Mordred
Mordred Pendragon had very much meant it when he said he would give the Druid girl whatever she wanted. And so, he tore away the binding on Nyneve’s baneful magic, driving into her at the same moment.
She threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth parted as she moaned his name. Pleasure pounded in his own body as the mortal woman he was irrevocably in love with cried out, riding the wave of her release. When she finally came back down, he tangled one hand in her hair, finding himself unable to do anything but gaze at her magnificence.
“How does it feel?” he murmured, dragging the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. The way her soft body pressed against his was so perfect he wanted to forget everything else. She let out a long sigh, meeting his gaze. There had always been a wild depth to her eyes in some lights, not wholly unlike the gleam of a rabid animal’s gaze, but it was utterly undeniable now.
“Thank you,” Nyneve panted, trailing her fingers along his jaw. She blinked away tears. “Coel’s death will haunt me for the rest of my life. But it was anaccident.”
He lowered his head to press a kiss to her sternum. “I can remove the binding,” Mordred murmured, “but I cannot convince you to stop punishing yourself.”
She chewed on her lip, looking away from him. “I know,” she whispered eventually. When her eyes slid back to meet his gaze, she smiled, reaching out to run her hand down his chest. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you like this. Not since that night.”
Something that might have been happiness surged in Mordred’s chest, forcing the eternal dark to make room. “Every time I close my eyes,” he murmured, beginning to make soft, slow circles between her legs, “I see you astride me, looking like some long-lost goddess.”
She sighed and rolled her hips into his hand, seeking more of his touch, which made Mordred ravenous in turn. “Would you like,” Nyneve began, “to see me astride you with your eyes open?”
His breath hitched as she smiled up at him innocently, doe-like. “Gods, yes,” Mordred murmured.
She grinned at him. “Get on your back.”
The knight did not require further instruction. He banded his arm around her waist and rolled them both over, sliding his hands to her hips as she sat up. “You drive me mad,” Mordred groaned as she took him deeper, her long curls tumbling over one shoulder. He cupped her heavy breasts in his hands, teasing her nipples, and Nyneve let out one of those breathless little sounds he loved so much. Her eyes strayed to his when she placed both hands on his chest and ground herself against him, harder and harder.
“Yes,” he rasped when she brought her mouth to his, sliding her tongue into his mouth. “Steal whatever remains of my sanity, little thief. You already have my heart.”
“I have all of you, Mordred,” Nyneve said against his lips. “You belong to me.” She pushed back then, riding him hard, but he could not stand to be so far from her. With a sharp contraction of muscle, he sat up, holding her in his lap and tangling his hands in her curls. Nyneve met his kiss with a wild hunger, her powerful thighs flexing.
“You take me so well,” he murmured into her neck. “You are perfect, Nyneve Or’Afon.” It was true. He could barely believe how impossiblygoodshe felt, as if they had been made for each other from the same primordial darkness.
It was helpful that the Fair Folk did not require much sleep, because the meadow-eyed sorceress seemed intent on proving she did, indeed, have all of him, for many hours into the night. When dawn scattered its golden rays through Mordred’s window, Nyneve was awake but drowsy in his arms. He could barely believe that what he saw was real: her head pillowed on his shoulder, one arm slung over his stomach, her glorious body bare, linens kicked down around her calves. The light of the dawn seemed to worship her curves as much as he did, kissing the pale gold of her waist and hips. Mordred pulled her close, unwilling to share, and she stirred.
When her eyes met his, she smiled shyly. “Good,” Nyneve murmured, hooking one leg around his hips before closing her eyes again.
“Good?” Mordred echoed with a smile.
“I was worried it might be a dream,” the sorceress admitted, her eyes still closed. He watched with amusement as a blush spread on the side of her face.
“If you need such a worry utterly disproven...” he murmured, sliding his hand from her hip to her lower stomach. She let out a little gasp, her breasts pressing into his side.
“How generous of you,” Nyneve replied, her lips moving against his shoulder. She pushed off one arm to sit up halfway,looking down at him, her hair hanging like a metallic curtain. Unable to satiate his desire for her, Mordred took her jaw between his fingers and kissed her deeply. He might have never surfaced from her currents if not for the desperate knock that sounded at his door.
“Mordred?” called Lysanor, an edge to her tone that he rarely heard in the unflappable handmaiden’s voice.
He exchanged a worried glance with Nyneve, and then they both bolted to their feet, pulling on their clothing. Yanking his tunic over his head, he glanced back at Nyneve, who was still lacing her kirtle. “Answer it!” she hissed, gesturing toward the door before returning to her garment.
Mordred pulled the door open, a little out of breath, to find not only Lysanor but Guinevere at his door. “What happened?” he asked, looking between the two women. His stomach twisted at the sight of their expressions.
“Arthur is announcing the results of the inquiry into Elaine’s murder,” Guinevere said, a muscle in her jaw leaping. “Now.”
Mordred blinked once. Then he reached for his boots and shoved his feet into them. “As inpubliclyannouncing?” he demanded, his heart beginning to race.
“The court is to gather in the throne room,” Lysanor said, looking toward Guinevere. The queen stood tall as always, her shoulders straight and steady, hands clasped in front of her, but Mordred could see her fingers trembling.
“Arthur did not consult me,” he warned, reaching for his aketon.
“Nor me,” Guinevere said, her voice breaking.
Nyneve appeared beside him, gathering her hair into a braid. Neither the queen nor her handmaiden looked even remotely surprised by her presence.
