Page 62 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

She bucked off the bed, an indiscernible noise escaping from her mouth. He sucked gently, and she was so overcome with arousal… with lust… that she almost missed the third finger he slipped in, stretching her deliciously.

“Come on, baby,” He groaned against her as her hips jerked across him. She broke — body tensing, head thrown back in a silent scream before the sound finally tore from her throat. He kept going, fingers thrusting, tongue circling, coaxing every last tremor from her body.

Only when she went limp, trembling and whimpering, did he finally stop, pulling his hand free, slick with proof of her need. “ Mon Dieu ,” he whispered, sucking gently on his finger. “You’ve never been so quick.”

She was still gasping, trembling under him, when his fingers left her. She whimpered at the loss — but then she heard the unmistakable sound of a bed creaking. Felt the shift in the mattress.

Her breath caught.

“Lance…”

“Shh.” He kissed her again, softer this time, but it didn’t ease the heat in his eyes. “You said yes, Guinevere.”

His name was a prayer on her lips.

He pulled her hips down toward the edge of the bed, adjusting her legs so they spread wider for him. “Stay still,” he warned again, voice rougher now, more ragged with need.

She nodded frantically, wrists flexing against the belt above her.

He pressed the blunt head of his cock against her entrance, teasing. Not pushing in. Just letting her feel him. “You’re still dripping,” he growled. “Do you even know what you do to me? What it does to me, seeing you like this — bound, begging, mine?”

She could barely breathe. “Lancelot. Please.”

And that was it. That was all it took.

He sank into her slowly, watching every inch disappear inside her heat. A guttural sound tore from his throat, and he gripped her hips hard, anchoring himself as he bottomed out. “ Fuck , Gwen.”

She cried out, the stretch overwhelming, glorious. Her legs shook with restraint, the need to wrap them around him, pull him in deeper, but she obeyed. She kept them on the bed.

He thrust shallowly at first, torturous and slow, like he had all night. And then — her hips lifted, need overriding obedience. He stopped.

“You want to break the rules, baby?” he said, voice a growl against her ear.

A nod.

He didn’t stop moving. If anything, he thrust deeper, harder — like he wanted to leave her ruined.

And then his mouth was on her breast again.

“Gods, I missed this,” he groaned against her skin. “You come so fucking hard when I do this, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His teeth closed over her nipple again, rough, relentless. Her moan was hoarse, almost voiceless.

She arched, helpless, wrists straining against the belt. The pressure, the bite, the rhythm of his hips — it was too much. It was everything.

“Again?” His voice was muffled around her flesh, soaked with sweat and heat and filthy adoration. “Come just from this? From my cock and my mouth and my teeth ?”

She sobbed, nodding violently, hips jerking up into him.

“That’s it — give it to me.” He bit down harder, just enough to hurt, just enough to drive her mad. “Come for me like this. Hands tied. My mouth on your tits. My cock so deep inside you it aches.”

Her whole body seized, a broken, desperate cry tearing from her throat as she shattered beneath him — again.

She was still trembling, whimpering with aftershocks, when he finally let go of her nipple with a wet pop. The sight of her — flushed, bound, spread out — was too much.

“Holy… fuck, Guinevere,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “You’re going to undo me.”

His pace turned brutal, erratic, no rhythm now, just a desperate, hungry pounding as he chased the edge she’d dragged him to. Her body welcomed him, clenched tight around him, still fluttering.

She was moaning still, dazed, the sound of it unmaking him. “Want to feel you,” she breathed, and that was it. “Inside me.”

His hips slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt.

“Gods — fuck, Gwen.”

He came with a roar, spine bowed, arms trembling on either side of her. He swore again, gasping into her shoulder as he emptied inside her, thick and hot and endless.

She could feel it, every pulsing beat of it, filling her so deeply she swore it hit her heart.

His body collapsed over hers, still panting, still twitching with the aftershocks. Then he kissed her — messy, aching, almost reverent.

“You know,” Lancelot murmured against her neck eventually, still barely moving, “I’m starting to think tying you up might be the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Guinevere let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Better than declaring yourself the Queen’s Champion in front of Arthur?”

“Oh, that’s a close second,” he said, grinning against her skin. “But I didn’t come in my pants during that one.”

She snorted. “Still not letting you live that down.”

“I don’t want you to,” he replied, cocky and sweet at once. He nudged his nose against her cheek, then bit lightly at her jaw. “I like knowing you can wreck me without even trying.”

“You’re just saying that because I let you maul my tits like a rabid animal. ”

His eyes sparked. “Let me?” He pulled back just enough to glance down at her chest, flushed and marked. “Sweetheart, you begged.”

“I was tied up!”

“And moaning. ” He pressed a lazy kiss to her lips, then trailed one to her temple. “Absolutely ruined. And still trying to get your legs around me.”

Guinevere smiled, eyelids heavy. “You’re insufferable.”

Lancelot reluctantly pulled back, eyes dark with lingering desire but full of care. “If it pleases you, my queen, it’s time to get you out of those binds before you start thinking you’re a prisoner.”

He deftly untied the belt from the headboard, then slowly worked the knot around her wrists, careful not to rush or cause any discomfort. His fingers brushed hers once free, a silent apology and promise wrapped in that small touch.

Guinevere flexed her fingers, savoring the return of movement but already missing the delicious restraint. “You’re so cruel, you know that?”

He grinned, leaning down to press a kiss into the hollow of her wrist. “Only to you.”

Rising, Lancelot grabbed a cloth from the basin, dipping it into the tepid water. He came back to her side, brushing the damp cloth between her legs, cleaning her of the mess he had made.

He returned with a second cloth, a cooler one, and gently brushed it over the proof he had left on her chest. Small bruises and bite marks. “I would say I’m sorry…” He tossed the rag aside carelessly.

“I know you’re not.” She allowed herself to be pulled against his side, warm and sated. “Are you hurt? Did anything pull?”

He sat up, turning his injured side to face her. “Not a scratch.” He kissed her softly. “Told you I wasn’t the one to worry about.”

Their breath fell into rhythm, the fire crackling low. Guinevere drifted first, her fingers curled lightly against the planes of his chest. Lancelot followed soon after, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other tucked behind his head, peace settling over them like a balm.

They slept wrapped around each other — messy, warm, and completely theirs.