Page 63 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Morning light spilled across the sheets in pale gold, soft and quiet. The inn was still. Somewhere downstairs, someone was stirring a pot, but in their little room above the world, time didn’t seem to move.

Lancelot was tangled half around her, one leg flung over hers, arm tucked under her waist. His face was pressed into her neck, breathing her in like he needed it. And Guinevere… Guinevere was smiling.

It had been a long while since she had felt relaxed… both in body and in spirit. She knew they couldn’t stay in Kineton forever, but it felt like they had restored a little piece of themselves here.

“You think too loudly in the morning.” He mumbled into her skin.

Her grin widened. “Because you’ve never experienced thought, I must keep my own quiet?”

A light pinch on her hip, followed by a failed attempt to control her laughter.

Lancelot groaned, clearly pretending to be offended. “I’ll have you know I’ve had at least two whole thoughts in my life. One of them was about kissing you, and the other was about doing it again.”

Guinevere rolled toward him, mock-serious. “Oh? And which one led to you tying me to the bed?”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “A very powerful third thought. It came on suddenly. Divine inspiration.”

She burst out laughing, burying her face in his shoulder to muffle the sound. “You’re terrible.”

“I love that sound.” Pressing his fingers into her ribs again, drawing another chime of giggles from her. She tucked her head against his throat, desperately trying to stifle the sound.

He grinned like a boy who’d just stolen something sweet. “No, no… don’t hide it now. I live for that laugh. It’s better than sunlight.”

“Stop it,” she wheezed, laughing harder, trying to wriggle away as his fingers waged a gentle war on her sides. “You’re going to kill me!”

“Death by laughter,” he said solemnly, then leaned in to kiss her forehead. “I can think of worse ways to go.”

She was breathless, smiling so hard her cheeks ached. He kissed her again, this time softer — her temple, then the tip of her nose, then finally her lips, feather-light.

When they broke apart, she sighed happily, resting her forehead against his. “I missed this.”

“Me too,” he whispered. “I missed you. ”

“Even when you were wrapped around me all night?”

“Especially then,” he said, brushing his nose against hers, his smile lopsided and sleepy. “You know how long it’s been since you’ve relaxed? You were a prisoner in that castle, even with me by your side.”

His lips met hers gently in a barely there kiss. “In fact,” his smile widened. “I believe the last time you allowed yourself to be so wholly… free might have been the morning after the Grail quest.”

She stilled, body and mind remembering those months without him. She had pushed those days into the recesses of her mind, suppressing every ache she had felt. “Stay with me,” he whispered against her cheek, kissing her again. “Do you remember that morning?”

Guinevere nodded, fingers tightening against him.

Lancelot shifted, so he was hovering over her, mischief written all over his face.

“Went a little something like…” He ducked his head, peppering quick kisses to her jaw, her throat, her cheeks.

Resting on one elbow, his other hand returned to her hips, pressing his fingers against her skin in rapid succession.

Her giggles started again, low, bubbling up and out until it became a snort.

He blinked. “Did you just… .”

“No!” she gasped through her laughter. “That was, no… shut up. ”

“Oh, this is golden,” he teased, shifting his weight to his other arm as she squirmed and swatted at him. “Sir Lancelot: slayer of enemies, champion of the Queen, conqueror of Guinevere’s morning snort.”

“Stop!” She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “You're the worst,”

Eventually, her giggles softened into humming, fingers threading into his hair. They quieted into one another like sunrise warming stone. His thumb stroked lazy circles at her hip while she traced the slope of his shoulder with a fingertip, neither needing to speak. The world could wait.

“You’re staring,” Lancelot murmured, eyes still closed.

“You’re pretty,” she replied simply, tugging the pad of her thumb along his bottom lip.

His smile grew slow and crooked, he moved, laying his face on top of her breast with a contented groan. “God,” his arm snaked around her rips, holding her tight. “You’re so warm, so soft.”

“Charming.” She rolled her eyes, running her fingers through his ratted curls.

“I don’t know how I get anything done when you’re around.” He cupped her breast lazily in his hand, weighing her against his palm.

“You’ve been around breasts before, Lancelot.”

“No,” He shook his head seriously. “Not like this. Yours are my favorite. Perfectly round, not too big, but not too small, either. And don’t get me started on your nipples.” He rolled hers gently between two fingers. “You’re a goddess. An angel. My own personal siren.”

“Ok, lover boy.” She curled her hand around his chin, tugging his mouth up to hers. Their lips had barely brushed when a knock came from the door.

“Ignore it,” He practically growled against her kiss, his own fingers sinking into her hair.

The knock came again. Harder.

Three sharp raps. Then silence. Then three more.

Guinevere shifted, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Lancelot-”

He kissed her quickly, messily, almost as if to outrun the dread forming between them. “No. No, you’re not getting up. I just got you. No one in this world has the right- ”

The knock came again. Impatient.

The door shook in its frame. Not a request. Not a visitor.

A warning.

Lancelot groaned dramatically as he rolled out of bed, grinning like a cat.

“Absolutely nothing important,” he said, flexing just a little as he stretched — arms over his head, bare chest on full display, a constellation of love-bites blooming along his throat.

“Bet it’s some poor soul begging for money. ”

Guinevere grabbed the pillow he’d abandoned and threw it at him. “Put your breeches on.” He was a god of a man, corded muscles stretching with him.

“I am putting them on.” He tugged them up, slow and lazy, not bothering with the ties. They hung sinfully low, just shy of indecent, the broad V of his hips on glorious display.

Another knock.

“All right, all right.” He shot her a wink. “But if it’s not breakfast, I’m shutting the door in their face.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed, sitting up in the bed. Guinevere pulled the sheet up over her chest, preserving a bit of her modesty.

He sauntered toward the door, shirtless, smug, and utterly wrecked, his knuckles still bruised from the road, his lips still swollen from hers.

She settled herself back into the pillows with a quiet grin.

This .

This is how life was supposed to feel.