Page 61 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

It was the shift in his breathing that woke her.

Not the sounds from outside, not some sudden noise in the inn — just the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. Slowing… deeper. Thick with an ache that was all too familiar.

She blinked, barely awake, realizing she was half sprawled on top of him.

One of her legs was draped over his, her arm curled across his stomach, fingers grazing skin.

His hand had slipped beneath the hem of her shift in his sleep, not groping, just resting — possessive , as if his body refused to let her go, even unconscious.

And beneath her thigh, she felt it.

The unmistakable press of him, thick and heavy and twitching softly with each breath.

“Lance,” she whispered, heat pooling low in her stomach.

His eyelids twitched — swallowed hard. And then his voice, thick with sleep, wrecked and low, “You’re dreaming on top of me.”

Guinevere huffed. “You’re the one dreaming.”

He cracked one eye open, unfocused but burning. “I can’t help it. You’re soft, warm.” His hips shifted, just a little, but enough to press his erection more firmly against her thigh. “I’ve missed you.”

“Gods, you’re-” She bit down on her lip, suddenly painfully aware of every inch of where their bodies touch.

“Just stay,” He whispered, voice hoarse, “Don’t move. Please.”

A peal of laughter escaped from her lips before she clamped her hand down over her mouth.

Unimpressed, Lancelot’s resting face turned into a scowl. “What, my queen? ”

“Seems like a lifetime ago that we were laying in a bed in an inn, and I was the one begging you not to move.” Her voice had gone soft, feeling overwhelmed with something akin to nostalgia.

“How could I forget?” His tone had quieted too, running his hand up her arm, leaving gooseflesh behind. “The sweet, virginal queen, overcome with lust for her handsome knight.”

“You’re very proud of yourself.” She felt her cheeks heat. “And I was hardly pure.”

“Never came — never counted.” He rolled them gently, careful not to pull at his stitches.

She could’ve stopped it. With a single word. One push.

But she didn’t.

She just stared up at him, lips parted, throat bare, her chest rising and falling beneath his. Her shift was tangled, bunched around her thighs. His skin was warm, inviting .

Then he kissed her.

Gods.

He wasn’t careful.

It was open-mouthed, messy, aching — the kind of kiss given when nights have been spent dreaming of someone's breath, someone’s heat, someone’s voice speaking a name just before coming undone. She opened to him like she was starving. Because she was.

Her hands tangled in his hair, thigh rising to cradle his hips.

Lancelot hissed, pulling back.

“God,” she whispered, untangling from him quickly.

“Don’t-” He was panting above her, eyes wild as he hovered above her. “I can take it.”

“Lancelot,” Fingers curled against “You can’t .

“No.” A wry grin curled at the corners of his lips. “ You can’t.”

Pushing himself off of her, he left the bed.

Gwen could hear him rustling before taking a place on the bed next to her.

In his hands… his belt. “ Mon amour , you’re the one who must show some…

restraint .” The mischievous glint in his eyes sent a lick of pleasure down her spine. “I know my limits, my love.”

He wrapped the belt loosely around her wrists. “Is this…?” He asked softly, all teasing absent .

Guinevere nodded, not trusting herself not to beg him.

His grin was back. “Ah ah,” The belt tightened. “You know the rules. Let me hear you .”

“You’ll hurt yourself,” but her hips jerked lightly, but her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

“No, I won’t.” He unwound the restraint, nodding for her to move upwards on the bed.

She obeyed wordlessly, breath stuttering as he dragged her shift over her head. She lay bare to him, struggling to hold on to the guilt she felt.

But the way he was looking at her…

“Say it, Guinevere.”

“Yes,” she breathed.

The grin that spread across his lips was devastating. He quickly bound her wrists, tying the belt off between slats on the headboard. Her breathing hitched again as he pressed his lips to her wrists, featherlight.

“Be a good girl and keep your legs on the bed.” He growled softly, mouth now at her throat. “Hate to have to rip up your pretty gown just to tie your ankles down, too.”

His lips trailed lower, slower . Leaving a trail of lazy, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone, across the slope of her chest.

Lancelot paused, teeth grazing her nipple. She arched her back, gasping. “My favorite part?” He whispered, lips fluttering around the hardened peak. “I don’t have to be gentle with you.”

His mouth closed around her nipple, rolling it less-than-gently between teeth and tongue. Tears pricked at the corners of Gwen’s eyes as she struggled against the restraints.

All she saw was pure, hot, white.

