“Unless you lose, in which case it’s proof God doesn’t favor you as much as you thought.” Arthur cut a slice of venison and fed it to Gwen, giving her one of his wickedly sensual smiles. “Then it’s too damned late, and those you love are getting butchered for your arrogance.”
The prince started to retort, but Arthur cut him off. “I’m not declaring war on Hengrid and his Saxons, Mordred. Their raids may eventually push me into it, but I’d rather wait until our people get in the harvest and survive the winter. This is the longest stretch of peace we’ve had in thirty years. Let the peasants savor it a little longer.”
“Peasants.” The prince speared a bite of mutton on the tip of his dagger and ate it with a wolfish snap. His green eyes glinted with growing temper over the curl of his lip. “What do we care for the opinion of peasants?”
Arthur studied him. Everyone else held their collective breath, Gwen included, wondering if they were about to witness another explosive row. Mordred was a bit too much like his father, right down to the infamous Pendragon temper. Unfortunately, he lacked Arthur’s iron self-control. “Peasants, my son, are the ones who do the worst of the dying in war. Marching armies too often murder peasant children, rape peasant wives, and burn peasant crops, leaving the survivors to starve. Never forget, a good king doesn’t declare war unless he has no choice.”
Mordred dipped his head in grudging acquiescence. “Aye, Father.”
Arthur turned away as Lord Kay said something Gwen didn’t catch. She was immobilized by the sight of rage and malice flashing across Mordred’s face, there and gone so quickly she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was naught but too much imagination and too many bad memories. Dear God, let that be all.
Mordred’s rage and impulsiveness had grown throughout his childhood, reaching a bitter pitch in his teens that had made all their lives unbearable. Yet in the past year, that storminess had seemed to abate. Gwen, Arthur, and Mordred’s mother, Morgana, had begun to hope the worst was over, that he’d finally learned to control his anger.
But staring at his expressionless profile, she wondered uneasily if he’d just gotten better at hiding his darkness . . .
Now Gwen squeezed her eyes closed. With a queen’s ruthless discipline, she concentrated on making her mind as smooth as a frozen lake, feeling no fear. No doubt. No pain. Feeling nothing.
“You know,” a deep voice purred in her ear, “you do have the most beautiful rump I’ve ever seen.” Arthur’s big hands cupped both her bare cheeks. “I made you queen for this arse.”
But there are better things to feel than nothing. She turned her head to smile up into her husband’s wicked grin. If he was working just a little too hard at it, she’d do them both the favor of refusing to notice. He’s not dead yet. And neither am I. “At the time,” she drawled, “you told me it was my eyes that won you. Or perhaps my mouth.”
“And so they were. You’re a woman of many parts.” He slid his arms around her and leaned down to take her lips in a kiss so passionate, it made a fine distraction. She opened her mouth with a sigh and leaned into his warm strength. His tongue slipped inside her lips, explored sensitive flesh, teased with gentle strokes. Heat gathered between them everywhere they touched, dancing along the surface of her skin, coiling in the tips of her breasts and between her thighs.
Arthur’s arms curled around her, tracing the naked rise of her hip before sliding down to cup her between her thighs. One finger stroked her sex with an exquisitely gentle touch that brought heat rushing to her core.
As delicious as that felt, though, she knew they would be interrupted. “My maid and the servants are due . . .”
“We’ll send them away.”
“. . . and you did order Lancelot to attend you for new orders.”
“He can damned well wait with the servants. None of them will begrudge us whatever moments we can steal.”
She considered arguing, but Arthur’s free hand distracted her as it traced a leisurely path up her torso, his swordsman’s callused palm a little rough. The erotic scrape of his skin along hers made Gwen squirm.
The thought of the duel tried to surface again, but she thrust it down hard. Arthur was right. If this is to be the last time, let’s make a memory to keep me warm through all the lonely winters. Everyone else can wait.
Especially Mordred.
Arthur found her nipple, twisted it with the perfect pressure. He knew just how hard she liked his touch, when she liked it, and where.
