Ice Princess - 4
(a Code Geass fan fic)

.

The moment the doors closed behind him, leaving Guilford alone in his quarters, he released a deep sigh that sounded much the same as air escaping a balloon through a small hole. There was a time when he'd been able to remain awake the whole night without a worry and sleep on two hours alone. But after Svalbard, his body hadn't fully recuperated yet. It was a phase, but an irritating one, he thought as he crossed the darkened room towards the wardrobe and began to undress.

First he removed the scarf that was beginning to make his throat itch and folded it neatly on the dresser top among hairbrushes and glass cleansers and silk handkerchiefs with his initials embroidered in the corner – a memento from his youth he'd had duplicated umpteenth times over. The coat was hung in the corner, atop the vest and shirt that followed immediately afterwards, leaving his skin warm and dappled with moisture.

How ironic; weeks ago he'd have killed to wear clothes as warming as these. Now it was a blessing to get them off.

He was mulling over his situation, when a voice drifted out of the darkness. Not quite a smoker's voice, but clearly not that of a dove, either. "How long are you going to pretend you don't see me?"

"Cornelia?!" There was such speed in his turn that he knocked over a vase of air-freshening oil, drenching the dresser top and carpet beneath. The smell of wildflowers and meadow rose from the carpet like steam from a vent, filling the room. "What are you doing here?"

From the darkness, the second princess rose from a chair nestled in the corner beside an inactive fireplace. Because of his pre-knighthood rank, Guilford's chambers were impressive compared to the kitchen-sized apartments most soldiers received. His arm had felt too much like tar to bother switching on a light; only moonlight and false city light slanting in from the window offered any sort of illumination.

Cornelia, who he quickly noticed had traded her extravagant gown for a simple, knee-length lavender robe, crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Is that any way to address a member of royalty, especially one who has just dubbed you her knight?"

"Forgive me," Guilford said and dropped to the floor in a humbling bow. "To what do I owe this honour so late in the evening, Princess?"

He felt ridiculous kneeling half-naked before her and realized almost immediately that was likely her intention. Princess and knight they might now be, but old feelings died hard. She still found pleasure in his misery. She approached him with all the confidence and villainy he'd come to loathe about her and towered above with a smirk.

"For a loyal servant of the empire, you sure are rude."

"I beg your pardon?" Guilford's voice flattened as his brows dropped.

She started to circle him like a vulture awaiting its prey to die. "Our time on Svalbard was chaotic. Between the suicide of the Norwegians to the avalanche and our survival in the cave, things occurred and words were spoken which would otherwise not have been. I'm afraid to admit that I may have spoken brashly."

"If it worries you," Guilford began, standing, "I promise to take your proclamation of self-accepted futility to my grave."

"Thank you, Guilford, but that's not exactly what I meant," she said and stopped her circling. She stood at his back, staring at the door and wondered how well it was locked. "We once hated one another. I'm no longer sure how honest your words were in that cave but you've accepted knighthood and I was wondering..."

"I do not hate you, Princess. My acceptance is sincere and from this day forward, my body is for you to use as you see fit. I will advise you to the best of my abilities, but all the same, I shall accept your command without rebuttal. Your battles are my battles, your enemies my own. I shall not fail you while I draw breath."

His body was hers to use, was it? Her mind lingered on that promise above all. She hadn't a doubt that the future would hold crippling wars and he in the thick of it, his Knightmare at her side, prepared to jump between her and an opponent. She imagined sizeable foes, some with Knightmare frames of their own – though thus far Britannia owned every Sutherland in circulation, the day might come when terrorists seized a few from prisoner pilots – locked in mortal combat.

"In that case," she murmured, drawing battle scars along his shoulders with her nail, "your first duty is to – as you put it – give your body to me."

He whirled around, swallowing hard. "Excuse me?"

Cornelia pushed herself up onto her toes and touched his lips with her own. His lips were unyielding as he struggled between stepping away and preserving his chivalry, and obeying her – and his own trembling body's – command. Her hands wedged between them, tugging at the belt around her waist. With a gentle thump, the robe fell into a heavy heap around her feet.

And there she stood, for the first time, unabashedly naked before a man's eyes. His gaze lingered for a long time on her gentle curves – swelling pale breasts with rosy peaks and wide hips leading to long, smooth, slender legs. She could have been a goddess with her looks and form. Battle uniforms hid her well and a small voice whispered pleasantly in his head. He was glad that no other man was blessed with such a sight as was bestowed upon him.

