never be another exactly like this.

It was—glorious, perhaps. Draco had had little enough occasion to apply the word to anything in his life during the past ten years, but he thought he still remembered what it meant.

Harry raised his head at last.

And what Draco saw in his eyes was an invitation into openness, into a sheltering, loving protection, and into a kind of beauty such as he had never known.

He had to close his eyes when Harry moved so that they could kiss. It was as instinctive as the shielding of his eyes before the sunrise.