Page 15 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

They arrived in the next town just as the sun was cresting over the horizon. The evening chill hadn’t yet taken the air, and Guinevere’s limbs felt like thick sludge.

Lancelot had been right — riding like this was nothing like her quick gallops around Camelot. She wasn’t sure she would ride a horse again after she returned.

She stood behind him as he chartered a room for them, her stomach giving a small jump as he passed the coins over. This inn shared a wall with a small tavern, and her knight had paid extra to have food brought to their door.

Of course he had.

Of course, he would think of everything.

Even this. Even… privacy.

She followed him up the narrow steps in silence, trailing the scent of roasting meat and ale, the creak of wood beneath their boots too loud in the hush between them. Her thighs ached. Her back was screaming. But it was nothing compared to the tightness in her chest.

He opened the door with a wordless gesture and stepped aside for her to enter first.

The room was small — painfully so. A single bed. A washbasin in the corner. A window cracked to let in the breeze.

It would not be the first night they spent in such quarters. But this one felt different.

This one had context. History. A morning.

Guinevere stood at the foot of the bed, not moving. Not daring to turn around.

She heard the door shut. Heard the shift of his weight as he leaned against it.

She wished he would say something.

She wished she knew what she wanted him to say.

When she finally turned, he was watching her with that unreadable expression he wore like armor. One hand on the hilt of his sword, still belted around his waist. The same sword she’d knighted him with. The same hands that had held her like she were sacred.

“You should rest,” he said quietly. “I’ll take the floor.”

She hated how much that disappointed her.

“I don’t…” Gwen paused. Started again. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He unstrapped his sword, methodical as always. “What happened this morning… it won’t happen again.”

Her throat went dry.

Not because he said it — but because part of her wanted him to be wrong.

“…Right,” she said, nodding, even though he wasn’t looking at her.

“You’re the queen.”

“You say that like I don’t wake up queen every day, Lancelot.” She snapped back, fire igniting in her veins as he tried to explain away whatever happened between them this morning. “Tell me I’ve let my mind run away with fantasies,” she said, softer now. “And I will never speak of this again.”

She had her eyes cast downwards, couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I swore to only speak the truth.” She could have mistaken his voice for the breeze.

Guinevere reached for him, but her hand hovered in the space between them, empty. Curling her fingers back to her chest, she let out a sigh. “Very well, knight.” She turned her back to him again, pressing her hands into the mattress. “Floor it is.”

They didn’t speak while they waited for the food, the tension in the air growing thicker by the minute. Gwen perched on the edge of the bed, peeling off her boots.

The dusty shoes fell to the floor with a heavy thud as she tried to massage the feeling back to her feet. “God, how do people do this day in and day out?” She muttered, more to herself than to her companion — but he laughed.

“We wear better shoes,” Lancelot answered, kneeling before her. “May I?” He nodded towards her now-bare feet.

“I’m perfectly capable of massaging my own sore muscles,” she said, a little harsher than she intended.

“You can try, but…” His throat bobbed, and she watched as his jaw tensed. Gently, so carefully, he took one of her feet in his hand, pressing his thumbs into the arch.

Gwen had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering. He was right. There was no way she could have eased the ache that proficiently.

“Years on the road…” He mused quietly, a smile tugging at the co rner of his mouth. “Not good for much. But you learn the best ways to ease an aching muscle.” He worked his thumbs down the length of her foot. She pressed the back of her hand against her lips, fighting for self control.

His touch grew lighter, the pressure lessening. Gwen felt the shift, the pause, the tension winding between them like a pulled bowstring.

She lowered her hand from her mouth. “Lancelot,” she warned — though whether it was a warning to him or herself, she couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t look up. Instead, his fingers traced the delicate line of her ankle, feather-light, reverent. “Say the word, and I’ll stop,” he murmured. “I am at your mercy, my queen.”

Guinevere’s breath stuttered, heart thrumming loudly in her chest. Her hand moved of its own accord, trailing down the curve of his jaw. She tilted his chin up. It was everything she could do not to fall headfirst into his piercing eyes.

“I knew,” He whispered into the silence of the room.

“That night, I would never be the same.” His eyes sparkled with something she couldn't decipher.

