Wicked Games (3 page)

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.

•   •   •

A
rthur 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.”

•   •   •

T
he 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.”

“Including the emeralds?”

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.

•   •   •

K
notting the thick leather belt around his waist, Arthur strode into the sleeping chamber, his chain mail hauberk ringing softly. As he closed the door behind him, he could hear women's voices as the maid dressed Gwen's hair.

Knuckles banged the balustrade door in a decisive knock. “My liege?”

“Enter, Lance.” He sat down on the bed and began pulling on his boots.

His dearest friend strode in, dressed in a mail shirt almost as finely made as Arthur's, his helm tucked under one arm. At thirty-nine, he was a big, dark-haired man, hard-eyed and steady. He was also the best swordsman Arthur had ever known—and the king had known many fine warriors over the years.

“My lord Lancelot.” Arthur gave him a formal nod and dropped into one of the chairs sitting beside the cold fireplace.

Lance had never been slow at picking up on cues. He promptly dropped to one knee and bent his head, though as boyhood friends, they weren't normally so formal. “My liege, how may I serve you?”

“Be seated.” Arthur waved him toward the high-backed wooden chair Gwen normally occupied. “I would give you your orders before I begin this day's work.”

“Of course.” Lancelot rose to his feet as easily as if he wore wool rather than chain mail. The knight's expression was coolly attentive, but there was a certain tension around his eyes that suggested some strong emotion roiled beneath his courtier's mask.

Arthur could make a pretty good guess what he was thinking. “You have my permission to speak, Sir Knight.”

Lance paused as if choosing his words carefully. “Am I still your champion, my liege?”

Arthur lifted a brow. “Have I told you you're not?”

“I wondered if I had given some offense. It
is
a champion's honor to fight for his liege. Unless you don't believe I can win?”

“Unfortunately, that's not the point. Merlin made it clear I must prove myself worthy to drink from this enchanted cup of his. If I refuse the challenge, none of my court will be allowed to attempt it. Given the political situation, we can't afford to spurn any advantage.”

“That cup's still not worth your life, sire.”

He grimaced. “Don't assume the rest of the court shares your opinion.”

“Most of them do. Arthur, your subjects love you. You are fair, quick to rein in abusive lords even when it costs you politically, and generous with those who need it, whether noble or peasant.” He believed every word he said, too; Lance had never stooped to flattery.

The king grunted. “My father was a stone-hearted bastard, but on one subject he was absolutely correct: if God grants you a crown, He expects you to serve as much as you're served. Which is why I cannot allow myself to be branded a coward before my entire court.”

Restless, he rose and began to pace the chamber, his mail ringing. “Another thing—what if I refuse? Merlin said he needs powerful champions for this great mission of his, whatever that should prove to be. What if he decides to repeat his offer to someone else, who then moves against us for whatever reason? I have no desire to face unkillable warriors with the strength of ten.”

“So you believe Merlin's cup can do what he claims?”

“You don't?” Arthur leaned a shoulder against the wall and eyed his friend.

“Merlin has worked some impressive magic,” Lance admitted. “But so did that magician who came to court two summers ago, the one who claimed he could bring the dead to life. Him you sent packing with a boot in the arse.”

“Merlin is not some simple trickster.”

He'd proved that last week.

They'd been in the midst of the evening meal in the Table Chamber when Arthur looked past Gwen's shoulder to see a circle of air ripple like a pool of clear water disturbed by a tossed pebble. The ripples stilled, revealing a moonlit wood, as if he looked through a window.

Gasps sounded. As they all stared in astonishment, a boy stepped through the opening to look around with cool interest. Tall and slender, he was perhaps fifteen, with a long, intelligent face framed by black hair that fell around his narrow shoulders. He wore a blue tunic of fine embroidered linen that matched his leggings and knee-high leather boots.

A girl stepped through the impossible opening, which vanished with a silent burst of sparks. A delicate nymph of a maid, she wore a thin silk gown in verdant green, her hair a tumble of blond curls that cascaded to her waist. Her enormous black eyes were set aslant in her heart-shaped face, and her mouth was small and pink, with lips that brought rosebuds to mind.

Where in the name of all the saints had the pair come from?

A sword licked out in a bright arc, stopping a fraction from the lad's throat. “Who are you,” snarled Lancelot, “and how the hell did you do that?” Silent and lethal, the knight had risen from the Table to challenge the pair.