Lancelot slept soundly beside her as she slipped from beneath his grasp. She tugged her gown over her head, reveling in the way her bodyachedin all the right ways.
It had never been that way before.
She had never felt…
A small smile tugged at her lips as a blush tinged her cheeks. Pressing her hand against her mouth, she searched for a shawl to wrap around her shoulders.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Her hair was wild, curls kinked every which way. Her lips were swollen, her neck littered with marks from him.
His mouth.
His teeth.
Opting for a cloak instead, she fastened it quickly at her neck, hoping that between the hood and the buckle, she could hide most of the evidence that was plastered on her.
She padded quietly across the room, pulling the heavy cloaktighter around her shoulders. It smelled like him — the scent made her cheeks burn even hotter.
At the door, she paused, glancing back.
He lay sprawled among the rumpled sheets, one arm still outstretched where she had been, his hair mussed and falling over his forehead, his lips parted in sleep. The barest hint of a smile lingered at the corners of his mouth, as if even in dreams, he held her.
Slipping into the corridor, she padded down the hall toward the kitchens, hoping the servants had left something behind from the evening meal.
When she returned, balancing a tray with bread, cheese, and a bit of wine, she found him sitting up, blinking blearily at the door like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming.
His eyes found her, softening instantly.
"Guinevere," he said, her name raw,reverent, in his throat.
"You were sleeping so soundly," she said, smiling shyly as she set the tray down. "I didn’t want to wake you."
"You can always wake me," he said, voice hoarse from sleep.
She flushed and turned slightly away, pretending to adjust the food — but not before his gaze caught on the faint purple bruises at her throat, just peeking above the edge of the cloak’s fastenings.
A guilty look flashed across his face. "Gwen-"
"I don’t mind," she said quickly. Her cheeks were warm, but her voice was steady. "I… like it."
“You’re a wicked thing,” He grinned, beckoning her back to the bed.
She sat cross-legged beside him on the bed, sharing bread and wine and quiet touches.
When they had finished, Guinevere tucked herself back into his arms, her head resting against his chest.
He played with the ends of her hair, curling the blankets tighter around them as they lay there, moon high in the sky.
Gwen stirred drowsily, shifting against Lancelot’s chest.
He hummed low in his throat, arms tightening around her automatically, nuzzling into her tangled hair. "Falling asleep on me already, my lady?" he teased, voice still rough from sleep and pleasure.
"You wore me out," she mumbled, nuzzling into the curve of his throat.
He laughed low, the delighted sound that made her toes curl. "Good."
Then, mischief curling in his tone, he added, "Was it… tolerable?"
She pulled back just enough to look up at him through her lashes. "Tolerable," she repeated, pretending to think about it. "Mmm. I’ve had worse."
