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Lancelot thought but didn’t say, having an iota of self-preservation,I can’t help it.
As if Arthur heard him, his expression suddenly collapsed. The fury melted into exhaustion, pain and sorrow.
Lancelot wanted to protect him from that too. Even though he didn’t know from whence it came.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Arthur rasped, speaking more to himself than Lancelot.
“I know you don’t…that you can’t…”
Lancelot concentrated very hard, staring at Arthur’s face until his eyes crossed, given how close they were, as if that might help him better discern what Arthur didn’t say.
He always had trouble understanding Arthur. The man was written in an alien language that Lancelot tried but ever failed to learn. And yet, he remained forever fascinated nonetheless.
He was content totryuntil his dying day.
“But I need this,” Arthur growled almost animalistically. A guttural sound he had no control over.
“I need you as much as I hate you.”
Lancelot’s breath caught at the confounding words just as Arthur took his mouth in a punishing kiss.
If a kiss it could be called.
It was an attack, really. A siege. It was voracious and wild and furious.
His hot, slick tongue plunged in—and in and in and in. Not giving Lancelot a chance to breathe, granting him no quarter. Taking no prisoner.
Sensations flooded his long-numbed body. More than vicarious feelings this time. These were his own. And they were devastating.
He yielded to Arthur’s assault naturally, his muscles conforming to the shape of the other man. He stood still and let Arthur take him, save the involuntary flex of his hips. Undulating in time with Arthur’s thrusts, so that their hard cocks rubbed tightly against each other through their clothes.
Somewhere in the back of Lancelot’s mind, a long-lost memory clawed to the surface, making itself known.
They’d done this before.
He’d felt this before.
He’d reveled in these feelings, in the needs of his body he never knew were there until Arthur ignited them.
He wantedmore.
So he took it. He slammed Arthur back this time, making him thud against the opposite wall, nearly cracking his head.
Somehow, he managed to shove his hands down the back of Arthur’s trousers and grabbed two handfuls of the warrior’s arse, squeezing possessively, deliriously, until it must have hurt.
But Arthur only grunted and kept attacking his mouth, dueling with his tongue. The King’s hands grasped at his back and pulled at his hips, bringing him even closer, grinding against him even harder.
He squeezed and massaged those muscled cheeks, his fingers digging in. Seeking.
Instinctively, he pushed one hand lower and found the entrance he was looking for. None-too-gently, he shoved a fingertip inside, making Arthur huff out a pained gasp.
But the man only spread his legs wider to give Lancelot more room. It was as good as an invitation.
So, he shoved two fingers inside the hot, quivering hole, wishing it was something else he used to fill the man. His cock jerked and leaked at the thought, clearly volunteering for the task.
But he knew he was hurting Arthur, for he felt it vicariously. He was too rough, and that part of Arthur’s body had never been breached before. Only ever by him. Only the tips of his fingers.
He simply knew it. And the knowledge filled him with primitive, snarling satisfaction, as a rumbling growl vibrated from deep within him, unleashed like a wild, hungry thing in the deserted alley.
