Page 46 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Nipping her earlobe, he grunted in her ear. “You’ll come when I say, queen. Not a minute earlier.”

She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes as her relief built with every rock of his hips, every jolt of his cock inside of her.

“You’re mine , Guinevere.”

His fingers hovered between the place they were connected. “Do you want to finish?” A single finger pressed against her core, featherlight, barely there.

She nodded frantically, mouth still covered, her moan caught in her palm. Lancelot’s eyes burned. “Then ask.” He pulled his hand away, taking the pressure with him.

She let her hand fall from her mouth. “Please,” she gasped. “Please, Lancelot — let me… I need to-”

He pressed his fingers to her clit, rubbing merciless, slow circles. “Come for me, baby.” He rumbled in her ear, his own moans getting tangled with hers. “Now, with me inside of you.” He pressed harder. “Let them hear who you belong to.”

She shattered.

Her whole body trembled around him, pleasure ripping through her in waves so intense she thought she might break apart. Lancelot groaned, his cock twitching as she came. His grip bruising her hips as he thrust through her climax — chasing his own.

He found it in the crook of her neck, biting down as he came inside her with a low, shuddering curse.

For a long moment, the hallway was only breath. Harsh and hot. Her arms still around him, his forehead buried in her shoulder like he was praying. He continued rutting lazily into her, riding the waves of their shared orgasms.

“You’re perfect.” He whispered against her skin. “Perfect and mine. ”

They returned to the Hall like nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just taken her against the cold stone, as if she hadn’t clawed at his shoulders and come apart in his arms. There were glances, subtle eyes and gasps that followed them as they returned.

But they fell on deaf ears.

Guinevere’s braid was slightly looser than before. Her gown was a touch askew, a crease at her waist. Lancelot’s belt sat uneven, his sword buckled in haste, a smudge of lipstick at his jaw.

But they walked in calm. Regal. The picture of poise — if anyone dared to look them in the eye.

Morgana noticed first. Her goblet paused at her lips.

Then Percival. His brows furrowed, like he’d caught the scent of smoke.

Arthur, as always, saw nothing.

Guinevere retook her seat like a queen returning from war victorious. Lancelot stood behind her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.

A sentinel.

A wolf with blood on his teeth.

The music had shifted. Slower now. More somber.

She reached for her wine.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured.

“It’s nothing.” She felt her cheeks heat.

She could still feel him.

Warm, thick, claiming . His spend slipping from her with every step, a secret heat between her thighs that made sitting still a battle of will. Her thighs clenched beneath the table. Her wineglass trembled.

Lancelot, the bastard, knew. Of course, he knew.

He hadn’t been gentle.

Hadn’t pulled out.

Had marked her in every way he could have.

And now he stood at her back, expression stoic, but his gaze burned — daring someone to question the flush on her chest, the wreckage of her braid, the way her breath hitched every time she shifted in her chair.

Morgana’s gaze flicked from Guinevere’s mouth to her barely settled skirts, then to Lancelot’s loose belt and pinkened ears. She raised a brow.

Sipped her wine.

Said nothing.

Not yet.

The music lulled. A final toast rang out — something about the future, about legacy, about the gods smiling upon the new blood of Camelot.

The queen barely heard it. Her pulse was still in her throat, her skin fevered under her silks. Her wineglass trembled faintly in her grip each time she lifted it.

Morgana intercepted her on the way to the solar.

Just a flick of her wrist — elegant, precise — and Guinevere dismissed her handmaidens. Lancelot had been sent ahead under the pretense of checking the fire. He’d kissed her knuckles before leaving, but his mouth had lingered too long. His eyes had promised more.

Morgana’s smile was all silk and thorns. “You’re flushed, sister. ”

Gwen didn’t slow. “Wine.”

“Mm.” Morgana fell into step beside her, a step too close. “Was it wine that loosened your braid? Or the knight who buckled his sword on backwards?”

Guinevere kept her chin high. “If you have a point, I suggest you make it quickly.”

“Oh, I never rush. But you might want to. You’re… dripping.”

That stopped her. Just long enough for Morgana to circle.

“I don’t begrudge you,” the woman said softly. “Truly. I’d have done the same in your place. He’s beautiful when he’s angry.” Her gaze flicked down to Guinevere’s bodice. “And possessive.”

Guinevere’s hands clenched. “If you came to lecture me-”

“Oh, no.” Morgana’s smile sharpened. “I came to remind you that power is only power when you wield it on purpose . You could survive this… if you stop being ruled by hunger.”

Guinevere stepped into her space, chin lifted. “You think I’m not in control?”

“I think you hope you aren’t. I think you like the fall.” Morgana leaned in, her voice a purr. “Just be careful whose arms you land in.”

Then, before she could reply, Morgana stepped back with a curtsy that bordered on mockery, and disappeared into the corridor like smoke.