The ice sculptures stood like frozen sentinels in the garden, their surfaces weeping frozen tears as the warmth of the ballroom drifted toward the open doors. Draconia walked past a carved swan, noting how the frost had begun to blur the sharp edges of its wings. Everything was becoming soft and messy under the influence of the heat. She felt the chill of the night air biting at her ankles, yet her skin felt flushed from the dancing. The garden was a graveyard of beautiful, melting things.
Harry followed her, his footsteps heavy on the stone path. He did not speak as they reached the edge of the sculpture-lined terrace. The statues of creatures from ancient folklore were losing their definition, the ice turning translucent and weeping into the pools below. He reached out and draped his heavy traveling jacket over her shoulders. The wool was warm and smelled of him, a scent of cedar and something sharper that belonged to the trophy room. Draconia felt the weight of it settle against her, a physical barrier between her and the cold.
"You are shivering," he said. His voice was low, cutting through the quiet of the garden.
"I am fine," she replied. She did not look at him.
"You are not fine. You are freezing."
"The cold is part of the aesthetic, is it not? It is meant to be grand."
"It is meant to be uncomfortable."
He stepped closer, closing the gap between them until his heat radiated through the fabric of her dress. Draconia raised her hand, pressing it flat against his chest. The gesture was a ghost of a moment from months ago, a memory of a different touch, but this time she moved her hand with a deliberate, slow intention. Her palm felt the hard muscle of his chest through the fine silk of his shirt. She felt the steady, heavy thud of his heart beneath her touch. He was a solid thing in a garden of melting ice.
"Do you always have to be so certain?" she asked, her fingers curling slightly against his chest.
"I am not certain of anything tonight," he said. He took her hand in his, his skin hot against her cold fingers.
"Then why are you here? Why are you following me into the garden?"
"Because you are walking away."
"I am walking toward the air. There is a difference."
"You are walking away from me."
She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for the cracks in his composure. He looked as though he might shatter like the ice around them. She wanted to see him break, but she also wanted to be the one who held the pieces together. The wind picked up, tossing her hair, but she did not move her hand from his chest. The rhythm of his heart was a drum in the silence.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering just an inch from hers. The air was not heavy; it was sharp and clean. "Tell me to stay, and I will."
"You are already here," she said.
"That is not the same as being invited."
"Then invite me. Properly."
He did not wait for her to finish the thought. He gripped her waist and pulled her toward the stone wall of the terrace, where the shadows of the sculptures fell long and dark. He pressed her back against the freezing stone, but the warmth of his body was an immediate, overwhelming force. Draconia felt the contrast of the freezing wall against her back and the heat of his thighs against her hips. He pulled the jacket from her shoulders, letting it fall to the grass, and then he was unzipping her dress with frantic, clumsy fingers.
He pushed the silk down, exposing her skin to the biting air for a fleeting second before his mouth found her neck. Draconia gasped, her head falling back against the stone. He was kissing her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder. He moved lower, his hands sliding down her hips to the waistband of her knickers. He pulled the lace down, exposing her pussy to the cold air and his warm hands.
"Harry," she breathed, her fingers tanging in his hair.
"Say it," he muttered against her skin. "Tell me what you want."
He pushed her legs apart, stepping between them. He reached into his trousers and freed his cock. It was thick and hot, pulsing with his blood. He guided the head of his cock to her wet cunt, rubbing the tip against her sensitive folds. Draconia arched her back, the cold stone of the wall a stark contrast to the searing heat of him. He pushed inside her, the length of him sliding into her tight, wet heat. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the garden.
He began to fuck her with a rhythmic, heavy force. He moved his hips in deep, driving strokes, burying his cock deep inside her. Draconia gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he slammed into her. The sound of their bodies meeting was wet and heavy, a sharp contrast to the silent, melting statues. He pulled out almost entirely before plunging back in, the friction of his cock against her walls sending jolts of pleasure through her entire body.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a jagged rasp.
She opened her eyes, seeing the intensity in his gaze. He looked hungry, desperate, and entirely unpolished. He reached down, his thumb rubbing circles around her clitoris even as he continued to drive into her. The sensation was too much. She felt her muscles clench around his cock, the walls of her pussy squeezing him tightly.
"You are so tight," he groaned, his pace increasing. He was fucking her harder now, his thrusts becoming shorter and more violent. He leaned forward, pinning her more firmly against the wall, his chest heaving.
"Don't stop," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Just... don't stop."
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breathing loud and ragged. He was fucking her with a singular focus, his cock hitting her cervix with every heavy lunge. Draconia felt the tension building in her abdomen, a frantic, pulsing need. She watched the way his muscles moved under his skin, the way his sweat caught the dim light. He was a man, not a statue, and the heat he brought was more real than any of the ice.
"I'm close," he gasped, his movements becoming erratic. He thrust one last time, deep and hard, and she felt the hot spurt of his cum inside her. He shuddered against her, his body trembling as he came, filling her pussy with the warmth of his release.
The silence returned to the garden, broken only by their heavy, synchronised breathing. The heat of the act began to fade, replaced by the creeping chill of the night. Draconia felt the coldness of the stone through her thin dress, the reality of the world settling back over her. She felt the dampness of him inside her, a secret weight that felt too heavy to carry into the ballroom.
She reached for her dress, pulling it back up over her shoulders. She did not wait for him to help her. She reached for his jacket, which lay discarded on the grass, and draped it over herself. She smoothed her hair, her hands steadying as she regained her composure. She looked at the melting sculptures, the way they were losing their form, and felt a sudden, sharp need to be seen as someone who was not melting.
She turned to him, her expression unreadable, a mask of cool porcelain. She did not offer him a smile or a soft word. She simply straightened her spine and lifted her chin.
She ended it herself, again, deliberately, and walked back into the ball with her chin up.