Page 39 of To Love a Dark Lord

“Mordred—” she said through a gasp. “Please…”

He kissed her thigh before working his way back up, pausing to lick and bite at her nipples again, hard enough to sting without hurting her. He didn’t make her beg—he was obviously experiencing as much need as she was. Mordred hooked one of her legs over his arm, her knee in the crook of his elbow.

The kiss he gave her was searing but not harsh as he drove himself into her—slow and unstoppable, like a force of nature. Her cry of bliss was muffled against his lips, tangling with his own guttural growl of pleasure as he sank himself to the hilt.

This wasn’t about sex. This wasn’t like their rougher forays. This was about love. About them. The future might be uncertain, but this wasn’t. This was known. And this would last for as long as they were both alive.

He rocked himself in her. Even when he was being gentle, she felt every inch of him stretch her, pressing in all the right places. It was just on the line of too much, and it was perfect. Neither of them could go for long, exhausted and injured as they both were.

Mordred took pity on her. He broke the kiss to pull in a deep and ragged breath as he picked up his pace, sending her to new heights as he drove them both to the crescendo that waited for them.

She could only gasp out his name as she clung to him.

The muscles in his back tensed as he rammed himself into her to the hilt. The sensation of him surging inside of her was enough to send her into her own peak of ecstasy. He buried his head into the crook of her elbow to muffle his roar before suddenly wrapping his arms around her, sitting back on his heels with her on his lap, straddling him, without breaking their union.

The extra pressure of her weight drove him farther, and she swore her eyes rolled back into her head at the sensation of it all. Mordred clutched her close, arms circling her, as he twitched and spasmed in his release as her own body tightened around him in waves.

When Gwen could think straight again, she was unsure of how much time had passed. Mordred was kissing her again tenderly, trying to pull her back down to reality.

“I thought…you were going to take it easy on me,” she murmured.

“I did.” His smile was just a bit fiendish. He gently placed her on the grass before lying down beside her, pulling his cloak up over them both. It’d do for a blanket. She was too exhausted to try to summon anything better. “Trust me. That was far sweeter than what I will do to you later.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” She snuggled into him, resting her head on his arm. He wasn’t wearing his armor at least—talk about a shitty pillow if he had been.

“It is not a threat; it is a promise.”

“It’s a turn of phrase.” She yawned, already feeling sleep coming for her. And this time, she wouldn’t be invading anybody’s mind. Maybe it’d actually be restful for once.

He kissed the back of her head. “Sleep, my firefly. We resume our travel at first light. There is much to contend with come the morrow…”

There was. And the darkness in his voice made it obvious what he was talking about. But at least for now, she could pretend that this was all that was waiting for them. That there wouldn’t be a war. That there wouldn’t be a slaughter.

That she wouldn’t have to try to stop the man she loved.

Try being the operative word.

FOURTEEN

Mordred was happier than he could remember being for a very, very long time. Though to be truthful, it was hardly terribly difficult to achieve. But now—for this brief moment—he felt no crushing weight upon him. No grasp around his heart.

He was atop his stallion, with Gwendolyn sitting in front of him. She had clearly learned to apparate clothing, which would be very convenient for her. And her choice of style meant that, being taller than her, he had a rather wonderful downward view into her blouse.

It was a challenge not to stare. Instead, he distracted himself with the view of the landscape as they rode. He kept them to a brisk walk, neither wishing to hurry the journey back nor neglect those waiting for them at his keep.

Gwendolyn shivered, and Mordred pulled his cloak around them both. The fall was quickening toward winter, and the air smelled of an early winter storm. It had been three hundred years since he had seen snow—and he smiled at the thought of it.

His thoughts drifted back to those waiting at his keep. There would be an army—her army—camped outside his doors. Or, worse, inside his halls. He cringed at the mental image of a hundred villagers ruining his home.

The floors would never be the same again.

And what of the ragtag army’s commander? What of their Lady Gwendolyn? Mordred kissed the top of her head. She smiled up at him in return. His Lady Gwendolyn, leader of the common people. He did not bother asking her if she understood what it would mean for those who chose to fight. She had watched the ends of Lancelot and Grinn. She knew what death was. But one question remained. One that had been puzzling him all morning.

“Whose idea was it for you to lead an army?” He smiled again, amused at the thought of her standing on a chair giving some raucous speech to embolden her troops.

Gwen snorted. “Not mine. Bert the scarecrow.” She paused, her mood falling. “I was on the fence about…about stopping the elementals. About doing anything at all. Bert took me to see some of his friends in that city just southwest of the keep.”

When she didn’t continue, he draped an arm around her, gently resting it in her lap. “And?”

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