Her breath caught.
Guinevere’s eyes blinked open fully, gaze landing on the golden light spilling in from the edges of the curtains. Morning. After dawn,judging by the warmth and stillness of the room.
Her heart pounded, a stuttering drumbeat in her chest. She didn’t dare move — not yet. Her mind scrambled for a reason. Maybe he’d turned in his sleep. Maybe it was instinct, muscle memory from years of battle and cold tents, from clutching warmth when it could be found.
Maybe.
But she wasn’t exactly pushing him away, was she?
She could feel every inch of him — his bare chest pressed against her back, his breath brushing the curve of her neck, the solid weight of his arm keeping her anchored.
And then… there was somethingelseshe felt, stiff… pressing into the small of her back.
She bit her lip, trying to ignore the warmth that coiled in her belly. This wasmadness.
And yet —
A quiet sigh escaped her lips, entirely unbidden.
That was when he stirred.
His movements were slight. His hand flexed against her stomach before going still again. She didn’t breathe.
She couldn’t.
He was awake.
Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut, mind and pulse racing. Should she say something? Should she move?
She feigned sleep. She was so tired of pretending.
Propriety or not.
As the fates would have it, it seemed he might be as well. His arm tightened around her middle, pulling her further into him.
Improper thoughts aside… Gwen couldn’t remember the last time she washeld.She felt so wholly safe, and she wasn’t ready to give that up just yet.
A contented hum crept up the back of her throat, startling both herself and Lance. “I’m sorry,” he said almost instantly. His voice was still thick with sleep, a deep and raspy sound that curled in her stomach. “I didn’t mean to. I’ll move.”
“Don’t.” She blurted, before she could think better of it. The words hung in the air around them.
The silence stretched like a bowstring pulled taut.
“Guinevere…” His voice was tight, barely restrained.
“I know,” she whispered, pressing her palm against the hand on her stomach, lacing her fingers through his. “Just a minute more.”
“This is a terrible idea.” But his lips pressed into her hair. But he bunched her dress up, slipping his hand beneath the thin fabric.
“Lance,” she gasped as his hand grazed the skin below her navel, fingers clutching.
“Tell me to stop,” He moaned gently against the shell of her ear. “Guinevere.” His hips rocked gently against hers, eliciting a whimper from her.
“I can’t,” she breathed.
The world froze around them. All she knew was the fire in his fingertips, his breath on her neck, the quiet pants that left his lips.
A knock on the door doused her lust-fueled haze, dragging her back from the brink.