It wasn't long before the images of her body made their way to his mind, which in turn sparked his body to respond with a fevered face and dreadfully painful erection. It required all his strength to maintain a calm composure and suppress the desire to take her right then and there.

"Why? Why are you doing any of this?" he asked, and knew not why. Why was he questioning the opportunity to bed the second princess of the Holy Britannian Empire?

He'd had plenty of women, from courtesans to duchesses and once – when he was much younger – he and a female cadet were caught by some colleagues after a Knightmare test drive grew heated. For the next three months, the others cracked jokes whenever the occasion presented itself, snickering things like, "Now I know why they call it a cockpit." That was also when he'd acquired his unofficial title as Spearhead of the Empire, though contemporarily it made reference to something a little less provocative.

But never had his lovers been as exquisite and noble as she, nor as beautiful. And it certainly was something to say that of all the men in the Empire she could have selected, why she offered him – whom she had not long before despised – knighthood as well as her virgin company.

Cornelia's expression darkened and for an instant, she considered grabbing her clothes and leaving. "Don't misunderstand me, Guilford. It is not love that guides me. However, I am a princess and entitled – no, expected – to choose a knight to be by sword and shield. That man must prove himself to be courageous and noble. Your actions during our misfortune proved that more than once. You risked your safety for mine, nearly drowned and froze and most of all, offered emotional support when I most dearly needed it. In addition to your history of servitude to the Empire, you stood out among even the Glaston Knights as the best candidate as guardian of my current and future well-being."

"And your presence here? Your requirement of me."

"Do I displease you?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. Never before have I beheld such beauty, such power. I am honoured by your selection. It's just that I don't understand."

"In time, it will be expected that I marry a man of nobility. Even princesses who actually come to love their knights rarely marry them; emotional strain of sending one's spouse – the father of their children, quite possibly – into the most dangerous of circumstances....It's simply easier not to.

"But the bond between princess and knight must be a strong one, or he cannot act to the best of his abilities. It must be one-sided, at the very least and you and I...We didn't start off on the right foot. I am merely acting in my own best interest; to ensure your devotion."

So she was sleeping with him with the intent that he fall in love with her, simply because he was perhaps the strongest, most skilled pilot in the Britannian military? It was unorthodox thinking, and not something he felt himself capable of. But knighthood was the dream of any good soldier; if not personal, than the Round.

But he saw something of sadness in her violet eyes and touched her chin gently, speaking softly. "And what of the proud and independent woman the Empire so greatly admires?"

She smiled weakly, appreciating his concern. "She will remain the mask I wear; however, in Britannia, the State comes before personal pleasure. The strong over the weak. If I cannot maintain my strength while serving my country, I am unworthy of the praise and admiration my people show."

Though there was sadness in her gaze, there was hope in it as well. She wasn't sacrificing anything that was truly important to her. In fact, he wondered if the sadness was not just the same type of loss a child feels when realizing that dragons and faeries don't really exist and that the world is just a bloody and cruel place.

Her body – untouched by a man – was simply a symbol of her independence. But hers was a fragile soul that found strength in appearances. It didn't matter that she offer her corporal form to another; she was well adept at finding other means to boast her ego and prove that she was, as second princess, above all others.

So he kissed her, not out of love, but duty, and felt her virgin lips yield to his. She trembled with a suppressed heat, a longing she knew not that she desired and stood taller, closer. The softness of her bare, full breasts lit an inferno in his belly and he knew, consequences be damned – he dared not imagine the terrible fate that awaited him, should the Emperor learn of his daughter's sacrilegious deflowering – that he had to have her.

The four-poster bed, with its expensive linens and lace-trimmed throw pillows – the designer's idea, not his – was two blind stumbles and a less-than-graceful flop away. She was barely on the mattress, her gently curved, white calves swishing against the satin sheets while her slender foot sought support in open air. He climbed up beside her and knelt between her knees, fighting with the button on his pants that suddenly refused to let go. The bed frame creaked almost inaudibly.

