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“—a prisoner in my own body for most of my adult life. A puppet on a string. Her fucking wind-up toy and whore. I—”
Lancelot shoved him back, then grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and shook him.
“You’reArthur. I chose you. I choose you. You’remyking. You’remine!”
Chapter Eleven
“Most powerful is he who has himself in his own power.”
—Seneca
Thunder boomed so loud it shook the earth. Lightning exploded in the pitch-black skies.
They were practically plastered to one another all along their front. Chest to chest, hip to hip, their faces mere inches apart, Lancelot’s hands fisted in Arthur’s shirt.
With what they were feeling, they would either fuck or fight. There was no in between.
Once upon a time, when they’d both been confident in their strength and indestructibility, Arthur had been brave enough to open his heart. To show vulnerability and tenderness.
Now, there was no more tenderness in him. His heart, though recovered, was as hard as the stone it had been turned into by the sorceress who carved it out of him. Nothing but a mass of twisted scars.
He didn’t believe a word Lancelot said. But he knew it was useless to argue, so he didn’t.
How could he be worthy of the knight, to be his king, or anything ofhis, if he wasn’t even his own man?
All he felt was desire and destruction. An aimless restlessness and emptiness that could temporarily be relieved by whatever this was, churning between them. They were only using each other to get off and let go. If he could be that outlet for Lancelot, he’d embrace his role.
But it was only physical. Nothing else.
“Guys! We gotta get back to the B&B or we’ll literally drown out here!” Annie’s shout pushed them apart as effectively as a referee’s hands.
Their gazes remained fused, their chests still heaving from their outbursts. When Annie and the rest of the group arrived, there was a moment of silence and trepidation, as if the others feared that one wrong move or word might set two titans off.
To destroy each other and everything around them.
Arthur took a step back, and so did Lancelot. They turned away at the same time, wordlessly stalking back toward the path that led them here.
Arthur didn’t notice whether the others followed. He didn’t care. He wished Annie hadn’t interrupted them. He wouldn’t have minded drowning in the deluge. After all, he’d been drowning inside all this time.
Once in their own suite, he peeled off his clothes and shoes, careless where he discarded them, and headed for the shower. He didn’t bother closing the door. If Lancelot left him alone, fine. If the knight wanted him, no barrier would deter him.
Sure enough, as soon as Arthur turned on the shower spray, the other man entered the stall with him and crowded his body behind him, arms bracketing him at shoulder level on each side, hands braced against the tiled wall.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Lancelot rasped next to his ear, sharp teeth biting down on the soft lobe.
Arthur didn’t reply, simply lowering his forehead against the wall and bracing his own hands in front of him, arching his spine.
A lean, muscle-corded arm wrapped around his waist like a steel band. His legs were kicked wider apart. Without any preparation, the large, plum-sized head of Lancelot’s cock probed his tightly shut entrance and pushed roughly inside, forcing its way past the first ring of muscle.
Arthur’s breath caught in his chest at the agonizing burn, but he welcomed it.
This was a pain hechose. A pain he embraced. And he recklessly prayed that Lancelot would hurt him enough to burn away all the other pain he’d endured, when he hadn’t been in control. When he’d simply been used and defeated.
The long, thick shaft of Lancelot’s cock shoved inside him in sharp, forceful bursts, until the man was seated to the hilt. Lancelot’s other hand closed around his nape, holding him in place against the wall.
“Mine,” the knight growled with barely suppressed fury.
He pulled his cock half way out and slammed it back in, deeper than before, jolting Arthur’s body, making a helpless pained moan escape from his throat.
