“No,” he said, firm, his hand still splayed on her lower back. “You don’t beg. Youreceive.”
She heard his belt clatter to the floor, along with everything else he had strapped to his hips. The clatter of boots being haphazardly kicked off. “All right?” He whispered, his erection pressing against her backside as she waited, displayed before him.
“Always.” She did her best not to moan.
He pushed into her with one sure, slow stroke. Her body clenched around him instantly, the stretch of him as shocking as it was exquisite. Her forehead dropped to the cool stone. “Gods-”
“That’s it,” he grunted, gripping her hips tightly. “Take it. Every inch. Let me replace him. Let merewriteit.”
He moved in deep, deliberate thrusts — measured at first, lettingher adjust, letting herwant. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back gently so he could kiss along her neck. “You’re mine, Guinevere. Not his. Never his.”
Her breath came ragged. “Say it again,” she choked out.
“You’remine.” He growled it into her skin, his rhythm quickening. “This body is mine to worship. To protect. To pleasure.Always.”
Something inside her cracked, and she moaned, the sound primal and raw. It wasn’t just lust. It wasfreedom. For the first time in days, inyears, she felt clean.
“Harder,” she rasped.
He pulled her back flush against his chest, one hand coming up to knead the skin at her breast. He tweaked her nipple between thumb and forefinger, drawing a hiss from her. “More,” she was begging, “Please.”
He obliged.
His hips slammed into hers with a force that made her gasp. Not in pain, but in something wild — somethingrighteous. Her nails scraped against the stone, but she didn’t care. Not when each thrust drove deeper, not just into her body but into that hollow place where Arthur had left rot behind.
“You’re not a pawn,” Lancelot snarled, voice breaking with reverence and rage. “You’re agods-damned queen.”
She sobbed. Not from sadness — from the unbearable weight of beingseen.
“Say it,” he panted, his hand sliding up her front to grip her throat, not to restrict, just tohold. To anchor her. “Tell me who you belong to, Guinevere.”
“I-” Her voice caught, and then shattered like glass. “I belong tome.”
“Damn right,” he growled, and his hand left her throat to grab her waist as he drove into her, hard enough to make her cry out. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she didn’t fall. He held her together.
She came with a sob, her body locking down around him. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t silent. It wasviolent, like exorcising poison, like tearing off chains.
It wasreligion.
And he followed, barely a heartbeat after, choking her name like a prayer against her shoulder, buried so deep in her she could feel him everywhere.
They stood there, wrapped together, for an eon. His hands moving gently over every curve of her body in reverence. The only word spoken was her name, whispered into the evening air.
A whine crept up her throat, unbidden, as he slipped out of her. She felt a rumble of laughter in his chest, his lips against her cheek. “Sit, dove.” He guided her towards the chaise in her room, helping her to settle.
Guinevere didn’t ache when he disappeared into the adjoining room, not this time. This time, she knew he was leavingforher. When he returned with a cloth, her cheeks heated as he drew nearer. “Embarrassed?” He teased, gently nudging her legs open.
“No,” she answered, a little too quick. “Just new.”
A low sound came from his throat as his brow furrowed. He pressed a featherlight kiss to her hip bone as he cleaned up the remains.
Carelessly tossing the rag aside, Lancelot climbed up into the lounge with her, pulling her tightly against him.
She lay on her back, tucked into his chest as he propped himselfup on an elbow. “I’m sorry.” His eyes sparkled with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.
“What?” She pressed her hand against his cheek. “Sorry, why?”
He wore a sad sort of smile, shaking his head.
