Elsa had been more rigid than normal, especially around him. And Michael knew Danika's and Caiden's presence had unsettled her. As he watches her walk off, her arms grasping one another against the shimmering of her cobalt gown, he hears Danika hum behind him, "Spoken like a true Ice Queen."
"Knock it off, Danika." He sneers.
"What?" she asks with a shrug of her shoulders.
Michael turns his attention to Kai, whom had been waiting for them inside the castle doors. And who possible heard the entirety of the conversation. "Kai, once they're settled show them to the library." He looks to his friends. "I'll meet you there in a few minutes. We have a lot of catching up to do."
"Indeed we do." Caiden says as he steps forward.
Thank the blessed gods that Anna steps in, her voice chipper and lyrical as any bard song. "Kristoff and I can show you to the library after Kai, if that's alright."
Michael gives her an appreciative, even grateful expression as he turns to leave the group. He tries to ignore the shadow weaver's stare as he turns and hurries down the hall to catch up with Elsa. Judging from where she went, she didn't seem to have a set destination.
"Elsa!" he calls. He doesn't know why he's hoping for an answer.
Digging through his heart, he finds that thin silver tether that is bounded between them. It pulls him down the hall; to the left, to the right. He barely keeps track of the turns like he's used to, just blindly following that tether until . . .
She'd made quick work navigating throughout the first floor just to come back around to her office. Then again, maybe she just wanted to walk off whatever bother had her shoulders curving forward. Now here she is, in one of the castle's many offices, presumably her favorite with the large, crosshatched window sitting behind the large oak desk, its soft ruby drapes pulled back to allow pouring sunlight. Shelves line the far-right wall, a grand fireplace on the left. A large ornate rug sits beneath the legs of the desk, stretching beneath a divan, a coffee table, and an armchair; all tastefully spread throughout the room.
Elsa stands by the window, arms still around herself, the light shining off of that stunning cobalt dress. Michael didn't fail to notice how well it matched his eyes. She didn't acknowledge him when he opened the door, so he doesn't bother with pleasant greetings.
Instead, he shuts the door behind him, slowly approaching the queen. "You're not happy."
Thankfully, she doesn't bother with pleasantries, either. Though it unnerves him more than he thought it would when she still doesn't look at him. "Of course I'm not happy."
Michael runs his fingers through his hair, advancing towards the desk. "Look, I'm sorry if their arrival was, sudden, but I told you they'll be helpful with this investigation –"
"I don't care about that." Elsa says with suppressed venom. Enough so that Michael clamps his mouth shut. She looks to him, her one hand fiddling with the pendant. "I know their value for this, I know the benefit they would provide. I remember you saying how they could help me – help us – control our magic. That's fine."
The bite in her tone says otherwise, but the surprise has Michael pausing for a heartbeat. "Then what is it?"
Elsa is silent for longer, her eyes scanning him from head to boot, lingering on his eyes, his lips. He can see her biting her tongue, biting her own words before she takes a deep breath and turns away. "It's nothing."
"That's bullshit."
He stops just before the desk.
"It's nothing you should be concerned about." She says, huddling further into her shoulders.
"Is it? Then why are you refusing to look at me?"
A heavy, annoyed sigh and the queen turns to him, sending the skirts of her dress flaring before snapping around her legs. She might've been prepared to chew his head off; she might've been ready to tell him the kiss last night might've been a mistake.
But what she isn't ready for, is him to be standing right in front of her – as evident by the gasp that escapes her, the widening of her eyes. Towering over her, the two of them are close enough to share air. Her cheeks immediately flush pink, and he can't hide his satisfied grin.
He tucks his hands in his pockets, if only to keep them from wrapping around her waist. "Listen," he begins, "Last night . . . I'm sorry if I was too forward with you." He pauses. "Elsa, you're grimacing."
"Er—sorry."
Phlegm catches in the back of his throat, and he takes a half step back. He could've sworn she stepped forward. "It did upset you, then."
"What did?"
"The kiss!"
Elsa folds her lips in and clears her throat. Her braid falls behind her shoulder. "No! It – it was lovely," she stammers. "I didn't mind it. But I didn't hate it, if that's what you're thinking!"
The way her mouth thins into a line, he knew she immediately regretted saying it.
"So, you liked it?" He grins lazily.
