Page 64 of Propriety
Dirty. Exhausted. Bruised. His shirt stiff with dried blood. Gaunt cheeks, cracked lips, eyes ringed in shadows.
He’s alive.
His hands hovered by her hips, like he was afraid to touch her without permission, afraid she would float away.
“Please,” Guinevere whispered, blinking back tears.
He pulled her against his chest. Strong, solid,steady. A whimper escaped from her mouth as she clutched at his ratty tunic. “You’re so thin.” He whispered into her hair, his hand slipping beneath her shift, not seeking anything more than warmth, the proof of her. “Guinevere,” He sounded strained, worried.
“I thought you were dead.”
“I almost was.”
She sniffed, brow furrowing. “That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
She pulled back from the warmth of his chest, scowling at him.
He pressed his lips to the space between her eyebrows, and herheart skittered. “I would die a thousand deaths to look at that ridiculous excuse of a glare,mon amour.”
“Lancelot?” She was holding a fistful of his shirt in her hand, holding him close.
He quirked an eyebrow, leaning forward to press his forehead to her.
“Tell me something wicked.”
Something almost feral flashed in his eyes as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
One of his hands slipped out of her dress, cupping her neck. His thumb stroked her cheek, and she felt like she might fall apart.
He’s alive.
He moved to her right, his breath hot against her ear. “There’s only one man that has had the pleasure of feeling your climax, my queen.” He chuckled, his voice thick with pride — possessive. “And it wasn’t your husband.”
She gasped, a deep flush darkening her cheeks. And… a stirring bloomed to life between her thighs.
A feeling she was certain she would never feel again. “Lance,” she murmured, gently pulling his chin so he was facing her again.
She didn’t ask.
She didn’t wait.
She didn’t wilt.
Guinevere stretched up, pressing her lips to his. He tasted of sweat, of dirt, and of blood.
He hesitated, and she feared he would pull away from her. Her hand slipped up to the nape of his neck, holding him against her.
“Gwen,” He muttered, his lips brushing hers.
“I am here.” She whispered, “I want to be whole again.” But she released the back of his neck.
“Wholeness will take time, my heart.” He pressed a kiss to her nose, her forehead, her cheek. “Can we-” He inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Can we rest?” His breath faltered with a short laugh. “I have thought of very little, but how you curl into me while you’re asleep. Of very little, but how I would do anything to hold you one more night.”
A smile teased the corner of her mouth. She nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.
Lancelot rose, pulling her up with him. He seemed unsteady on his feet, listing gently in one direction as he did. Guinevere led him to the edge of the bed, motioning for him to sit.