Throwing her head back on his shoulder, Gwen rolled her rump against his erection. “Mmm,” she purred. “You’re very, very . . . tempting.”
“I could say the same to you.” The hand teasing her sex parted her innermost lips to stroke the delicate flesh. “Sweet as cream, and just as wet.”
Guinevere turned her head and smiled up into his dark, hot gaze. “As I said, tempting.” She let her body relax, let all her fear and tension go. It was a trick she’d learned years ago, before other battles, other wars.
Arthur gave her nipple a harder tug, drawing it out to the edge where pain and pleasure met, simultaneously letting her feel the bite of his nails. The sharp sting made her moan. He chuckled at the sound, switching his attention to the other nipple and tormenting it just as skillfully. The fingers in her sex found her clit, pinched hard, making her writhe.
Gwen groaned in delight. It had taken her years to convince him to be even slightly rough with her. His instinct was to treat her as if she had no more heft than a cobweb, easily shredded by careless hands. She loved her husband’s bone-deep, instinctive chivalry, yet she’d always found his rare moments of passionate violence unbearably arousing. Perhaps it was because they were so out of character for him. Or perhaps they simply served some need of her own she couldn’t explain. He gave her clit another scissoring pinch, then let go to delve deeper into her pussy, two fingers pumping until she shuddered as her knees grew weak. “Oh, you do like that, don’t you, wife?”
When she could do nothing but moan, he tightened his grip on her nipple, ripping a yelp of aroused protest from her lips. “Your king asked you a question, girl.”
“Yes!” she whispered. “Saints, Arthur, oh, God, it feels so . . .” She twisted in his arms, rolling her hips back against his blade-hard cock until it slid deliciously along the valley between her cheeks.
He groaned in arousal and gave her a hard, involuntary thrust before he stilled with an obvious effort. “Watch it, woman. You’ll make me spill.”
“I’ll take that chance,” she panted.
“I won’t.” He pulled his fingers from her delightfully stinging flesh, caught her by the shoulders, and spun her to face him. She went into his arms with an eager moan. His mouth covered hers, hot and wet and fierce. She kissed him back, starving, loving the feel of his hands cupping her arse, the hard length of his erection. His fingers dug in with a bruising grip, skillfully adding tinder to her already blazing arousal.
His tongue slipped into her mouth, and she chased it with her own, suckling and circling it as if it were his cock. He growled against her mouth and lifted her off her feet, cradling her arse in broad, strong hands. With a groan, Gwen wrapped her legs around his waist and hooked one heel over the opposite ankle. She started to lift herself with her horsewoman’s strong thighs, meaning to impale her sex on Arthur’s shaft.
“No, I don’t think so.” Turning to the bed, he spilled her onto her back across the mattress. Before she knew what he intended, he dropped to his knees beside the bed, spread her thighs wide, and buried his face between them. The first long lick tugged at her inner labia, but didn’t touch her clit. Not quite.
“Arthurrrr,” Gwen moaned. “God, Arthur, let me suck you. I need to . . .”
He lifted his head long enough to growl. “I think not. I’ve other plans.” His tongue swirled a lazy circle around her clit before slipping up one inner lip and down the other, then up again to her clit for another maddening circuit. Around and around unt
il her empty cunt clenched, craving his thick cock, making her whimper with the hot desperation of her need.
Closing his mouth over her clit at last, he suckled, almost catapulting her into orgasm, until he backed off at the last possible instant. When Gwen spat a truly filthy curse she’d learned from Arthur himself, he laughed like a devil and sought out that exquisitely sensitive spot between her pussy and anus. His tongue pressed hard, swirling with surprising force, triggering a tingling jolt of delight. Wrapping her legs around his broad back, Gwen hunched against his face, maddened by the climax dangling just out of reach.
Rumbling approval, Arthur slid two fingers into her pussy and pumped until she twisted in delight, unable to keep still.
“You’re so wet,” he growled, his voice deep and dark and rough. “You really want my cock, don’t you?”
“Jesu, yes! Please, Arthur . . .”
The king grinned, hungry as a fox contemplating a helpless hen. “No.” And thrust one finger up her arse.
