This is wrong, so wrong, she thinks as he traps her against the desk and she nibbles on his lower lip and his hands fumble with her skirts.

(It IS wrong. Each time she gently, almost lovingly assures it's going to be the last time and he seems to agree as he brushes the sweaty platinum hair from her face oh-so-carefully with the back of his hand and then replaces his hand with his lips. There is genuine sadness in his eyes each time, and she wonders if it's because he actually believes her or because he doesn't)

She knows for a fact he has one or two screws loose, but now she thinks she must also be insane because here they are, in her study, fully clothed and yet onto such ocupations.

(She's not sure whether she prefers it when he almost gently unties her braid and runs his fingers through her hair in the intimacy of his or her quarters; all she seems to know is this need, like a call from the very core of her body, and that no matter how many times she tells herself to be strong, to think of her sister and what he was about to do to them both and how WRONG this is, she is still going to end up giving in)

His lips are course and hot against her own and his mouth tastes slightly spicy and the portion of skin under his shirt, where her hand has snuck to paint him with icy trails that all but immediately melt to his heat, is sweaty and firm and resonating with his heartbeat.

(She remembers she was quite surprised to find he did have a heart, but it's hard to keep denying the existance of something when it beats and flutters under one's hand like a bird inside a cage. That time, he had looked at her elocuently, his hand pressing hers right above the pulse, so strong even through his clothes. She had asked whether it always beat so fast and he'd smirked but said nothing. She remembers his fingers pressing down hers as if to mark the shape of her hand into his flesh)

One of his hands is already tracing the contourning of her leg under the dress and the other fumbles with his belt. He knows what he's doing.

(Or so she hopes, because she sure doesn't)

So she focuses on the slow, controlled movements of his hand against her skin as it travels from her calf to her outer thigh and then suddenly his other hand is at the inner thigh of her other leg, spreading them apart tenderly. By now she's opened his shirt entirely and the fabric of it's collar is trapped in her grasp, a light layer of scorch growing from in between her fingers.

(She is initially reluctant to touch him. Everytime. She's been afraid of touching people for most of her life and despite it not being as bad as it used to be, there is always a voice in the back of her head telling her she can't touch anything without killing it)

(Oddly enough, the moment she lets go and stops thinking about it, the ice and snow within her seem to come to rest and the heat of his body warms up her own. She even sweats. The Snow Queen sweating! Imagine that)

Her other hand ghosts cold fingers and long nails on the skin of his chest. She runs it down, down, and when it runs past his navel he groans into her mouth and the vibration makes her head spin something terrible. She parts from his mouth because suddenly there isn't enough air in the world for her to breathe as he positions himself more conveniently, sideburns brushing her jaw as his mouth trails down. Lashes tickle her skin and the fabric of her dress pools around her waist and hips before he pushes into her with an ease that betrays both their eagerness.

(Sometimes, she lies to herself and thinks the only one who really wants this is him. It's easier than admitting that, after a lifetime of denying herself her most basic, human wants, she went and granted herself the one she didn't have the right to have)

He lets out a shaky moan and the hand tracing the lines of his stomach flies to her mouth and she covers it to stop a similar sound from coming out. Suddenly her body has been reduced to a bundle of quivering extremities, her back arching into him, eyes shut tight, heart hammering so loud that her ears ring.

(It feels so right that it's easy to forget how wrong it actually is)

His mouth is working a way down into her collarbone and one of his arms curls around her thigh as he sways, still slowly, as if dragging the maddening friction in for as long as possible and her name escapes his lips, hoarsely, reverently.

(She knows she will remember this everytime they meet; the sound of his voice saying her name like that and the sensation of being intertwined and the way his mouth claims her skin and how his free hand travels to the small of her back and his fingers trace her vertebrae over the fabric of her dress. Memories are the main reason why it keeps getting harder to keep her word)

The fact that what they are doing is, in fact, wrong, roams along the edges of her mind again, but all thoughts are soon erased by the rush of pure, agonizing pleasure that shakes her from the tips of her curling toes to the roots of her hair when he starts moving faster and harder, his voice a throaty rumble against her skin, his hips swaying witht a noise of ruffling fabric and wood creaking and the ringing of his belt buckle swinging with the movement. Her hand is pressed against her mouth to muffle the cry that comes to her lips and her other hand travels to his nape and grasps convulsedly onto his hair, pulling. There is a groan against her clavicle, where his lips have been tracing delicious shapes in kisses and nibbles, vibrating into her in a wave of hot air and he all but gasps for the next breath and raises his head and she gets a clear view of his face, flushed and freckled and glorious and at the sight her hips rock violently and both of them see stars. His eyes are glossy and dazed in pleasure as he gazes into her face and she finds herself wondering whether he thinks she looks half as absolutely captivating as she finds him right now, as his labored breathing comes out of his open mouth, the sweat sticks his hair to his forehead and the green of his eyes is so bright that it could engulf everything else.

