Wicked Games (11 page)

“Mordred broke your sword. In my dream, I mean.” She stopped there, her heated gaze going lost. “There were dozens of them. The weight of their bodies bore you back into the mud, and Mordred took your head.”

“It was only a dream, Gwen.” He forced another smile. “You dream of my death before every major battle. I'd worry more if you
didn't
dream I died.”

“This was no wife's nightmare.” She slumped, sounding defeated and weary, as if she did not expect him to believe her. “This was a witch's vision.”

“Mordred is not going to kill me. I'm a Magus now. I could slay twenty arrogant little shits just like him without breaking a sweat.” And he had to get out of here before he lost what passed for his mind.

“Arthur, please.” Jerking her gown off over her head, she threw it to the floor like a rag. “I
need
you.”

G
wen stared at Arthur, impossibly lovely breasts heaving, her bright hair caressing bare, silken shoulders. Her eyes looked gemstone-brilliant, lips parted and pink. Stiff nipples blushed a shade darker than her mouth, and the blond triangle of her maiden hair looked damp from her need.

God's teeth, she was wet.

Every breath Arthur took seemed to wrap the raw temptation of her scent around his cock. He wanted to swirl his tongue through her thick cream, drink it down like honey mead. He wanted to pump his fingers in her tight, tight sex.

And her arse. Not just with his fingers, either. They'd joked about anal sex for years, taking turns teasing one another with the idea of his sodomizing her. But now the thought of penetrating her there made Arthur hard as a sword blade. What's more, judging by the references she'd made to it, she evidently loved the idea just as much.

Hot as she was, she'd spread her cheeks for him, let him oil her tender, virgin channel and drive his cock in to the balls. Fuck her slowly, carefully, as that tiny opening stretched wide around his ravenous shaft. He'd tease her clit and her nipples to build her hunger, enhancing the pleasure-pain of his possession. While he pumped and pumped until he came in roaring gouts . . .

His hands shook.

Gwen moved toward him slowly, the way a woman would approach a half-wild stallion she feared might bolt. “Saints, I'm hot.” She breathed the words so softly, he doubted he could have heard had he not been what he was now. “I have never been so hot for you, Arthur.” Her smile flashed. “And you've made me insane with yearning so many times.” The smile vanished. “But not like this. I am fair mad for you, my love. Don't leave me aching.”

The quiver ran from his head to his heels, shaking him like a fever. “I'd kill you, Gwen.”

“Arthur, you didn't kill me when you woke unable to speak in more than growls that terrified your own knights.” She laid one delicate hand over his desperately pounding heart. “The only word you could speak to me was ‘mine.' And you were right. I am yours, and no other's. I'm in no danger from you, my heart. No matter how you growl and flash your fangs, you will do me no harm.”

He wanted to grab her, lift her high, and bury those fangs in the velvety column of her throat. Wanted to fuck her hard while he drank, first in her virginal arse and then in her cream-slick pussy. He burned to take her in every way he knew, then invent a few more and have her in those.

Arthur fought himself with all the strength of will more than two decades as king had taught him. It was far too near a thing. “Get away from me, Gwen.”

“Don't leave me, Arthur.” Despair filled his wife's sapphire eyes. “
I saw him kill you.
”

“Mordred couldn't even beat me when I was nothing more than human,” he told her roughly. “He doesn't have a prayer against me now.”

“He will.” Gwen's voice shook with the force of her fear. “I know what I saw.”

“You had a nightmare.”

“I
lived
it, damn your arrogant male stupidity!” Her eyes blazed with fury now.

Arthur stared down at her, anger drowning his prowling need. “You only dreamed. That's all. I'll bring the bastard's head back and prove it to you.”

“Arthur!”

He slammed out of the room before she could stop him with her exquisite nudity and intoxicating scent. Using the time to let his cock-stand subside, he stalked along the balustrade to the rooms of the unmarried knights. A shout brought Galahad and Gawain from their respective chambers.

“Yes, sire?” Galahad asked. His voice and face were so changed, Arthur had to look twice to be sure who it was. Unlike the rest of them, the Grail had left Lancelot's son looking older than his eighteen years. Which made sense, Arthur supposed. If Galahad had ended up that much younger, he'd be in swaddling clothes.

“Pack your gear, gentlemen,” Arthur told the pair. “We're going after Mordred. Galahad, get my saddlebags and armor. Gawain and I will ready the horses.”