The sheer unexpected kick of wicked pleasure ripped a gasp from her mouth. The gasp turned into a groan when he began tonguing swirling patterns around her clit, not quite touching the hard little nub, until she jerked with wracking pleasure. All the while, he pumped his finger in and out of her anus. The storm of sensation grew into a gale when he added a second digit and a wicked little fillip of pain. She cried out and started begging for his cock in a stream of incoherent pleas.
“One day I’m going to fuck you here,” he told her, scissoring his fingers apart, intensifying the ache. “I’m going to make you scream as I dig my big dick in. You’ll beg me to stop, but that will only make me harder, hungrier. I’ll fuck and fuck and fuck until you come shrieking. Then I’ll blow, flooding your little arse with so much come, you’ll leak it from your sore hole all day long. Sitting at the Round Table with all my knights. They’ll go mad wondering about the secret smile on your face.”
She shivered. “Now. Do it now.” There may not be a later.
“No.” His black eyes watched her face with dark male hunger. “No, I think I’ll save it for a special occasion.”
Before she could wail a protest, his mouth covered her clit and sucked so hard, his cheeks hollowed. Gwen’s climax hit in a storm of fiery sparks that bowed her spine and ripped a scream from her lips. Never mind the servants who probably heard; for once, she didn’t care.
“Fuck me, Arthur.” Gwen gasped, writhing, desperate. Lost. “However you want it, do it. Jesu, please!”
With a low, bestial growl, Arthur surged to his feet and grabbed her behind her knees. A hard tug dragged her to the edge of the bed. He snatched up a pillow and shoved it under her backside, angling her pussy for his use. One big hand gripped the ruddy jut of his cock and presented it to her opening.
His gaze met hers, hunger stark in his dark warrior’s eyes as he reared over her, broad-shouldered and massive from hours swinging sword and shield.
Arthur entered slowly as he always did, making sure she was ready for him. As if I could be anything else. Gwen tightened her inner muscles, loving the sensation of that thick, meaty cock stuffing her by hot inches.
“Jesu, you feel delectable.” Groaning, he brushed his thumb over her clit, first circling it with his thumb, then teasing the inner lips stretched tight around his shaft. He seemed to know every point on her body where he could trigger pleasure. Gwen moaned helplessly as he filled her deeper and deeper, until every inch of that thick member was inside her. Slowly, he rolled his hips, rocking, grinding. “So tight. So hot and slick.”
It took Gwen almost a minute to manage speech. “You are so . . .” He circled his hips, and her mind went blank. “Good.” That last word emerged as a whimper.
Arthur laughed, low and wolfish. “As are you, my lady.”
His cock . . . Angels and devils, his cock! Each stroke seared her with distilled pleasure, goading her into rolling her hips against his.
Arthur grabbed her behind the knees. Knowing what he wanted, she rested her heels on his broad shoulders, a pose that tightened her, heightening the sensation for both of them.
Pleasure pealed through her in bell-like reverberations. Reaching up her body with his free hand, he caught the peak of one breast, knowing just how to pull and tug the way she liked it best. Sensation piled on sensation with every hard thrust, until she hurtled into pleasure, the deep, hard pulses bowing her spine. Gwen screamed in delight, barely aware as her king drove to the balls, head thrown back with an orgasmic roar.
• • •
Arthur collapsed on the bed beside Gwen, breathing hard, his heart pounding, his skin sweat-slick. For a moment he was content to simply listen to her pant. “Why are you breathing . . . so . . . hard . . . ?” he joked. “I did all the work.”
“I . . . offered,” she gasped. “You . . . turned me . . . down.”
“Good point.” Scooping one arm under her, Arthur hauled her over on top of him and tucked her blond head under his chin.
“I’ve got . . . an . . . idea,” she panted, her heart thundering against his chest. “Let’s . . . just stay . . . right here. All day.”
“Tempting . . .” He managed to catch his breath, at least enough for a feeble attempt at a joke. “But I’d hate to disappoint the boy.”
