Which she wasn’t thinking about.
Her back was against his chest, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Besides,” his lips were at her ear, “This way, you can continue to feign innocence — pretend that your skin doesn’t catch fire when I touch you.” She could hear the grin in his voice. “Blame the contact on the horse, my queen.”
She gasped, but before she could form a response, they were off.
She was trapped, caged between his thighs, his chest, and his arm. Every jostle of the horse, every breath he took. The very beat of her own heart was enough to send her over the edge.
And he was enjoying it. She could tell by the way his hands would linger in one place just a little too long. How his fingers would grip at her thighs just a little too tight.
But, as difficult as being on horseback was proving to be… she knew that the respite would be worse.
There was nothing left to hide between them.
He had her every move pegged. She had let all of her guards down in the morning light, and she knew she would be hard pressed tobuild those walls again.
She was riding straight to hell on a tan horse named Zeus.
And yet… as much of her that was anxious and even a little ashamed — there was a part of her that feltalive.
This was reckless, dangerous, and downright sinful.
But… the feeling of being desired? Of being cherished just for being Guinevere? Not the Queen, not the wife of Arthur… Just Gwen.
That almost made the entire ordeal worth it.
14
They arrived in the next town just as the sun was cresting over the horizon. The evening chill hadn’t yet taken the air, and Guinevere’s limbs felt like thick sludge.
Lancelot had been right — riding likethiswas nothing like her quick gallops around Camelot. She wasn’t sure she would ride a horse again after she returned.
She stood behind him as he chartered a room for them, her stomach giving a small jump as he passed the coins over. This inn shared a wall with a small tavern, and her knight had paid extra to have food brought to their door.
Of course he had.
Of course, he would think of everything.
Even this. Even… privacy.
She followed him up the narrow steps in silence, trailing the scent of roasting meat and ale, the creak of wood beneath their boots too loud in the hush between them. Her thighs ached. Her back was screaming. But it was nothing compared to the tightness in her chest.
He opened the door with a wordless gesture and stepped aside for her to enter first.
The room was small — painfully so. A single bed. Awashbasin in the corner. A window cracked to let in the breeze.
It would not be the first night they spent in such quarters. But this one felt different.
This one had context. History. A morning.
Guinevere stood at the foot of the bed, not moving. Not daring to turn around.
She heard the door shut. Heard the shift of his weight as he leaned against it.
She wished he would say something.
She wished she knew what she wanted him to say.
When she finally turned, he was watching her with that unreadable expression he wore like armor. One hand on the hilt of his sword, still belted around his waist. The same sword she’d knighted him with. The same hands that had held her like she were sacred.