Normally Arthur's squire would have packed for him, but he didn't trust the lad to keep his hands off Gwen in her current mood.

Gwen, pale and perfect, dressed in nothing but blond curls glowing gold in the soft lamplight . . . She'd never cuckold him, not his Gwen, just as Galahad would never lift a greedy hand against his queen.

Not even when she smelled so intriguingly like sex and blood and sin.

•   •   •

G
wen stared at the closed door and shook. She thought of dragging Arthur back into the room with chains of magic, binding him so she could fuck that beefy cock until her desperate need was sated. Until his massive body lay helpless on the white sheets.

So helpless he actually listened to her about her visions about Mordred instead of dismissing them out of hand.

He was her king. He held her heart. Yet at the moment, it was all she could do not to box his regal ears.

And he'd stormed out without his hauberk, helm, or shield. Ass. Naked, she stomped around their quarters, gathering his clothes and packing them into his saddlebags.

Only to stop dead with a frown, remembering Nimue's warning about the danger of sunlight. An idea flashed into her mind—a solution to the problem with the added benefit of giving her a way to rechannel her vivid lust.
Assuming I can actually do it, of course.
She hesitated, remembering the way she'd used her magic in that test of Nimue's. If it works the same way . . . Picturing what she wanted, she began to conjure, channeling the desperate need she felt into magic . . .

Sure enough, a moment later a large leather bag lay on the floor. Picking up Arthur's sword, the queen thrust the big weapon at the bag. Its point sank into the leather as if slicing into mutton. Curling a lip in disgust, she cast a spell on the bag she'd created.

Two attempts later, the leather blocked her hardest thrust.

Taking a deep breath, Gwen gathered her magic and gestured. A dozen cylindrical bags just like it appeared in a pile on the floor. Lifting one, she found it felt as soft and supple as anything a skilled tanner could have produced, yet her magic had made the bags impenetrable even to the sharpest blades.

Once Arthur and his knights laced themselves into the bags for the day, they'd be as safe from both sun and human enemies as if they slept between the foot-thick walls of Camelot. Yet the empty bags could be rolled up until they took up less room than a bedroll.

Magic, damn Arthur's stubbornness, could be useful.

After tying the bags into neat bundles, Gwen went to work packing the rest of the king's gear. Removing the hauberk, shield, and helm from the carved chest at the foot of the bed, she laid a spell of protection on them and packed them into his saddlebags.

As she dropped them on the bed to wait for his squire, she realized Merlin's spell had made her stronger. Much stronger. Prior to her transformation, Gwen would have been hard-pressed to even lift his mail. Now it seemed to weigh no more than a silk shift.

And that scent. Jesu, Mary, and all the saints, that hot male Arthur scent seemed to stroke her right between her nether lips, sending teasing, insubstantial fingers to brush her stone-hard clit.

The maddening frustration of it sparked her temper like steel to flint. Why had he refused her? He had never refused her, not in all the years of their marriage. Not in the midst of diplomacy with some stubborn rebel lord, not even still smelling of smoke, blood, and combat. Arthur had ever been ready to meet her passion with his own. Especially since his blazed even hotter.

Yet tonight, he'd turned away. Had shown all the signs of a man who wanted to get as far from his randy wife as fast as his horse could take him.

Perhaps he does need to find Mordred, but right now? Right at the moment I need him most?

Hungry claws of need raked her nipples, clit, and every inch between. Blood of the saints, she wanted to fuck her husband. She'd craved his touch many times, often fantasized about making love to him whenever war and duty separated them. Every time she'd grown especially needy, Gwen usually found an excuse to ride wherever he was for an amorous little visit. He'd always welcomed her with slow kisses and slower thrusts that drove her to the apex of pleasure.

Now she remembered all those hot trysts and felt heat flash over her desperately needy body. She wanted to throw herself down on the bed, fling her legs wide, and masturbate to a blistering climax. It wouldn't take longer than three or four frantic minutes.

But what she needed was Arthur.

Hefting the saddlebags in either hand, Gwen dropped them by the fireplace. Arthur's squire would no doubt show up looking for them any moment now.

Heat streamed from one bare nipple. She looked down to find her hand absently stroking and tugging the aching peak. With an effort, Gwen pulled her fingers away, though she wasn't sure why she bothered. Why not pleasure herself when her husband had left her aching?

To hell with it. Five minutes should be more than enough time to climax. Then at least she'd be able to sleep.

Likely only to dream of Arthur's death at the hands of that wretched boy. Again. How many times had it been now? She'd lost count.

