Aftermath

Scene 19

Scene 19: Elsa, now

She's jealous of Anna.

--

Normally, when his hands are raking down the front of her shirt, and under it, touching her in just the way she likes, she doesn't say a word of complaint—actually, she just moans, or sighs, and encourages him—but now, when she's trying to get dressed for work after spending the night at his apartment, and he's unbuttoning every button on her shirt that she's just fastened, she merely finds him aggravating.

"Would you stop that?" she snaps, but her body is betraying her even then, because her underwear is soaking without him even touching her there yet, and her neck is tingling as he leaves kisses along it, his sideburns tickling her skin.

"It doesn't seem like you want me to," he says, grinning as he pulls her shirt up from under the waistband of her skirt, undoes the last button of the shirt, and spreads it open for easier access.

She doesn't argue with that, even though she wants to—and she could if she tried, since he's going to make her late for work, which is as legitimate a reason as any to push him away—but it's rare that she sleeps the night at his place anymore, let alone wakes up to him being so ravenous with her, and so she soaks in the attention, and shudders as he sucks on the spot just behind her right ear, the spot that makes her hips buck against his without even meaning to.

His hand reaches down between her thighs, then—reaches, and touches, and she hears a low chuckle escape his throat, the kind that used to make her tremble with desire.

"You definitely don't want me to stop."

That sentence, spoken with such ease, suddenly makes her feel cold—as cold as the "block of ice" he once accused her of being—and even as her body jerks against his fingers running along her folds, disgustingly slick with want, there's the familiar feeling of envy curling itself around her heart, under the same breast he's absently caressing with his left hand.

Because suddenly, she remembers it: the way Anna gushed to her, in confidence, about her first time with Hans, leaving out the details but still saying too much.

The memory is enough to make her sick.

"Is this what you used to do to Anna?" she asks, gritting her teeth as he slides two fingers in and out of her. "Is this how you touched her?"

He growls in annoyance, moves so that he's standing in front of her, and then pushes her back onto the mattress, ignoring her cry of protest.

"I don't understand how you can even ask me that," he retorts with a scowl, but even as he does, he gets down on his knees on the floor in front of her, and spreads her legs, lifting them up over his shoulders, even as they flex tensely, trying to reject him.

And then she feels it—his, perfectly-angled, royal nose rubbing sharply against the crotch of her panties—and she breathes in sharply, her legs freezing.

She intends to stop him, to collect her wits, to ask him, again, if this is all the same to him—Anna or Elsa, it doesn't matter, so long as his needs are fulfilled—but he's pushed aside the fabric between his tongue and her centre before she can say anything, and her eyes roll back, a moan escaping her.

But it's still there, at the back of her mind, through the haze of lust clouding her thoughts: the idea that he did this to her, to Anna, and when he did it, he was probably sweet, and kind, and slow—not greedy, and harsh, and fast like he is now—and she trembles.

(And then, she comes.)