"Ophelia?" Hamlet said quietly, peering into her bedroom through the curtains of her open window. He waited, anxious. Had she heard him?
Apparently, she had. She pulled back the long, willowy curtains and stood aside so he could pull himself inside.
"Careful," she whispered, "it's icy. Don't fall."
"Have I ever fallen?" Hamlet murmured, his face inches from hers. He gazed down into her liquid blue eyes, and reached up to run her golden hair through his fingers. He watched it flow through his hand, like satin.
"No," she breathed, so quietly Hamlet considered it a miracle that he was even able to hear her.
"Don't worry so much, my love," he said, his breathing shallow and slightly labored. He reached up tentatively to touch the lines between her eyebrows. "You'll get frown lines."
Ophelia's expression softened a little, and she looked up curiously in Hamlet's face. He felt her studying his hazel eyes. Could he see how much he loved her? Needed her to love him, as well? Could she see his nerves and confusion in them?
"Would you still love me if I wasn't beautiful?" she asked softly.
"You'll always be beautiful in my eyes," Hamlet murmured, and leaned down to press his lips against hers. She ducked out of his reach, and smoothed his loose white shirt over his chest. He felt her tracing the contours of his muscles. "What is it, darling?" he asked her, longing to taste the sweetness of another kiss.
"I know you think I'm beautiful," she said quietly, hushed, so her sleeping father wouldn't hear them talking from his room down the hall. "And thank you. It means a lot that you feel that way. But, would you love me if you didn't think that I was beautiful?"
"I would love you no matter what you looked like," Hamlet said.
"Even if I had my father's calloused hands and his receding hairline?" Ophelia asked.
"As long as you were still Ophelia in here," he said, and pressed his hand on her chest just above her breasts. Gently, he leaned down and kissed her once, twice. A third time, slightly longer than the first two.
Hamlet smiled as he watched Ophelia's face stretch with her radiant smile. He caressed her face with his free hand, while the other slid gently, silently south, and ghosted over Ophelia's bosom.
"Hamlet," she whispered, her breathing a little heavier than the slow, even pace it had held a moment before.
"Yes, my love?" he murmured, lips closing over her earlobe and sucking it a little.
"We must remain quiet. My brother and father sleep just down the hall. They most certainly wouldn't approve of this, and they would probably tell the king and queen if they happened to find out that you are in my room tonight."
"We shall be silent, then," Hamlet promised. Ophelia couldn't miss the profound sincerity of his words. She started up at him as he caught her face gently in his large hands. She did not object again when he kissed her.
Ophelia could only compare Hamlet's sweet kisses to stepping into a pool of cold water. He allowed her to first dip her toes in, to feel the temperature of the kiss. Then he coaxed her into comfort, gave her the time that she needed to get used to the water. Slowly, he kissed her, and she was soon completely comfortably enveloped in his arms, putty in his capable hands, ready to swim.
Eventually, Hamlet broke the kiss, and gazed once more into her deep, fathomless eyes, studying her expression the way he had studied hers previously. His hair, Ophelia noticed, looked odd in the light from the candle burning on her bedside table. It seemed to be a fiery red; usually, Ophelia recalled vaguely, it was a dark chestnut color.
"Lovely lady," he began quietly, "would you like to sit down? It's late, and you seem very tired this evening." His grin was coy and flirtatious, the handsome devil.
Ophelia smiled back up at him. "If you wish, my lord." She swore her smile would tickle her ears if it were any wider.
"Oh, I most certainly do," Hamlet said, thankfully remembering to keep his voice down. When he had that look in his eye, Ophelia thought fondly, there were no lengths to which he would no go. No end to things he would do. When Ophelia saw that look in Hamlet's sparkling eyes, she knew there was no stopping him. No one could keep him away from what he wanted.
At that moment, Ophelia had the feeling that what Hamlet wanted was her. He'd told her so himself countless times.
And, apparently, the king and queen knew, too. Claudius and Gertrude were notoriously nosy, as was Polonius, Ophelia's own father. She sighed.
When Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, had formally begun to court Ophelia, daughter of the king's advisor, Claudius and Gertrude had accused Ophelia of seducing the prince. To end the accusations and assumptions, Polonius had forbidden Ophelia to see, to speak to, or to make contact with Prince Hamlet ever again. Prince Hamlet was constantly under the watchful eyes of the king and queen, and anywhere Ophelia went these days she was forced to bear her brother Laertes as a watchful escort. No matter how many times she insisted that she did not require a bodyguard, Polonius would not budge on the matter, and Hamlet was kept so busy at home these days that he hardly left the castle grounds.
This was what had reduced the two to meeting only in secret, living and breathing for those precious stolen kisses that were forced to last them for days or even weeks at a time. Every word that floated on Hamlet's silky voice, laced with his unmistakeable lust, Ophelia absorbed completely, like a sponge, so as not to forget what his love for her sounded like.
Of course, these secret meetings were highly improper, and their kisses wrapped in the devil's blanket. Usually, these things were overlooked by the church -- common people indulged in sins like these frequently, and their crimes routinely went without consequence, even if they were caught. But Hamlet was Prince of Denmark. The face and voice of an entire country. Every move he made was watched by someone, just waiting for him to make a mistake.
Ophelia wasn't even entirely sure she had her head wrapped around the magnitude of the trouble discovery of their midnight rendezvous would cause him.
Of course, if the public gained knowledge of her affair with Prince Hamlet, her reputation would be ruined. After Gertrude aleady having accused her of being a seductress interested only in Hamlet's power and fortune, Ophelia was afraid to think what would happen if the queen was to discover that her son was still seeing Ophelia behind her back.
Ophelia sat on her bed next to Prince Hamlet. This had, of course, become routine. Hamlet would ride to her home after the rest of the town was asleep, and tie up his horse a short walk from the house. He would skillfully scale the rock wall to her window, then call her name in the smallest of whispers. She would then draw back the curtain, and he would climb inside, where they would enjoy eachother's company and kisses. When the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon, Hamlet would give Ophelia one parting kiss, and leave the way he came. Out the window, down the wall, and through the orchard to his steed. He would ride home in silence, usually thinking about the way Ophelia's silky hair felt between his fingers as he kissed her, and once the way she had felt curled around him as she slept, too tired to stay awake with him.
"What are you thinking of?" Hamlet whispered, watching her face as they sat down on the bed. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her collarbone, fingering the satin nightgown covering her thigh.
Ophelia sighed. "Should I choose only one topic?"
Hamlet smiled a little. "You always do have too much going on in that head of yours. Tell me the most important, if it isn't too difficult to choose."
Ophelia continued to watch his hand resting calmly on her leg, and smiled. He thought she would be unable to choose the most important topic of her thoughts. How silly. "That," she said, "is an easy one. I was thinking of how much trouble you could be in if anyone found out that you come to stay with me some nights."
Hamlet's facial expression quickly shifted from curiosity to frustration...possibly anger.