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When finally, they settled again into companionable silence, disturbed only by soft snores, Arthur tended as best he could to the spilled cum across his clothes and hand, wiping it off with leaves and grass. At least he felt easier now. As if a knot had loosened in his gut. With this self-administered release, his kettle was finally back to a low simmer versus a volcanic boil.
He took a deep breath and clasped his hands over his stomach, finally falling into a dreamless sleep.
~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~* ~ *~ * ~
Lancelot hadn’t meant to watch the whole thing.
But the small, involuntary sounds Arthur made when he began to touch himself had rattled Lancelot awake as if someone had taken him by the shoulders and shook him hard.
One moment he was peacefully napping in the branches over where Arthur made his bed below, and the next he almost fell out of the tree, so abruptly jolted to wakefulness was he by the seductive rasps of breath and the even more intoxicating scent that emanated from the man.
Of searing lust and crackling heat. Mysterious night and wide-open sky.
A scent unique only to the man lying beneath this oak tree. A scent Lancelot would recognize blind-folded in a crowd. It was already his favorite smell in the world.
He'd quickly and stealthily rolled into a crouch amongst the leaves, leaning as far down as he could to get a better look at what Arthur was doing. His vision always sharpened at night, so he saw even more clearly than during the day.
And what a vision Arthur made. What a feast for the eyes.
Even though only his face and groin were bare, it seemed even more erotic, tantalizingly elicit. Lancelot didn’t know where to look, but he definitely didn’t blink for the entire time.
Arthur’s hands were beautifully masculine, big and capable. Scarred. Calloused. His fingers were long, and his knuckles thick. But even so, those long fingers and broad palm barely wrapped around the girth of his sex.
Lancelot couldn’t help mentally comparing Arthur’s and his own. He thought his might be slightly longer, but Arthur’s was thicker. With a wide, flared head and rude, veiny column. It was magnificent, just like the rest of the man.
But the most captivating sight that Lancelot couldn’t look away from was Arthur’s face.
He drank in the emotions there like a man who’d been dying of thirst. There was such naked longing and indescribable pain on the warrior’s face. Such strength and also vulnerability.
Lancelot would wager his horse and all he held dear that no one had ever seen Arthur like this before. At least, not with such an unvarnished, unfiltered view. He was naked in a way that didn’t involve clothes.
It was in the flutter of his lashes and the hitch of his breath when his fist squeezed around the plump head of him just so. It was in the involuntary swallow and bob of his Adam’s Apple and the corded tension in his arching throat.
It was how his lips parted at the moment of crisis, how a deep flush flooded his cheeks to the tips of his ears. How his breath caught in his chest and held there for a moment and an eternity, before releasing in a vibrating groan of relief.
Indeed, after the initial fascination with Arthur’s manhood, Lancelot only watched his face. Then, at last, his eyes moved back down to Arthur’s shuddering cock, to the spill of cream on his clothed torso and hand. There was so much of it, and it looked…
Delicious.
Lancelot couldn’t help licking his lips with anticipation.
He wondered what Arthur’s spend tasted like, even as a part of him was consternated that he wondered. Never had such a thought entered his mind before.
He reached down to adjust his own parts and jostled the branches with the action, setting off a flock of black birds that were nesting above him. Their aggravated squawking and furiously flapping wings almost broke his balance and made him tumble from the tree.
Thankfully, he held on. Arthur and his men didn’t know any better, and were distracted by the jesting exchange that ensued.
But Lancelot himself knew.
Why had he watched Arthur’s pleasuring with unabashed fascination? Why had the passion etched in Arthur’s face stir up a similar restlessness within Lancelot?
He wanted it too.
What Arthur had felt. And he’d never wanted such a thing before.
Lancelot sighed quietly and closed his eyes, settling as comfortably as he could in the branches of the oak tree. His loins still ached with a confounding pressure, but he did his best to ignore it.
Tomorrow, his senses would come back to him. Tonight was merely an aberration. This strange obsession with the dark-haired, blue-eyed warrior would surely subside.
