All too soon we will be pulled away
So opposed to our pleasure to stay
We must treasure all we find
We behold the enchanted and reconcile our souls to light
He can't take his eyes away from her nor does he ever want to; it helps the fact there's nothing else in the world more important to him than her now. The surprisingly warmth of her skin contrasting with the coolness of her breath over his lips – the tease of a kiss cut short because his hand is sliding between her legs rubbing knuckles lightly over her spot and she lets out a barely audible little moan while fluttering her lashes before closing her eyes. That's when he closes the distance and kisses her leisurely whereas the pace of his fingers increases, circling her sensitive nub until she's whimpering into his mouth, letting his tongue slip and explore hers, completely in synch with each other.
Preferable because compatible. Deep down, he always knew.
And deep down he goes, leaving a wet trail of butterfly kisses starting from the hollow of her throat, pausing at her chest to give her breasts the cherish they deserve – first licking between them to graze his teeth until her nipples harden, one inside his mouth and the other under his palm, while she leans more into his touch, gasping loudly. When he continues the path over her stomach Elsa's already grinding her hips in anticipation, letting out a small laugh he echoes until he reaches destination, widening her legs while positioning himself right at the center. Inhaling deeply, he looks up, lock eyes with her, smirks and then licks, a long tentative stroke and finds she's beginning to get moist – wonderful – and with one hand opens her folds a little more to unveil her clit, and hums contentedly when she shivers, calls out his name and reaches to forcefully grab his hair because his tongue and his mouth are ravishing her, lapping fast until she's quivering and then slowing down to insert a finger, pressing down until she's ready for the second; after that, he turns and pumps – keeps this frantic torture going till her scream gets caught in her throat and Elsa just throws her head back and mouths her cries to the ceiling.
Hans raises to his feet stumbling, feeling lightheaded as if there was no blood flowing to his brain – well, was it? And lands rather ungracefully on the bed, making both of them crack up as if they were a couple of inebriated fools.
He definitely was drunk on her.
The giggling stops when he lowers to kiss her again, knowing she can taste herself in his mouth makes her easily aroused once more and he is impossibly hard – the line between pleasure and pain almost being crossed.
He groans and holds her by the hips, lifting her up and she gets the message quickly – presses her feet down the mattress, turning them over to straddle him; she's dripping wet and eager to feel him inside, deliciously stretching her walls while they move, breathe and cry in unison, bodies slamming in sensual rhythm, waking every nerve, every inch of skin within their reach.
She's completely graceful even at times like this, the years of royal training ingrained as she moves in slow-motion on top of him, their hips meeting with every thrust, getting rougher by the second but there's no waver in her statuesque frame. If he wasn't touching her breasts or grabbing her waist to try to keep as much physical contact as humanly possible, he'd believe she's just a figure of imagination; a divinity's creature to haunt his dreams.
She's a queen of snow after all.
The only moment Elsa slumps is forward when she clasps both his shoulders to give her balance for he's pounding into her so savagely there's a small fear he might break her in half – maybe he does; only not literally.
Thank goodness she may not yet know she breaks him in half too.