“Fuck him.” The violence in her snarl made him blink. “You have given him quite enough as it is.”
“Apparently he doesn’t think so,” Arthur said, keeping his voice light despite the desolation he felt. “And he is my son.”
“But he isn’t mine.” As he blinked, startled, she gestured wearily. “Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive.” But he frowned, for her outburst was telling. She had never reproached him about siring Mordred; for one thing, he and Gwen had yet to meet when he’d slept with the boy’s beautiful mother. He’d been a callow seventeen then, fresh from his first major battlefield victory. Morgana, a year older, black-haired and beautiful, had been summoned to use her Druid healer’s skills to save his best friend’s life. Lancelot had lived, and the young king had celebrated his victory between the pretty healer’s thighs.
What neither Morgana nor Arthur had known back then was that they were actually half siblings. Evidently, Arthur’s father, King Uther Pendragon, had fathered Morgana during an assault on her Druid mother. They’d only learned the truth last week, when the wizard Merlin had sensed the incestuous connection and informed them of the shocking news.
At the time, Arthur hadn’t even known he’d become a father. Mordred was ten years old before Morgana brought the child to court while seeking the position of Camelot’s healer.
Gwen had known Mordred was Arthur’s son the moment she saw him. His mouth, his blade-straight nose, the shape of his broad, sculpted jaw all bore the Pendragon stamp. Most other women would have been outraged at being presented with a husband’s by-blow, no matter when he’d been sired. Instead, Gwen had greeted boy and mother with joy. From then on, she treated Mordred as her own.
For all the good it had done. Arthur sighed, absently caressing his wife’s bare shoulder. “I would I knew what happened. Where I went wrong.”
“My queen?” Gwen’s maid called through the door. “It’s time. We have the water for your bath . . .”
“Come, husband. I’ll let you wash my back.” Gwen gave him a warm, lingering kiss before pulling out of his arms to pad toward the dressing chamber.
“Which, as motivations go, is a damned good one.” He rose and reached for his robe. “Certainly better than the chance to drink from some wretched cup.”
• • •
The king groaned in pleasure as he sank into the huge bronze tub that required a team of servants to fill. The water was pleasantly cool despite the building June heat. “God’s balls, that feels good.”
Gwen dropped her robe and stepped into the water between his knees, then settled down opposite him with a sigh of appreciation. “This tub has to be the most wonderful gift you’ve ever given me.”
She considered the question, head tilted, expression judicious. “Those were truly beautiful . . .” Her smile turned wicked. “But I do believe the view from here is even better.”
“I can say the same of you, though honesty compels me to admit that necklace was as much a gift for me as for you. I do love the sight of those stones against your pale, pretty breasts.”
“And here I thought you were just generous.”
“Oh, I am.” He grinned at her. “I’ve also been fascinated by those lovely tits since the day I met you.”
Gwen gave herself a glance far more critical than the view deserved. “They are not as firm as they were when I was sixteen.”
“Those were a girl’s breasts, my dear. Now they are a woman’s. Don’t underestimate the attractions of a lover who knows what he’s about.”
Gwen laughed. “Flatterer.”
“You know better than that. I’ve never had the patience to think of pretty lies. The truth is so much easier to remember.”
He smiled, relishing her return smile of appreciation. Her oval face looked soft and lovely, her large blue eyes smoky over full lips. Her maid had used combs to secure her hair atop her head in a messy pile of blond curls. If there was any silver among that gold, he’d never found it. Her body was still as lithe as a girl’s, her breasts pert, her legs long, lovely, and strong.
His one regret in seventeen years of marriage was that he’d never been able to give her the child she’d wanted. And now, of course, it was too late.
We’re left with Mordred, unless I can contrive to kill him.
The thought made his gut coil into a sick knot of guilt and pain. When he was growing up, his own father’s love had seemed as unreachable as the moon; he’d been determined to serve his son better. I should have saved myself the effort.
Mordred had grown up to be as big a cold-blooded bastard as Uther. More so.
At least Uther hadn’t wanted Arthur dead.
• • •
Wicked Games Page 2
