Page 50 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She nodded, afraid her voice would betray her.

His hand came down, sharp, not cruel, on the curve of her ass. She gasped, tried to rise on her elbows, but he caught her again, forcing her back down with a hand between her shoulders.

Then he spread her legs and just… stared . She writhed, desperate, humiliated by how wet she was already. By how he hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Please,” she whispered .

“I’m not finished.” He gripped her hips, angled her upwards slightly, and pressed the tip of his cock to her entrance — but didn’t push. Just held it there. Throbbed there.

She rocked backwards, a cry in her throat as she sought his pressure. “Lancelot-” She felt him hovering over her, caging her. She writhed beneath his grasp, trying to force him to move.

To do anything .

But he didn’t budge. Didn’t even twitch.

“Up,” He demanded, his hands flexing around her waist. “On your knees.”

Guinevere obeyed. She couldn’t think past his erection, past the pleasure she was desperate to receive. Once up on her hands and knees, she turned her head, trying to look at him.

Lancelot’s hands drifted down to her thighs, pressing them together. His cock slid between her legs, brushing against her entrance, just skimming through her heat.

“Please, Lancelot,” she rocked back again, but found no relief as he thrusted between her thighs.

“What, queen?” He growled, bucking his hips. “You were so keen to make demands of me moments ago.” A deep laugh rumbled from his chest, sending a jolt of pleasure through her.

“I am your sword,” another thrust, another desperate wave of need for him.

“Your shield.” His hands left her legs, curling around her throat, pulling her up, flush against his chest.

“Your champion,” Her hands clutched at his arm, eyes rolling in the back of her head as she felt him adjust himself, once more dragging the tip of his dick against her .

“But you,” he pushed into her, just the head of his cock sliding through her heat. “You, beloved , you’re mine.”

She whimpered, rolling her hips, desperate for him. With his hand around her throat, his mouth on her neck, and his other hand slipping up to cup her breast, he sheathed himself inside of her, to the hilt.

Gwen’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, hips jerking as he set the pace. His fingers tightened around her throat, not constricting — claiming.

“I will stand for you,” He panted, his breath ragged against her skin. His fingers tweaked her nipple, pinching. “I will fight for you.”

His thrusts came quicker. She tried to meet him, but her own movements were erratic, the catch of her breath barely enough.

“Lancelot,” she breathed, releasing his wrist, snaking up behind his head to hold him against her.

Fingernails dug into his scalp.

Teeth bore into her skin.

Whimpers turned into moans.

“And we, mon amour, ” He dropped his hand from her chest, sliding it between her legs to circle her clit. “We will tear Camelot down with our own hands.” He pressed his thumb against her.

And she shattered with a cry. Were it not for his hands holding her — the way they always held her — she would have collapsed into a heap.

He continued rutting into her, his own words becoming nonsense as pleasure overtook him. The twitch of his cock, the warmth of his spend spilling inside of her, was almost enough to send her over the edge again.

Her vision swam, fingers clutched at his arms, his wrists, just to stay grounded. “Fuck,” he snarled as he continued to grind into her, chasing the last bit of pleasure she could offer him. “Fuck you, Guinevere.”

She made a half-hearted noise of protest at his words, too boneless to argue.

“Fuck you for falling in love with me.” His hands were shaking as he brushed her hair off of her shoulder. “Fuck you for being the only person alive that can have this effect on me.”

A gentle smile washed across her features as she melted fully into him. “Fuck you.” His lips were against her neck again, softer this time. “For thinking I’d let him kill you to save me.”

Her body trembled against his. His breath still came in shudders, forehead pressed against her shoulder. “Fuck you,” He whispered, quieter now, “for making me want to live.”

Her laugh cracked on a sob. She twisted in his arms — weak and boneless, but no less furious — and gripped his face between her hands.

He slipped out of her with her movements, leaving an ache of emptiness inside of her.

“Then live , you idiot. Stop throwing yourself on swords like it proves something.”

“And you?” he growled, eyes flashing. “Begging me to touch you just so you could forget him ? Is that what you call surviving?”

“I wanted to feel something . I wanted to feel you. ” Her voice shook. “Is that so unforgivable?”

Lancelot didn’t answer, just pulled her closer to him, crushing her against his chest. His hand came to cradle the back of her neck.

“I don’t want your death, you idiot,” she whispered through unshed tears. “I want your life. Your stupid, broken, stubborn life.” A quiet sob escaped her lips as her fingers searched for purchase on his skin. “You don’t get to die for me and call it devotion.”

He closed his eyes like it hurt to hear. Maybe a piece of her wanted it to.

“If you die, Lancelot, he wins.” Her voice choked around the words, a truth she wasn’t ready to express just yet. He didn’t speak. Just pressed his face to the side of her throat and held her like he could anchor them both that way. His arms were shaking, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

“He wins,” she whispered again. “I lose you. I lose everything. ”

Lancelot let out a long breath, ragged and low. His mouth brushed her skin. “You have me,” he said, like a prayer. “As long as I can breathe. And after, if I can find a way.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands found his hair, his jaw, desperate just to touch him — like she could press her love into his bones. “You don’t get to leave me,” she whispered. “Not when I finally found you.”

He drew back, just enough to meet her eyes. There was fire there still — but quieter now.

Banked.

Wrecked.

“Then don’t make me watch him break you,” he said. “Don’t make me kneel to him just to keep you breathing.”

She kissed him — slow, aching, too tender for how ruined they both were. When she pulled away, their foreheads stayed pressed together. “What do we do?” Her tears burned as they escaped down her cheek.