At his little taunt, she places a brazen hand on his chest. "Even if I did, it doesn't seem to matter."
"Come now," he says. "From your reaction, one would think you'd never been kissed."
At the slight push of her hand, he steps out of her to let her pass. The lip of the desk presses into his upper thighs. He perches just on the edge.
She says, "And so what if I hadn't? Being trapped in my room for nearly twenty-one years gave me little interaction, you know."
"And that's my fault . . . how?"
"I never said it was, I just – Oh, go away!"
She made to walk away, but male pride aside, he wasn't going to let her walk out of her upset. He snatched her wrist and she stopped. She still looked to him with a pout he found more adorable than threatening. "Just tell me what's wrong. We've come to far along for you to just lie to me."
Something in that sentence softens her features. Michael keeping his own expression doleful as he watches her muscles relax. She blinks a few times, those black, fanning lashes shield her eyes as she looks down at his hand on her wrist.
"You and Danika seem to have a very, intimate relationship." She mutters, not meeting his gaze.
"Yes, we do," he says with a click of his tongue. He brushes his knuckles under her chin, angling her to look at him. "But it's only because she guarded my back all those years we were fighting in the war. We were part of an elite unit of soldiers; we went on a lot of missions together. But nothing ever came from it."
"Your reaction said otherwise."
"I haven't seen her in over four years. I did my best to keep in contact with her, but with the both of us traveling, constantly . . ." He clicked his tongue, his grip on my chin tightening. "Look, Danika and I are nothing. We're just friends. Closer than I'd like to admit, but friends."
Her eyes flicker beneath her lashes, and he thinks she's looking at the scar on the back of his hand. As he goes to withdraw, she surprises him when she slides his hand along her waist, pulling the other to follow.
Michael stiffens, refusing to let his body melt into hers, if only because her eyes are still looking at his hands, trailing her fingers along his wrists, up his forearm. He bites back the urge to pull out of her touch when they bump along the many scars that adorn his skin.
His thumb, however, curves around the outside of her hip, gave a slow, long stroke as if to say, Sorry.
She finally asks, her lower lip trembling. "So, what are we?"
He almost wants to chuckle, but with a puzzling expression, he admits, "I don't know." Though not the answer she was looking for, judging from the droop in her shoulders, he adds, "I enjoyed our kiss last night too. But I don't know what that makes us. I wanted to leave the choice up to you; because you're a queen, and I'm . . . I'm just some country peasant."
"Michael –"
"I never wanted to push you into anything you didn't want to do. I wanted you to make the choice. Mostly because I know I have nothing to offer." Dejected, he lowers his gaze, his eyes fixating on a spot on the wooden floor. "I have no dowery, no real money, not even a home to call my own. What could I possibly offer you that some prince can give a thousand times over?"
Elsa brushes her body against his, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it still makes him stiffen. Still makes his pupils expand to nearly devour their sapphire color. Her hands slide up his arms to rest on his shoulders, pressing him further into his perch on the edge of the desk.
As gentle as a flower petal, Elsa's hands cradle his face. Her eyes bore into his own, the cyan color swimming with want – with need. She whispers, her voice low and alluring. "You've already given me so much more, Michael."
He doesn't know which one of them moves first, but then Elsa's mouth is on his, and the queen grips his shirt, pulling him closer, claiming him as he claimed her.
His arms wrap tighter around her, but gently—so careful as if she'd disintegrate into snowflakes. He brushes his tongue against hers, and she opens her mouth to him. Each movement of their lips is a whisper of what is to come once they manage to find time for themselves, and a promise.
The kiss is slow—thorough. As if they have all the time in the world.
The kiss obliterates her.
It was like coming home or being born or suddenly finding an entire half of herself that had been missing.
It's not like the way he kissed her at the ball.
No – this is a claiming. He is hers, as she is his.
His lips are hot and soft against hers—still tentative, and after a moment, he pulls back far enough to look into her eyes. She trembles with the need to touch him everywhere at once, to feel him touching her everywhere at once.
He has given her so much more than either of them realizes. The laughs, the training, the freedom. Their small discussions they've had in private, where they each revealed a piece of each other to lay bare – unafraid of being judged, knowing it'll be met with understanding.
She twines her arms around his neck, her mouth meeting his in a second kiss that knocks the world out from under her.
