“No!” she gasped through her laughter. “That was, no… shut up.”
“Oh, this is golden,” he teased, shifting his weight to his other arm as she squirmed and swatted at him. “Sir Lancelot: slayer of enemies, champion of the Queen, conqueror of Guinevere’s morning snort.”
“Stop!” She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “You're the worst,”
Eventually, her giggles softened into humming, fingers threading into his hair. They quieted into one another like sunrise warming stone. His thumb stroked lazy circles at her hip while she traced the slope of his shoulder with a fingertip, neither needing to speak. The world could wait.
“You’re staring,” Lancelot murmured, eyes still closed.
“You’re pretty,” she replied simply, tugging the pad of her thumb along his bottom lip.
His smile grew slow and crooked, he moved, laying his face on top of her breast with a contented groan. “God,” his arm snaked around her rips, holding her tight. “You’re so warm, so soft.”
“Charming.” She rolled her eyes, running her fingers through his ratted curls.
“I don’t know how I get anything done when you’re around.” He cupped her breast lazily in his hand, weighing her against his palm.
“You’ve been around breasts before, Lancelot.”
“No,” He shook his head seriously. “Not like this. Yours are my favorite. Perfectly round, not too big, but not too small, either. And don’t get me started on your nipples.” He rolled hers gently between two fingers. “You’re a goddess. An angel. My own personal siren.”
“Ok, lover boy.” She curled her hand around his chin, tugging his mouth up to hers. Their lips had barely brushed when a knock came from the door.
“Ignore it,” He practically growled against her kiss, his own fingers sinking into her hair.
The knock came again. Harder.
Three sharp raps. Then silence. Then three more.
Guinevere shifted, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Lancelot-”
He kissed her quickly, messily, almost as if to outrun the dread forming between them. “No. No, you’re not getting up. I just got you. No one in this world has the right-”
The knock came again. Impatient.
The door shook in its frame. Not a request. Not a visitor.
A warning.
Lancelot groaned dramatically as he rolled out of bed, grinning like a cat. “Absolutely nothing important,” he said, flexing just a little as he stretched — arms over his head, bare chest on full display, a constellation of love-bites blooming along his throat. “Bet it’s some poor soul begging for money.”
Guinevere grabbed the pillow he’d abandoned and threw it at him. “Put your breeches on.” He was a god of a man, corded muscles stretching with him.
“Iamputting them on.” He tugged them up, slow and lazy, not bothering with the ties. They hung sinfully low, just shy of indecent, the broad V of his hips on glorious display.
Another knock.
“All right, all right.” He shot her a wink. “But if it’s not breakfast, I’m shutting the door in their face.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she laughed, sitting up in the bed. Guinevere pulled the sheet up over her chest, preserving a bit of her modesty.
He sauntered toward the door, shirtless, smug, and utterly wrecked, his knuckles still bruised from the road, his lips still swollen from hers.
She settled herself back into the pillows with a quiet grin.
This.
This is how life was supposed to feel.