One hand slipped around her back, holding her against his lips. “Gods, Gwen.” He moaned against her heated skin. “Bet I could get you off just doing this. You’re so damn responsive.”

She whimpered, helpless , chest rising to meet his mouth, the belt taut above her head.

“Please,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if she was begging him to stop or keep going.

He looked up at her then — flushed, ravenous, and smiling like the devil had blessed him personally. “Please what, my queen?”

She could barely speak. Her voice cracked. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me to make you scream, just with my mouth, my fingers, my teeth, on your tits, baby? Is that what you want?” He had always been vocal in bed, but this…

This was enough to put her over the edge alone.

She didn’t trust her words once more. So she nodded, fingers flexing above her head.

“Wicked thing.” But he descended on her like a man starved, sucking her nipple into his mouth with a smirk still plastered across his face.

She writhed beneath him as he swirled his tongue over her sensitive skin, whimpering softly. “Like that?”

Another nod.

He replaced his tongue with teeth, using light pressure to squeeze her nipple between them.

She gasped, one leg moving upwards without her permission, desperately seeking his touch.

“Now,” he pulled back from her completely, the air cold around her slick skin. “I said…” His hand came down, pressing her leg into the bed with ease. “Legs. Down.”

“Touch me, Lance.” She panted, hips jerking, searching. “Please, touch me.”

“No.” He kneaded her in his hand, fingers brushing her nipple once more. “This is what you asked for. This is what you’ll get.” His words were sterner now as he pinched, hard , on her nipple.

Her back arched again, puny pleas tugging from her lips as she waited.

And he waited too.

Waited until she was trembling again, eyes wet, lips bitten raw from trying to hold back every whimper that still managed to escape her throat.

“You feel that?” he murmured, pinching her nipple between two fingers and twisting just enough to make her cry out. “That burn in your stomach? That ache between your legs?” He leaned in, breath hot against her mouth. “That’s mine. ”

Her breath hitched. His voice was low, reverent now, hungry in a different way.

“You begged for this,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to the corner of her lips. “Begged me to be gentle.” His hand traveled lower, dragging along the edge of her ribs, across her trembling stomach. “So I’m going to be. Slowly. Until you can’t remember your own name.”

She shuddered violently, toes curling into the sheets.

“But I remember,” he growled, brushing his knuckles just above her navel, so close to where she ached she nearly sobbed. “I remember what it is. Guinevere. My queen.”

He ducked down again, lips trailing a hot path between her breasts this time, his stubble scraping deliciously against oversensitive skin. “Say it,” he demanded, voice raw, vibrating through her ribs.

“Please,” she gasped. “Lancelot. Please… please .”

He laughed — dark, wrecked, heady with pride and need. “Gods, I’ll never get enough of you saying that.”

His fingers finally slid between her thighs, pressing lightly against her opening, and he groaned — low, filthy, reverent. “So wet,” he murmured, dragging one knuckle up through her arousal, watching her twitch. “You were like this just from my mouth, sweetheart? Just from me using you a little?”

She whimpered in response, hips jerking again, helpless beneath him. “Stay still,” he growled, pinning her thighs apart with a forearm as he slid the other hand beneath the thin cloth. He found her instantly slick and pulsing. “Fuck, Gwen…”

Her eyes fluttered open just long enough to meet his — and what she saw nearly undid her. Not just lust, but awe. Worship. Hunger. A kind of sacred ruin.

He didn’t rush.

Instead, his fingers circled her clit with maddening slowness, barely grazing, watching how her back bowed, how her hands strained above her head.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me have it. Let me ruin you.”

One finger slipped inside, and she cried out, head pressing back into the pillow, hips lifting desperately.

“Shhh,” he soothed, though his voice was anything but calm.

He was shaking now, too, pressed tight between her legs, watching her unravel.

“Tight little thing… Fuck, I want to be inside you so bad. But not yet. Not until you’ve come on my fingers, my tongue — not until you scream for me. ”

Another finger. A curl of his wrist. He leaned in, lips at her throat again, biting softly, whispering filth against her skin.

Lancelot crept down the length of her body, and she could feel the way he grinned as she continued to moan.

His fingers moved lazily inside of her, just enough to pull every nerve in her body tight. “I know what you need,” he whispered, his head between her thighs now.

It took all of her willpower to keep her legs on the bed.

His breath was hot against her core, agonizing her in all the best ways. His lips closed around her clit, and it was almost over right then.