“Iamlistening.” He took a step toward her. “I just don’t care.”
“Lancelot.”
“I love you.”
It wasn’t new. He’d said it before. But here, now, with his chest rising and falling too fast and his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them — it made her breath catch, anyway.
“You need rest.”
He nodded once. “Yes. After.”
“After what?”
He reached for her, slow and reverent, and took her face in both hands. “After I touch you until you forget we were ever hunted.”
Her lips parted, but he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Just pressed his forehead to hers and breathed like he was trying not to fall apart.
“Let me lie down,” he murmured, voice cracking. “Let me lie down with you and remember I’m alive.”
“Let me change your dressings,” she was falling into him. “Let me take care of you before….”
A nod.
“AndwhenI lay with you, you’ll keep your hands where I tell you.”
Lancelot laughed, the sound chasing the chill from her bones. “I’ll try.”
54
It was the shift in his breathing that woke her.
Not the sounds from outside, not some sudden noise in the inn — just the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. Slowing… deeper. Thick with an ache that was all too familiar.
She blinked, barely awake, realizing she was half sprawled on top of him. One of her legs was draped over his, her arm curled across his stomach, fingers grazing skin. His hand had slipped beneath the hem of her shift in his sleep, not groping, just resting —possessive, as if his body refused to let her go, even unconscious.
And beneath her thigh, she felt it.
The unmistakable press of him, thick and heavy and twitching softly with each breath.
“Lance,” she whispered, heat pooling low in her stomach.
His eyelids twitched — swallowed hard. And then his voice, thick with sleep, wrecked and low, “You’re dreaming on top of me.”
Guinevere huffed. “You’re the one dreaming.”
He cracked one eye open, unfocused but burning. “I can’t help it. You’re soft, warm.” His hips shifted, just a little, but enough to press his erection more firmly against her thigh. “I’vemissedyou.”
“Gods, you’re-” She bit down on her lip, suddenly painfully aware of every inch of where their bodies touch.
“Just stay,” He whispered, voice hoarse, “Don’t move. Please.”
A peal of laughter escaped from her lips before she clamped her hand down over her mouth.
Unimpressed, Lancelot’s resting face turned into a scowl. “What, my queen?”
“Seems like a lifetime ago that we were laying in a bed in an inn, and I was the one begging you not to move.” Her voice had gone soft, feeling overwhelmed with something akin to nostalgia.
“How could I forget?” His tone had quieted too, running his hand up her arm, leaving gooseflesh behind. “The sweet, virginal queen, overcome with lust for her handsome knight.”