“You can try to hide behind a mask, Guinevere — but the woman with fire in her spirit, the woman with rebellion in her eyes? She captured my heart, and all we shared was a dance.”

“What?” She rose, skirting away from his touch. “You’ve known?” Tugging a hand through her ragged locks, she couldn’t decide if she was furious or relieved. “You’ve known this whole time?”

Lancelot stood slowly, as if his movements might make her flee. “Of course I knew.” His voice had dropped lower, darker. “You imprinted yourself on my very soul, highness. ”

“You-”

She didn’t finish. His hands were on her before she could complete her thought. Her back hit the wall, and he was there. Pulled together after what felt like ages apart.

His hand found her waist, her jaw, her hair. Like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of her under his skin.

But not his lips.

His mouth hovered near her ear, the sound of his labored breaths sending a wave of desire right to her core. “Do you want me to show you,” her fingers curled into his hair, taking apart the neat bun, “How that kiss was supposed to end?”

Her eyes fluttered shut as she nodded, lost to the fury of attraction now.

He grasped her chin, pulling her back down to earth. “Let me hear you say it, queen .” He demanded. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” she repeated without hesitation. “Please, Lance.”

His lips met hers with such an intensity, she thought she might faint. His hands were instantly in her hair, tugging just enough to make her moan against his kiss, enough to tilt her head upwards to meet his fire.

He cradled her face like she was fragile, but from the way his lips moved against hers, he knew she wasn’t. He gently nipped at her bottom lip, filling every fiber of her being with heat.

She gasped, hands sliding from his hair to his chest, clutching at his bedraggled tunic. He kissed down the length of her jaw, the scratch of his beard adding to the sensations, causing her to pull him closer, begging for more.

He willingly obliged. In one motion, he had her off of the ground, legs secured around his waist. His hands cupped her backside, kneading gently.

“Lance,” she panted, eyes threatening to roll back in her head as his hips jerked against her.

With her caged against the wall, his hands were roaming her body again. Raking up her thighs, gripping her through the thin material of his breeches.

Gripping at her hips, gently rocking her in time with his motions.

Grasping at her breast, passing his thumb over her peaked nipple. She moaned, head rolling backwards.

“You like that?” He murmured against the skin of her neck. Rolling her nipple over the fabric of her shirt. “Let me hear you,” he purred against the skin of her neck.

She couldn’t form words, not with his fingers playing her like an instrument, not with his lips claiming any piece of skin they could reach.

Not with the sound of his ragged breaths in her ear, hot and heavy.

“Tell me, queen.” He nipped at her earlobe, hands steadying on her hips. “Tell me how he touches you.” Her breath hitched.

Her fingers fumbled on the ties of his tunic, finding herself desperate to feel his skin beneath her hands. He deftly snatched both of her wrists with one of his hands, pulling back from her.

Guinevere hated how she felt instantly empty without his touch.

“Tell me how he sets your skin alight, darling.” His eyes were hooded, lips pressed into a firm line.

She blushed, breaking his eye contact. “He-” Teeth worrying her bottom lip, she felt suddenly too small for her skin. “He doesn’t.”

“ Oh .” Was all he said.

All she heard.

Before she was moving, he carried her to the bed, depositing her on her back. He was hovering over her, hands braced on either side of her head.

His lips connected softly with her cheek, her jaw, her eyelids. “Let me show you how you deserve to be touched, my queen.” It wasn’t just a statement, it was a question. A beg for permission.

Still having lost her voice, she brought his lips back to hers, but the lust soaked desire did not leak into this kiss. Her hands in his hair, she felt like a woman freed. His movements were soft, precise. Like he was suddenly afraid of the fire that sparked between them.

He kissed across her skin as his mouth trailed lower, past her neck, over her collarbone. Balancing himself on an elbow, he tugged her tunic over her breasts.

His lips grazed her peaked nipple, eliciting a hiss from the woman beneath him. “God,” he muttered, lips brushing her as he spoke. “How could a man not want to drag these sounds from you, Highness?” With his free hand, he tweaked her other nipple, grinning as she arched her back into his hand.

“Tell me,” He paused his ministrations, an arrogant smile stretching across his face. “Does he touch you? Or just take what he thinks he is owed?” Before she could answer, he ran his tongue over the length of her breast, sucking the hardened peak into his mouth.