Lips Like Ice

XVI

Apparently, yes.

The sound of flesh sliding along flesh is abnormally loud over the muffled sounds of celebration, and his breathing speeds up to a soft, grunting pant. Curiosity pulls too hard at her eyelids to resist. She peeks up over the edge of the duvet, and is startled to find that he is looking back at her.

Stroking himself, face turned over his shoulder, his silver eyes intent on her. A dark purple blush plumps his lips and waves over his sharp cheeks. It makes him look debauched, human in a way that is vulnerable and open, and at the same time so utterly alien. The room fills with a pungent aroma, musky and delectable in a way that she can't name, and the open window carries it on a thin breeze from his body to hers.

She feels something in her own belly tingle and pool hot. His nostrils flare, as if even under all the layers of fabric he can smell the sex that is trying to affect her.

The scent is floral, but musky—deep, like amber and vanilla, and good clean soil and romance, wine and warmth and play, and—

Oh god, is this him? Are these his pheromones? It is like inhaling pure, unadulterated lust. She hadn't been wet before, but now her body is straining toward arousal, doing its best to give in to the silent, chemical command of his.

No wonder his brother said force made the women he raped want it – just the smell of The Prince's desire is blotting out all conscious thought, makes her want to unfurl herself, lay back and spread wide, arching and eager. Instead she bites her lip and curls tighter, keeping her fingers firmly twined with the blanket and not, absolutely not sliding downwards to the throbbing, empty place between her legs.

Very suddenly, and very completely, she is consumed with resentment towards the Prince. It feels an awful lot like he is tricking her, trapping her into it. She resents that she was never given a choice—that it was assumed that she wouldn't need it. Whatever his culture says about sex, it seems to be a given that it is going to take place. He has decided, and she, the pet, the woman, the slave with no autonomy, can only say yes, of course. Please do go ahead and reward-train me with orgasms! I just love orgasms and of course I would love for you to give me one!

Never mind that he hadn't actually asked her if that's what she wanted.

And that's the crux of it, isn't it? That all this time, he's just never asked.

Would it have been too much, just too much for him to try to woo her? To be fucking kind about it? Lydia has never been a prude, and never thought sex was something wrong or dirty. She enjoys sex. But she had never been asked if she wants it. With him. Like this.

And maybe... that's her fault?

He had said that she had to tell him what she wants. She just didn't think that she'd have to, well... teach him how to seduce her.

Seduce her?

And yes, apparently, that's where her lust-fogged thoughts are now headed.

And would she have said yes? If he had asked, really asked, would she have said yes? It's not really informed consent, because a person can't consent under duress, and being held captive is a pretty big fucking amount of duress; but legalities aside, would she have said yes?

A few weeks ago? Probably not.

But today?

After what she had been supporting him through, after she had seen his pain, his hope, the way his family treated him; after his kindnesses to her, his new thoughtfulness, his mindfulness; after the way he had nearly killed his brother to keep her safe, the way he carried her back to his apartments as if she was made of brittle glass and a thousand times more valuable; after he had shown her the physical proof of his regard for her, let his guard down, showed her vulnerability and need whose kernel, whose catalyst was her, was Lydia and not just Lydia's genitals...