Page 35 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Guinevere whimpered for him, rocking down against his sloppy thrusts, her nails digging into his hair, his shoulders, anywhere she could reach.

The feeling of him inside her, the way his touch claimed every inch of her skin…

she was flying . It took everything she had in her not to lose herself, to stay here in this moment with him.

He encapsulated her.

Lancelot kissed along her neck frantically, crushed her against his chest, still grinding into her, helpless against the need clawing at him. "You’re mine," he rasped, against her mouth, low and feverish. "Say it."

"Yours," she managed, wrecked. "Yours. Only yours."

He shuddered hard, arms clamping tighter around her, cock twitching again inside her as if just her words could undo him all over again. "Gods , " he moaned, "Guinevere-"

They were both trembling, locked together, breathing each other’s air.

Lancelot's hands roamed desperately over her back, her waist, like he couldn't believe she was real beneath him. He twitched inside her again, lazy, overstimulated, but he still rocked up into her once, twice, wringing soft little whimpers from her lips.

"So good," he breathed against her throat, voice wrecked, reverent. " So fucking perfect."

He pressed open-mouthed kisses along her neck, slower now but no less hungry, groaning low when she shivered for him. Her voice wasn’t working, she couldn’t string sentences together.

"I could stay buried in you forever," he whispered, hips giving another helpless, needy grind. "I don’t want to leave. Don’t want to let you go."

His arms tightened around her like she was the only thing keeping him breathing. "Mine . " A softer growl now, but still absolute. "Always . "

And Guinevere, dazed and sated and utterly undone, curled her fingers into his hair and held him to her, as if she could tether him there — inside her, against her, around her — for as long as the world would allow.

She didn’t know how long they stayed there, tangled in the safety of each other.

A deep laugh rumbled from his chest.

Unwilling to break the perfect silence between them, she pulled back, furrowing her brow.

“I didn’t-” His voice was shaky. Running his hands up and down her sides gently, like he was reminding himself she was here. “I can’t-”

Guinevere cupped his face in her hands, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Lancelot,” she breathed, kissing him again. Her voice had returned. But — she didn’t want to utter another word for fear of shattering this moment.

“I can’t even think straight,” He confessed, heat flooding his cheeks.

A twinge of pride flashed inside of Gwen’s chest, followed by a larger rush of adoration, of love.

He let out another, shakier laugh, half in disbelief, half in exhaustion, as he slowly pulled out of her, his hands still quivering. She instantly felt hollow without him, without his warmth.

He tipped her backwards, laying her amongst the pillows. “Don’t move,” He leaned over, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She smiled up at him, boneless and dazed, watching as he stumbled to his feet like he wasn’t quite sure how his body was supposed to work anymore.

Lancelot dragged a blanket around her first, tucking it over her like he was afraid the night air might steal her away. His hands lingered for a beat longer, smoothing the fabric against her skin like he needed the reassurance of her warmth, her weight, her realness.

“I’ll-” He cleared his throat, voice still rough and wrecked. “I’ll be right back, dove. Don’t move.”

He disappeared into the adjoining room for a moment — she heard the splash of water, the frantic rustle of cloth — and then he was back, falling to his knees beside her on the bed like a man too desperate to waste time standing.

Gently, reverently, he pushed the blanket aside just enough to bare her thighs. His touch was featherlight, but his hands still trembled as he cleaned her up, murmuring half-coherent apologies under his breath even though she whimpered at the loss of him, not the discomfort.

“M’sorry, love,” he rasped, dragging the cloth over the mess between her legs with such tender care it made her chest ache. “So sorry. Should’ve been gentler, should’ve — gods, you’re perfect.”

She reached for him blindly, threading her fingers through his hair, and he leaned into her touch like he was starving for it .

"You were perfect," she whispered, her voice hoarse, raw with love and satisfaction. Lancelot shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe her, but he kissed the inside of her thigh in silent gratitude, trailing slow, reverent kisses up her skin until he reached her hips.

Because he had been perfect. Every part of their joining had been deliciously them .

It felt like her first time, like the first time she had ever shared her body with a man.

His touch alone, his reverent love, wiped away the king’s.

She could belong to Lancelot , and never have belonged to another man.

Quickly, as if unable to stand even a second more of being apart, he gathered her into his arms and crawled into the bed with her, wrapping himself around her as if he could shield her from the world.

Guinevere pressed her face into his chest, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him — leather, sweat, and something so uniquely Lancelot — and felt his heartbeat hammering against her cheek, still fast and ragged.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair, his voice wrecked and full of wonder.

Like he was still learning what it meant to have her, to be hers.

Like he might never stop marveling at it.

She tightened her arms around him. “I love you, too.”