A quiet morning in the sunroom. The world outside is buzzing with affairs of state, but my world has condensed to the scent of his favorite tea, left half-finished on the table, and the ghost of his warmth on the silk robe I'm wearing. It's his, of course. It smells of him. I'll wear it until he comes home and I can give it back, skin to skin. The courtiers whisper about my transformation. They think the 'Ice Princess' melted. They don't understand. I didn't melt. I was a perfectly carved statue, beautiful and cold, and then he looked at me. He didn't just see the crown; he saw me. And in that look, I was not melted, but ignited. Every nerve, every thought, every beat of my heart now exists to burn for him. The cold was never my nature. It was just the long, lonely wait for the fire that would make me real.

Sometimes, the intensity of it frightens me. The need to feel his cock buried to the hilt in my cunt isn't just lust; it's the only way to quiet the primal fear that this perfect dream could end. When he comes inside me, when his cum floods my pussy, it's a tangible promise. A claim. Proof that I am his, in the most fundamental way a woman can belong to her man. I crave that proof more than I ever craved a throne. The thought of his seed taking root... of my belly swelling with his child... it's the only ambition I have left. Let the kingdom have its politics. My kingdom is the space between his arms, and my only duty is to please my king.