Gwen cursed as she rarely did, vicious, rolling invective learned from years among warriors. Sliding a hand between her aching thighs, she plunged two fingers deep. Wet. She was so very wet. Dropping onto the bed, she began to pump furiously, her free hand twisting her nipple almost viciously.

Two minutes later, Gwen trembled on the verge of coming, when knuckles rapped the door. “My queen?” a deep male's voice called. “The king sent me to pack his equipment. We ride out as soon as I have the pack horses readied.”

The orgasm vanished like candle smoke in a draft. Gwen wasn't sure whether to curse or cry amid her body's frustrated howls.

Another short rap. “My queen?”

Tell Arthur to muster the balls to come for his own bloody gear.
Instead she sighed and rolled out of bed, dressing herself with a quick conjuration. Decent again, she opened the door.

The man who stood on the other side was big, broad, and powerfully built, with long dark hair and vividly green eyes.

And she'd never seen him in her life.

Considering Gwen knew every man in Arthur's service, that was not good at all. Mordred has sent an assassin!

Before she could either fry him with a spell or slam the door in his face and scream for Arthur, the man's eyes widened. “My queen, it's me—it's Galahad!”

Gwen gave him a confused blink. “What?” Now that she looked at him, he bore enough resemblance to Lancelot to be the champion's brother. He was definitely no longer a youth, being taller by inches and at least two or three stone heavier than he'd been the day before. “The Grail made Arthur younger.” She stepped back to let him enter. “How did you end up aging?”

He shrugged those massive shoulders. “Merlin told me the spell determines what your ideal age is for peak strength and speed, and remakes you accordingly.” Giving her a smile, the big man stepped inside. “If you're older than that, you get younger. If you're younger, you age. And you apparently gain the muscle to match in either case.” His smile grew into a grin, and Gwen suddenly saw the eighteen-year-old he was. “The girls do seem to like it.”

She laughed. “Best watch your step, lad, or you'll find yourself married to one of your flirtations before you can blink. As to Arthur's gear . . .” She gestured toward the pile on the bed. “. . . It's ready to go.”

“Oh, thank you, my queen.” Galahad sounded surprised. Arthur had likely warned him her temper was so foul, he'd have to pack while she pitched crockery at his head.

“By the way, I conjured bags you can sleep in during the day. Take the ones you need, and I'll give the rest to whomever else Merlin chooses.”

Galahad's eyes widened as he stared at the pile by the hearth. “You made those, my queen? With magic?”

“Yes. Not only will they protect you from sunlight, but they'll block sword strokes better than armor as well.” At his questioning glance, she explained, “I tested them with Arthur's blade myself.”

“Thank you, my queen. They should be quite helpful.” Giving her a grateful smile, he grabbed three of the bags, then collected the packed saddlebags from the bed.

Gwen watched him, her attention reluctantly caught. Galahad wore riding leathers that looked vaguely familiar; she suspected they belonged to his father. Probably nothing the boy owned fit anymore. As he bent to pick up the bags, muscle leaped and worked in his powerful upper arms. His shoulders looked impossibly wide, especially compared to his narrow, muscular flanks.

Lust torched her like a flame running from her juicing pussy to her stone-hard nipples. She gasped before she could swallow the sound.

Galahad turned, the heavy saddlebags dangling negligently from his big hands. His gaze met hers.

They both froze.

The knight inhaled sharply at whatever he saw in her face. His green eyes widened as the muscle she'd been ogling went rigid across his shoulders and down his arms. His nostrils flared as if he scented her.

He likely had, being a Magus now.

An image flashed through her brain—Galahad's newly brawny arms around her, his mouth on her throat, suckling . . .

Mortified, guilty heat flooded Gwen's face.

As if he'd somehow shared that incendiary mental image, Galahad jerked his eyes from her, blushing like a maiden. Without another word, he exited the chamber with leggy, hasty strides, both hands full of bags.

Shame hit Gwen in an acid bath of guilt and mortification. True, it hadn't been the first time she'd noticed one of Arthur's knights. They were all big and very male, and she was only human.

But to feel such a thing for Galahad, of all people . . . No matter what he looked like now, he was still a boy beneath it. One who'd almost died saving Arthur's life, to boot; he'd leaped between his king and an assassin's arrow and had damned near bled to death for his trouble. It had been all Morgana could do to save him. When he'd survived, Arthur had knighted him and made him the twelfth member of the Round Table.