She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes as her relief built with every rock of his hips, every jolt of his cock inside of her.
“You’remine, Guinevere.”
His fingers hovered between the place they were connected. “Do you want to finish?” A single finger pressed against her core, featherlight, barely there.
She nodded frantically, mouth still covered, her moan caught in her palm. Lancelot’s eyes burned. “Then ask.” He pulled his hand away, taking the pressure with him.
She let her hand fall from her mouth. “Please,” she gasped. “Please, Lancelot — let me… I need to-”
He pressed his fingers to her clit, rubbing merciless, slow circles. “Come for me, baby.” He rumbled in her ear, his own moans getting tangled with hers. “Now, with me inside of you.” He pressed harder. “Let themhearwho you belong to.”
She shattered.
Her whole body trembled around him, pleasure ripping through her in waves so intense she thought she might break apart. Lancelot groaned, his cock twitching as she came. His grip bruising her hips as he thrust through her climax — chasing his own.
He found it in the crook of her neck, biting down as he came inside her with a low, shuddering curse.
For a long moment, the hallway was only breath. Harsh and hot. Her arms still around him, his forehead buried in her shoulder like he was praying. He continued rutting lazily into her, riding the waves oftheir shared orgasms.
“You’re perfect.” He whispered against her skin. “Perfect andmine.”
They returned to the Hall like nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just taken her against the cold stone, as if she hadn’t clawed at his shoulders and come apart in his arms. There were glances, subtle eyes and gasps that followed them as they returned.
But they fell on deaf ears.
Guinevere’s braid was slightly looser than before. Her gown was a touch askew, a crease at her waist. Lancelot’s belt sat uneven, his sword buckled in haste, a smudge of lipstick at his jaw.
But they walked in calm. Regal. The picture of poise — if anyone dared to look them in the eye.
Morgana noticed first. Her goblet paused at her lips.
Then Percival. His brows furrowed, like he’d caught the scent of smoke.
Arthur, as always, saw nothing.
Guinevere retook her seat like a queen returning from war victorious. Lancelot stood behind her, hands clasped neatly behind his back.
A sentinel.
A wolf with blood on his teeth.
The music had shifted. Slower now. More somber.
She reached for her wine.
He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re still trembling,” he murmured.
“It’s nothing.” She felt her cheeks heat.
She could still feel him.
Warm, thick,claiming. His spend slipping from her with everystep, a secret heat between her thighs that made sitting still a battle of will. Her thighs clenched beneath the table. Her wineglass trembled.
Lancelot, the bastard, knew. Of course, he knew.
He hadn’t been gentle.
Hadn’t pulled out.
