Page 130 of Propriety
She reached up and touched his arm. “No one followed us,” she murmured.
His jaw flexed. “I know.”
She sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around her waist. “Then why do you look like you’re waiting to die?”
His throat bobbed. “Because I don’t know what to do now. For the first time in my life, I’ve got nothing to fight except the silence. And I think it might be worse.”
She said nothing, just leaned against him until his body softened slightly under the weight of her. After a long pause, she said, “Then let’s fill it.”
“With what?”
48
Guinevere reached for his hand and guided it to her chest, over the steady thrum of her heartbeat. “With this,” she whispered. “With breath. With warmth. With the knowledge that we’re alive. That we chose each other.”
Lancelot swallowed hard, eyes locked on hers. “You undo me,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “Every time.”
She leaned in, brushing her lips to his, just once, soft as silk. “Then be undone.”
He kissed her again, deeper now, as if starving. As if he’d waited through fire and steel and silence just for the taste of her mouth. His hand cradled the back of her head, the other pressing against the small of her back as he pulled her into his lap.
Guinevere’s legs parted to straddle him, the cloak slipping from her shoulders. Without hesitation, she pulled the tunic up and over her head, bearing herself to him. He let out a shuddering breath — half groan, half prayer.
“Gwen,” His voice caught. “Guinevere. Are you sure?”
She pressed her forehead to his, noses brushing. “I’ve never been surer than when I’m by your side, Lancelot.”
His mouth found her neck, reverent kisses trailing down her throat as his hands roamed slowly, carefully. Her back, her ribs, the curve of her waist. Each touch was grounding, steadying, as if he was anchoring himself to the fact that she was here, whole, and his.
His lips trailed lower still, pressing greedy kisses to the swell of her breast. “You’re shaking again.” He whispered, his breath hot against her skin.
“I know,” she breathed. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” he promised, and meant it with every inch of his soul.
“Lance.” she arched her back as his mouth trailed lower, lips brushing over her nipple. A grin twitched on his lips as he swirled his tongue over the hardened peak.
Her hands found his hair, tugging hard enough to drag a hiss from his mouth. “There she is.” The feel of his breath against her skin just about sent her over the edge.
“I need you,” she panted, scrabbling at the hem of his tunic. He helped her pull it over his head, her nails scraping down his chest. “Now, Lance.”
He didn’t make her ask again.
He shifted with a groan, guiding her down onto the bedroll, his mouth finding hers in kisses that stole the air from her lungs. She clung to him, fingers sliding across the hard planes of his back as he settled between her thighs.
He moved lower, his mouth now near her navel, pressing lingering kisses against her skin.
“No,” she whispered, tugging him back up. “I wantyou.” Her hands pushed his trousers down, a wicked grin on her face when she took his cock in her hands, pumping gently. “Not your mouth. Not your hands.”
“Fuck,” his teeth found her shoulder, desperate and sharp, as she toyed with him, dragging her hand along his shaft, pressing the head of him against her slick entrance.
“Please, Lancelot,” she whimpered, one leg hitching around his waist.
With a gentle rock of his hips, he sheathed himself inside of her. When he pressed into her, slow and unhurried, her breath caught sharply in her throat. Her hands gripped his shoulders, grounding herself.
“Gods… Lance-” It was too much and not enough. The stretch of him, the weight, the way he filled her, like she was built for this — for him. “Harder.” her nails dug into his skin as she rolled her hips.
He descended on her messily, their kiss a clash of teeth and tongue. It was sloppy, it was righteous. She moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed her down like a prayer.
