“I’m furious.”
Their feet moved in time with the slow, lilting rhythm of the court musicians, but everything between them was off the beat — tighter, tenser, closer than propriety would ever allow.
She felt the ripple of heat flash through her body. Not just desire —power.This man, with fire in his blood and thunder in his hands, washers.
The dance ended, applause scattered like raindrops. But Lancelot did not release her. His hand at her waist tightened.
“Come with me,” he said.
The corridor behind the Great Hall was dim, lit only by torchlight, the hum of celebration muffled by stone. Lancelot didn’t speak. He took her hand, gentle only in contrast to the fury in his grip, and pulled her after him.
Down the passage.
Past the chamber doors.
Until they were alone in some alcove, lost to time, shadowed and cloistered, with dust in the corners and heat in their blood.
Her back hit the wall, his arm moving fast enough to cradle her head from the blow.
“Lancelot-”
“No.” His mouth was on hers, devouring. “Not yet. Not-”
He broke off to kiss her again, hard enough to bruise. His hand slid around her waist, pressed her into him, anchoring her to the rage and need in his body. His voice came ragged between kisses. “They look at you like you’re something to claim.”
Her laugh hitched in her throat as he kissed the corner of her mouth. “They always have.” She breathed. “Even before you.”
His hand curled around the back of her neck, tilting her face to his. “I was going to start a war tonight.”
She smiled, unafraid. “The night is still young, dear.”
His mouth crashed back to hers like he’d run out of words — and needed to speak in desire instead. Guinevere gasped as he kissed her, pinning her between his body and the stone wall.
His hand fisted in her skirts, dragging them up as quickly as they would allow. “Too much godsdamn fabric.”
“I can still hear the music of the Hall.” She wasn’t trying to stop him, she wouldnever. But there was the lingering fear of being seen.
But even that sent pleasure licking at her core.
Once he had hiked up her skirt, his hand dove between her thighs. “Soaked already,” He growled, pressing a finger into her wet heat. “Stay quiet, dove.” His lips worked her pulse point greedily. “Wouldn’t want someone to hear.”
Guinevere managed a nod as her trembling fingers tore at his belt, his sword clattering to the ground. “Harder,” she whimpered as his thumb brushed over her clit.
Lancelot pulled his hand from her core, grinning wickedly. “Not a sound,mon amour.” Her breaths were ragged. She nodded again. “Not a sound, or I stop.” His lips crashed into hers again as his hand traveled down the length of her body.
He paused for just a moment to thumb over her nipple. “So sensitive,” He pulled back. “Even in all of your silken armor.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
In one brutal motion, he lifted her — legs around his waist, back scraping the stone. She choked on a moan when he thrust inside her, burying himself to the hilt.
She swore she saw stars.
He was unrelenting. His movements were erratic, hips jerking against her. He pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, not bothering to be gentle.
Guinevere had one hand curled tightly in his hair — an anchor in the pleasure that he offered to her. She pressed the other against hermouth, keeping all of her whimpers and pleas locked again.
Nipping her earlobe, he grunted in her ear. “You’ll come when I say, queen. Not a minute earlier.”
