“Better?” she asked dryly.
He leaned back until his head rested against hers. “Divine.”
“You’re still filthy.”
“So clean me.”
And she did — hands slow and reverent now, gliding over the firm lines of his chest, careful of the wound but not of the way he trembled slightly under her touch. His eyes had fallen shut, but not from pain. She pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, just below his ear.
Lancelot, for all his teasing, had gone quiet. Still. His fingers toyed idly with hers where they rested over his chest, but there was a tension in him now. Not pain. Not quite.
Desire.
“Gwen,” he said, voice low, the syllable a little hoarse.
She hummed in acknowledgment.
“I’m trying to behave.” He tilted his head just slightly, brushing his temple against hers. “But you’re naked. And you’re touching me. And it’s been so long since I’ve felt your hands in any way other than as my nurse.”
She froze — just a heartbeat — then moved to rise. “You’re injured.”
“I’m also desperate to feel you beneath me.”
“Lancelot-”
He twisted just enough to catch her wrist again, keeping her from climbing out. His grip wasn’t strong — she could break it easily. But the look in his eyes made her stay.
“I’m not trying to be careless,” he said, softer now. “I swear it. But I miss you. I miss those breathy little moans you make. I miss the way you arch into my touch. I missknowingyou.”
Her face flushed, but she shook her head, slipping her hand from his. “You will not bleed out just so you can fuck me in a bathtub.”
He groaned in protest. “The wound isn’t even deep.”
“Stitches. Bruising. Fever.”
“You’re inches from my lap and somehow still thinking of that damned fever.”
She stood, water cascading down her body in rivulets, and he swallowed whatever protest was rising next. She turned, grabbing a towel, her spine sharp with resolve — and her body flushed and glistening andright there. Torture.
“Out of the tub,” she said, voice tight.
She turned her back to him deliberately, dragging a clean shift over her damp skin. The towel dropped to the floor. She didn’t look, but she heard his breath hitch.
“Lie down,” she said, calm and cool as she knotted the laces at her hip. “Let me redress the stitches before they pull.”
But Lancelot hadn’t moved. Behind her, the rustle of linen and water-slicked skin had stilled. Silence pulsed in the air, thick and expectant.
“I said lie down.”
“I heard you.”
She turned.
He was still standing beside the bed, half-wrapped in a towel that hung devilishly low on his hips, hair wet and curling at his temples, steam clinging to his shoulders. His wound was red and raw, yes, but his eyes…
His eyes were molten.
“You’re not listening.”
