He was still whispering it —Guinevere, Guinevere, Guinevere— like she’d become his entire religion.
She smiled against his throat, smug and breathless.
He was still gasping like he couldn’t catch his breath, one hand sliding weakly down her back as if even now he didn’t want to stop touching her.
Guinevere nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “You begged so sweetly,” she purred. “You know that, don’t you?”
Lancelot groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”
She propped herself up just enough to meet his eyes, hips still lazily rocking, keeping him inside her — just to watch his face twitch from overstimulation. “Not a chance. You should’ve heard yourself.” Her voice dropped into a breathy moan. “‘Please, Gwen, please, I need to come, let me come-’”
His hand shot up to cover her mouth, but she just nipped at his palm.
She slid off him with a satisfied sigh, but not before squeezing him one last time, smirking as he whimpered through clenched teeth. Heimmediately flopped an arm over his face like a man in mourning.
“Oh gods,” he muttered into his bicep.
Guinevere collapsed beside him in the cramped tent, her thigh pressed tight to his, breath still ragged. The low canvas ceiling loomed above their tangled bodies, and their limbs had nowhere to go. She laughed, breathless and dizzy, her forehead bumping his shoulder.
They were amess.
She exhaled, dragging the thin blanket over his hips. It barely covered them both. “Don’t move.”
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
Guinevere reached behind her, fumbling one-handed in the satchel by the tent wall. She found a cloth and a half-filled waterskin.
She shifted over him, both of them groaning from the lack of space, and began wiping them down as best she could. Awkward angles. Careful touches. She winced as she cleaned herself, then him, and he hissed softly as the cloth grazed overstimulated skin.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“No you’re not.”
She smirked. “I warned you.”
Once satisfied they would not wake upgluedtogether, she tossed the cloth aside and collapsed back into his chest, dragging the blanket around their shoulders as best she could. The air was cool, damp with night. Lancelot curled around her instinctively, shielding her with his body, one arm under her neck, the other around her waist.
Her nose was tucked beneath his jaw. “We’re going to have to move at dawn.”
“I know,” he whispered, already drowsy. “Just… give me this. A moment. With you.”
Her fingers traced lazy patterns against his chest. “Since you begged so sweetly.”
He groaned. “I walked into that.”
49
Guinevere woke to bird songs and cold air biting at her cheeks. The tent smelt of sweat and earth and sex, canvas walls glowing grey in the early morning light. Her body ached in ways she didn’t entirely hate.
Lancelot was warm behind her, breathing slow and steady. One heavy arm was wrapped around her middle. He had his nose tucked into her hair.
She almost let herself drift back under.
But the world hadn’t stopped just because they had.
She eased out of his grasp as gently as she could, biting back a hiss as her sore muscles protested. Her tunic lay crumpled somewhere near her knee. Her thighs trembled when she moved.
Behind her, Lancelot groaned.