There was something unexplainable thrilling about seeing a woman – especially one of no experience – lying beneath, her hair an undulating spread around her, cheeks flushed slightly with a mixture of fervour and innocent shame, both at her own nudity and upon the first glance of another. Her eyes darted around, a voice – that probably sounded like an elder tutor with a bun of greying hair and wrinkled lips in a permanent pout – reminding her of her humility, while genuine curiosity drew them back. It'd been a while since he'd last been with a woman and the sight of her, waiting for him, made his head spin. He wanted to take her that moment, bury himself deep inside her, feel the warmth of her body, the sweetness of her hot mouth.

But he caught himself. This was her first time and she was a princess, his princess. It was his duty to care for her, protect her and...love her.

So he touched her face, held it delicately, and brushed his lips against her fevered forehead, then dusted her lips with the strength of a butterfly's wings. Cornelia's violet eyes fluttered and softened and she took the ends of his glasses and pulled them off carefully, setting them down above her head near the pillows. Her long fingers came up the back of his head, threading through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. She drew his face closer to hers again, their mouths touching a little stronger this time. With slight pressure, he forced her sky lips open and touched her tongue, grinning at her mixed reaction of surprise and delight.

She'd never been kissed before – at least any more than a platonic peck from her family – never been held or cared for on a deeper level than familial affection. Tears dabbled in her eyes, drawn even by a facade.

While their mouths were occupied in a figurative dance of sorts, his hands, with their rough fingertips and short nails, traced the ups and downs of her body. Touching her breasts, he brought a hitch to her breath, which relaxed with a quiver as he lingered lower, caressing her thighs and guiding her leg around his hip.

Before she could repress the sound, she gasped as though an ice cube had been thrown down her blouse when his arousal touched her sensitive entrance, already wet with anticipation. There was fear in her gaze, and promise in his. She closed her eyes, preparing, imagining a horrific pain as he pushed into her slowly. She choked on a breath, uncomfortable but in no pain; almost like some great, hot weight sat on her pelvis. She pushed her fingers into his scalp, silently pleading, begging him to release her.

His face pinched, both tortured and revelled by the tight, newness of her. He watched tears squeeze out her eyes and her brow stitched together as she rolled her head from side to side. When he finally met resistance, he paused to catch a fleeting breath. She continued her throes of discomfort until he embraced her tightly, captured her mouth to silence the scream he knew would come, and pushed into her fully.

The sudden and complete loss of self, the death of self, sparked through her like a current of electricity. Her back arched, moulding against him and in a single, brief moment, there was the unforeseen idea that they fit together quite perfectly.

When she was used to his intrusion, and wanting more yet, he balanced himself above her as tenderness was replaced with dominance and egoism. If this was his duty, he would pleasure her, do what other men only dreamt of; prove that she was his. Her legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper still.

He deserved this.

As he moved above her, in her, she buried her face in his neck, her hot breath condensing on his skin, rolling down in droplets like faded rain. She struggled on syllables and once, he thought, even whispered his name. His muscles tensed, convulsed and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer.

He was almost startled when they came at the same time, though such was short lived, and he gave to her everything. All his strengths, weaknesses, pride and insecurity. And all that, he received in turn. Together, they collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap, hearts racing and bodies relaxing, and he rolled off her to spare her the lung crushing weight of his form.

In the immediate silence that followed, slightly awkward, she ran her fingers along her flat, sweat-slick stomach. She ran over the preceding moments in her mind, blushing at the visual of their bodies joined together, and quivering at the thought of the future she'd given to him. Proper precautions would be taken, of course, to ensure no seed took root, but nevertheless...

Despite the weakness, Guilford was almost asleep when she rose from the bed and gathered her belongings from the floor a distance away. He searched the darkness for his glasses and watched her silhouette against the flickering city lights pull on her robe and drag her fingers through her hair until she appeared presentable.

"You're leaving?" he asked and cast the disappointment off as such for the loss of any encore performances.

A touch of a smile caught her lips. "We're not lovers. You are my knight and I am your princess."

"You're cold," he stated, but made no effort to stop her.

With her hand on the curved doorknob, she gazed down into the nothingness of the floor and laughed once shortly. "I know."

.

Fin

.

Disclaimer: Code Geass and its related characters belong to Sunrise, CLAMP and all respected creators.

Author's Note: Ta-dah! Was this worth the wait? Probably not. But here you go. Lemon #1 is complete. Hopefully I'll write more on this pairing, since they're my favourite in the series, but I have a few others that have been waiting to be written (I wanted to finish this first rather than starting a bunch because experience tells me when I start multiple projects, I end up abandoning one or the other).