(She's also lying whenever she tries to convince herself he means nothing to her. She wouldn't be in the muddle she's in if it where true, but it's comforting to tell this to herself every now and then, when the urge becomes overwhelming)

The hand she's kept over her mouth until now grasps onto his collar to bring him closer and she holds on, moving with him as she would to swim under a current. He's so close she can see the golden-auburn splatters in his irises and he looks at her as though mesmerized. One of his hands is digging into the skin of her hips under the dress, and for a moment his fingers squeeze tighter and his face contracts and he pushes and she cries out and all but melts into him because the movement buries him deeper within her and it feels so good. He moves even faster and deeper and brings her so close to him she can feel his heart hammering against her own. Stars explode behind her eyes as she half gasps his name out loud, hanging onto him, her hands bunching up the fabric of his shirt, the rest of her body limp and lost to the feeling.

(She's thought maybe the ultimate reason why it keeps happening is the way he makes her feel; the sense of surrender he is able to awaken in her, the fact that he can take her to a place where all of her fears and the nasty voices in the back of her head can't reach her, and the fact that he seems to need her as much as she needs him and just knowing she is needed makes her a lot stronger)

(...and she's not going to lie, it's also because sex with him is mindblowingly good)

He is still gazing at her, a drop of sweat hanging from the hair of his sideburns, eyes half-lidded, mouthing for breath, a grunt escaping him every time he rolls his hips and his hipbones grind her thighs.

(He has this way of looking at her after he makes her climax. At first she thought it was dissimulated smugness, but there is something in the softness of his lines that doesn't quite fit with it, and she dares to call it adoration)

Despite the dazed limpness that weights her body down, she can't help but prop herself up and close the distance between them with a breathy kiss; the tip of his tongue runs along her lower lip and he moans into her mouth and tastes her in an eagerness that borders despair.

(He used to seem very taken aback whenever she kissed him. Now he just accepts it gladly, almost thankful. It makes her wonder whether this man who can be like the devil himself has found something in her sacred enough to become human)

So they kiss, slowly, patiently yet hungrily, until he lets out a half-stiffled, long moan and his hips convulse forward and for a moment she feels his pulse singing within her as if they shared one heart.

(Maybe he didn't have one to begin with. But she's the Snow Queen, if someone can turn a lump of ice into beating flesh, that's her)

His pace slows and then fades and both of them collapse, shallow-breathed, exhausted and completely satisfied onto the desk. Her dress sticks to her sweaty body awkwardly and his shirt is completely askew. Once again, his hammering heart beats right above hers, and she gets to feel it as both hearts slow into a less frantic rythm, his breathing loud in her ears where his face is buried in the crook of her neck. She feels his adam apple wobble up and down as he swallows and his body tense as he pushes himself up and looks down at her, arranging his trousers.

(There is always a moment after they're done where he looks at her this way and she almost says she loves him. Because she knows there is good in him and he knows there is darkness in her and it doesn't scare either of them away. Because after years of loneliness, someone so alike came around. Because she meant the discovery that he wasn't alone and he meant the discovery that things are never just black or white)

(But by then she's coming down from her high and the usual weights that pin her to the ground are reclaiming their positions. It's wrong because she's a Queen and he is him. It's wrong because she was suppossed to save herself for her wedding night and a man worthy of her. It's wrong because he hurt her sister and was so close to taking her own life just to satisfy his ambitions. It's wrong because he's not the kind of person she'd ever dreamed of falling in love with and she's the last person he'd dreamed of falling in love for)

(And yet, here they are because despite how unlikely and ridiculous and WRONG it seems, he's fallen for her. This much she believes is true)

(And she knows she's fallen for him)

He pulls her up until she's sitting, his hand still on the small of her back, and as it slides down, fingers lingering on the bumps of her vertebrae, she arranges her clothes and applies a cold hand to the bruisings at her collarbone hoping they fade at least a little, and then looks at him with a half-scowl and softly promises this was the last time. He smiles wistfully, and starts buttoning up his shirt, and she repeats herself and insists that this IS the last time, this time for real. By the time she falls silent at his lack of response, he's finished buttoning up his shirt and he brushes a stray lock out of her sweaty face oh-so-carefully and the back of his hand lingers for a minute.

C.C. (A) the author here.

I dunno man, I was experimenting with erotism and BOOM Helsa smut.

Comments and critiques are welcome