The consideration in this small gesture touches me unexpectedly. Even now, with desire clearly building between us, he's thinking of what matters to me.
"Not as important as this," I say, closing the distance between us.
The cold hits me first—that initial shock of winter against my human warmth—but it's already familiar, welcome even. His arms encircle me, claws careful against my clothing. The contrast between his monstrous appearance and gentle touch is intoxicating.
Our lips meet, and the now-familiar sensation of cold burning into heat sends shivers across my skin. Frost forms where he touches, delicate patterns that tingle rather than freeze. I'm learning the language of his body, how to read the intensity of cold, the specific patterns that form when desire rather than anger drives his power.
"You're sure?" he asks against my mouth, always giving me the chance to retreat despite the obvious hunger in his glowing eyes.
"Completely," I breathe, hands finding the base of his antlers again. They're larger this time, more substantial, the transformation more complete than our first encounter. I trace the crystalline branches, watching as his eyes close in pleasure, a rumbling sound building in his chest.
Clothing becomes an unwelcome barrier. My fingers work at his, while his claws make short work of mine—careful slices that part fabric without touching skin. When we're finally bare to each other, the visual contrast is striking—my flushed human skin against his pale blue-white form, frost patterns embedded in his flesh like living tattoos.
He lifts me effortlessly, carrying me not to the bed but to the large fur rug before the fire. The flames have died down at his unconscious command, the heat reduced to a gentle warmth that doesn't pain him as much. Another small consideration that speaks volumes.
The fur is soft beneath my back, his larger form looming above me, antlers creating intricate shadows across the ceiling and walls. In the dim light, with his transformation nearly complete,he looks like something from ancient mythology—a primal winter god come to claim a mortal woman.
"I wish I could photograph you like this," I whisper, reaching up to trace the edge where skull mask meets flesh.
A rumbling laugh vibrates through him. "Your camera would freeze."
"Worth it," I grin, pulling him down to me.
This time is different from the first—less frantic, more deliberate. He explores my body with greater confidence, learning what makes me gasp and arch against him. The cold of his touch creates unique sensations—frost blooming across my breasts as his mouth closes over them, the contrast of ice and heat drawing sounds from me I've never made before.
I explore him in turn, discovering places where the frost patterns are more sensitive. The swirls along his collarbone make him shudder when I trace them with my fingertips. The elaborate designs at his hips deepen in color when I press my lips against them. There's a vulnerable spot where neck meets shoulder that makes him emit a deep, resonant sound—not quite a growl, more like the creaking of glacier ice shifting—when my warm breath ghosts across it.
I map his body methodically, as if documenting a new territory, memorizing the topography of something never before explored. His skin is cool but not painfully cold, with varying temperatures that form microclimates across his form. The frost patterns aren't just decorative—they're sensory networks, responding to touch and temperature with subtle shifts in color and intensity.
"Your heat," he murmurs as I straddle his thighs, my palms pressed flat against his chest, "it travels through me like lightning through ice."
I can see it happening—trails of barely perceptible blue light following the path of my touch, frost patterns meltingand reforming in my wake. My ordinary human warmth is extraordinary to him, a power I never knew I possessed.
When his hands begin their own exploration, the difference is profound. Where our first encounter was urgent, primal claiming, this is deliberate artistry. His claws retract partially, allowing him greater precision as he traces paths along my skin. Frost blooms in delicate spirals, each one unique and intentional. He's creating patterns on me, I realize—not random formations but deliberate designs.
"You're drawing on me," I whisper, watching as elaborate frost mandalas form and fade across my breasts, stomach, thighs.
"Winter's calligraphy," he confirms, eyes intent with concentration. "Your skin holds the patterns longer than any canvas I've known."
There's reverence in his touch, an ancient being creating ephemeral art that lives and dies in moments. I've become his masterpiece, decorated in translucent frost that tingles pleasantly rather than burns. Each pattern tells a story I can't read but somehow understand—tales of winter, solitude, and newfound connection written in a language older than words.
His mouth follows his hands, cold lips and tongue creating new sensations as he tastes me. The contrast between the cool of his mouth and the heat building inside me is exquisite torture. Frost forms and melts with each kiss, each caress, my body becoming a canvas of constantly shifting designs.
When he finally enters me, the shock of cold meeting heat is expected but no less extraordinary. I arch beneath him, watching in fascination as frost patterns race from where our bodies join, spreading across my stomach and chest in elaborate fractals. The designs are more intricate this time, more controlled—conscious artistry rather than instinctive reaction.
"You're like fire in ice," he murmurs, voice filled with wonder as he watches my skin flush beneath his frost. "Impossible but undeniable."
I wrap my legs around him, drawing him deeper, captivated by the visible evidence of our joining—steam rising in delicate wisps where our bodies connect, frost patterns flowing and ebbing with each careful movement. His body temperature fluctuates with his pleasure, creating waves of varying cold that travel through me like invisible currents.
"Does it hurt you?" I ask, noticing how the frost on his skin seems to melt where we press most closely together.
"Not pain," he answers, his voice resonating with that otherworldly harmonic. "Transformation. Like ice meeting spring."
The metaphor is perfect—not destruction but necessary change, winter yielding to new seasons in the endless cycle. I feel it too—my body adapting to his cold, finding equilibrium where there should be only opposition.
Our rhythm builds with exquisite slowness, every sensation magnified by deliberate restraint. Outside, the storm responds, but differently than before—snow falling in synchronized patterns that mirror our movements, winds creating harmonies rather than chaos. The entire domain seems attuned to its guardian's pleasure, winter itself becoming part of our intimate dance.
His control is masterful now, emotion channeled rather than explosive. The antlers above me cast intricate shadows across my skin, adding another layer to the visual symphony between us. Ice crystals form in the air around the bed, catching the fading light and refracting it into prismatic rainbows that dance across our joined bodies.