The taste of him threatened to destroy her, consume her, and—
She places a hand on his chest – over his heart – a heart burning with a fiery passion.
Fire – he is fire made flesh.
His hand slides higher up her thigh, the proprietary touch of a male who knew he owned her body and soul.
He parts their lips if only to bring his mouth near her ear. And damn her to hell, she leans further into him as his teeth press down at the same moment his thumb drift high on the side of her thigh, sweeping across sensitive skin in a long, luxurious touch. Her body goes loose and tight, and her breathing . . . damn her again, the scent of him, the pine and the sea, the power roiling off him . . . Elsa's breathing hitched a bit.
She knew he noticed; knew he felt that shift in her.
His fingers still on the curve of her bum. A dull roaring is filling her ears, drowning out everything but that touch on the outside of her leg. This time, his nose brushes the spot between her neck and shoulder, followed by a passing graze of his mouth.
Elsa can feel her breasts tightened, becoming full and heavy, aching—aching like what is now pooling in her core. Heat filled her face, her blood. She seizes his mouth again, the drive to feel his all over her body, to lick her tongue over every inch of him, and him licking every inch of her almost rushing her movements.
Rushed, and yet slow and methodic, memorizing every curve of that beautiful mouth.
A melodic, erotic, hypnotic kind of dance.
His fingers continue their slow, steady stroking on her thighs, rising higher with every pass. She drags a hand down his thigh, feeling the hidden warrior's strength there. Drags it back up again in a long, idle stroke, needing to touch him, feel him.
His hands tighten on her, finally seizing her ass and pulling her close enough she nearly ended up in his lap. His eyes hold hers as he leans forward to brush his mouth against her cheek. Elsa leans a bit more against him, her legs widening ever so slightly; fully prepared to straddle his powerful thighs. Fully ready to let him have her on this oak desk.
Gods, if his hands just move a little inwards –
If that other hand drifts dangerously south –
Michael drags his mouth along the base of her neck, right over collarbone, just as she shifts against the hardness pushing into her, insistent and dominating.
But then he pulls away too soon, his grip on her hips tightening, but to pull her away this time. Even as she nearly whimpers to kiss him again – the sound no different than a whining puppy – Michael leans back just out of her reach.
Her eyes had been closed the whole time, and when she blinks them open, she clamps her lips together when she sees a thin shade of her lipstick smeared across his own. She giggles and leans back, but still keeps herself entangled in his arms.
"I promised I'd meet Caiden and Danika at the library. I need to brush them up on what's happening."
Elsa nearly groans in annoyance, unable to hide her pout.
"Hey," he growls with a smile, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. "At least it'll be easy for you."
He gives a gentle push, enough for her to step back and see the start of something poking through the seat of his trousers.
It nearly made Elsa's mouth water.
"Besides, I'm sure you have more important, queenly things to do today. And I'm worried I've taken up enough of your time."
Elsa tries to speak, but her mind still isn't able to form words. Proper words. Words that make sense.
Only the reminder of what is happening, why Danika and Caiden are here slowly brings her back towards the surface of reality. Not to mention lunch is in a couple of hours.
"Will I see you tonight?"
"If that is what Her Majesty desires." He grins, his tone low and sultry. It's by no means an insult, far from it in fact – different from the way Danika called her, "Queeny." Instead, it's a challenge, a ploy to get her to break her mold. The power with which she holds over him.
It makes her grin. "I expect to see you back at your chambers by midnight."
"Midnight?"
She saunters around, attempting to put an extra swing in her hips like Danika. She pulls him from his perch on the edge of the desk and towards the front. "Anna wants to try and play a new game. A way of family bonding, I think she said."
"Speaking of which, good luck telling her what we are now."
Elsa gives a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'll figure something out.
Michael chuckles as his hands rest on her waist. "Do inform me when you do." he chuckles. "What's this game called?"
"Charades."
He snorts. At least he's heard of it. The smile it brings to his face, the way it makes her heart soar – she twines her arms around his neck once more and pulls him in. When their lips meet again, it is soft and slow – despite the twitch of a touch she feels press into her front. She wonders if he could feel or sense the wetness that lays just beneath the suddenly-too-thick fabric of the dress.
"So, midnight?" he says with an arched brow. That grin remaining.
Elsa meets with her own, feeling like a fiend. "Midnight."