Wonderly Wroth

by Yolande Kleinn

  Arthur is half out of his own mind when Lancelot props up on one elbow to meet his eyes.

  Lancelot's cheeks are flushed, his expression stormy with need, and he starts to ask, "Do you have anything to—?"

  "Here," Arthur interrupts, already reaching for a niche in the intricate headboard. He finds the vial easily by touch, though it's been months at least since he last had need of it. He presses the vial, still stoppered, into Lancelot's hand.

  The look Lancelot gives him then is eloquent, but Arthur doesn't need it to make sense of the wordless question. He can sense jealous curiosity through their shared connection.

  Arthur arches a single eyebrow and asks, "Where is it written that a king must spend his nights alone?"

  He barely has time to wonder if this might pose a problem before Lancelot kisses him once more, lingering and slow.

  He doesn't protest when Lancelot lets go of him and backs down the bed, nudging Arthur's knee aside so that he can settle between Arthur's legs. Lancelot kneels there, unstopping the vial, glancing at Arthur for only an instant before pouring slick oil over his fingers.

  He touches Arthur with maddening care. His fingers are steady and confident when they press inside, an intimate ache as he slips them deeper, loosening Arthur's body for what comes next. His free hand closes around Arthur's cock, the warm length stiff as though Arthur hasn't already spent himself once tonight. Lancelot strokes him softly at first, in time with thrusting fingers. His touch firms by degrees, carrying Arthur deliberately to the edge and keeping him there. All the while Arthur can feel Lancelot's eyes on him, burning through him as Arthur falls apart. There's something possessive in the way Lancelot watches him, and in the bright burst of feeling the enchantment sends directly to Arthur.

  As though Lancelot already knows just how thoroughly Arthur belongs to him.

  Arthur is on the verge of begging when Lancelot's fingers finally slide free, and he gasps a fractured noise. He doesn't fear anyone overhearing through the thick stone walls, but it's an embarrassing sound, needy and desperate. As Lancelot's weight covers him once more, Arthur wonders if it's only his own need he's feeling so acutely. The hot length of arousal nudges between his thighs, and there is unmasked hunger in Lancelot's eyes when their gazes lock. Their twin heartbeats are rising chaos somewhere deep and secret, and Arthur draws a shaky breath, touches Lancelot's face with reverent fingers.

  "Please," Arthur whispers. It's only the third time in his life he's spoken the word.

  There's an uncoordinated moment, as Lancelot pours more oil into his palm and reaches down to slick his cock. Arthur intercepts the vial, not quite empty, and fumbles the stopper back into place. He doesn't try and return it to its discreet hideaway once sealed, but tosses it aside, out of the way toward the far edge of the bed. He doesn't much care where it lands. He has better priorities.

  Lancelot's breath is warm along Arthur's jaw. His lips brush Arthur's ear, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "Are you ready?"

  Arthur groans in answer, tangling his fingers in Lancelot's hair and dragging him in for a frantic kiss. Lancelot takes his own length in hand then, positioning himself between Arthur's thighs. The teasing nudge becomes deliberate pressure as the blunt head presses inside, and Arthur breaks the kiss to gasp against Lancelot's throat. He pushes forward with his hips, taking Lancelot deeper, urging more, and Lancelot groans a curse into Arthur's skin as he jerks forward, driving in to the hilt in a single thrust. There's discomfort—of course there is—but it's fleeting, quickly overwhelmed by more familiar pleasure, and by a bright surge of borrowed emotion in Arthur's chest. Satisfaction, desire, overwhelming elation. Arthur gasps again, this time from the force of Lancelot's feelings rushing through him.

  They move awkwardly at first, learning each other, learning how they fit together. The amulet, still hanging by its chain around Lancelot's neck, bumps warmly against Arthur's chest. Lancelot's hands are eager strength everywhere they touch, restless, as though desperate to leave nowhere unexplored. Arthur's own hands tremble, and he clutches at Lancelot's back, relishing the bunch and flex of powerful muscle beneath his palms. He arches to meet every thrust, rolling his hips to take Lancelot deeper still.

  They find their balance, the perfect give-and-take, and together rush over the edge of release.

  # # # # #

  There's an unsteadiness to the quiet that settles around them after. The fire burns low, spreading heavier shadows throughout Arthur's chambers. The air has gone chill with the fading hearth, and both Arthur and Lancelot have settled beneath the heavy bedclothes. Lancelot lies on his back, the purple jewel pulsing sedately where it rests above his heart.

  Arthur's own restlessness cools and calms as he curls against Lancelot's side. He rests his head on Lancelot's shoulder and drapes an arm across his stomach, breathing in time with the rise and fall of Lancelot's chest. He becomes aware again of the ache in his shoulder, but the weak discomfort barely warrants notice.

  The silence is both intimate and cautious, and it's Lancelot who reluctantly breaks it.

  "You know I can't really stay."

  "I know," Arthur agrees, though he wishes he didn't have to. There will be consequences if Lancelot is discovered in his bed. Arthur is the king, but even a king is not above scrutiny. "We have time yet." Scant hours, yes, but time nonetheless.

  The first of Arthur's servants will arrive just before sunup, and there are four hours at least until then. For all the sated satisfaction humming beneath Arthur's skin, he's in no danger of falling asleep—and from the sense of Lancelot entwined with their steadying heartbeats, Arthur knows he is not alone.

  It's proof of Arthur's trust, and of his faith in Lancelot, that Arthur finally asks, "What happens now?"

  Lancelot is silent for a very long time. He trails warm fingers the length of Arthur's spine, cards them through the dark mess of Arthur's hair. Arthur wishes he could decipher clearer thoughts through the connection between them. He doesn't know what to make of this silence, or of the complicated tangle of feelings running fitfully beneath.

  When Arthur shifts, intending to move away and offer what space and peace he can, Lancelot's arms tighten about him and prevent any retreat. A possessive ember burns brighter as he tugs Arthur more firmly against him, and Lancelot exhales slowly.

  "I think, Sire," he says at last, sounding exhausted but giving off a faint pulse of hope somewhere more intimate, "that what happens now depends on you."

  "No." Arthur lays one palm flat over Lancelot's heart, pushing up to look him in the eye. "This is not the king's purview. It is far more complicated."

  "I suppose it is," Lancelot concedes. He reaches up to tuck a dark strand of hair behind Arthur's ear. His expression is somber.

  Arthur wants to kiss him, abruptly and desperately. It takes conscious will to hold motionless instead. "I'm asking what you want."

  "You already know what I want," Lancelot protests, and his brow creases faintly.

  "I know what you feel. It is not necessarily the same." He peers down at Lancelot, trying to read straight into his soul. "I don't wish to put you in an untenable position," Arthur says softly. "I know very well how you feel tonight, but what of tomorrow? And the day after that? What of all the days that follow, when I am king first, and all else must come second?" Even you, he cannot bear to say aloud, though they both understand the truth of it.

  Instead of answering at once, Lancelot twines his fingers in Arthur's hair and tugs him down for a kiss that is harsh with need. Arthur parts his lips for Lancelot's tongue, clings to him with a desperation all his own. He doesn't resist when Lancelot pushes upward beneath him, nudging Arthur onto his back, reversing their positions and pressing him into the pillows. The bedclothes slip and twist with the movement, pooling at Lancelot's waist and allowing cool air to ghost across warm skin.

  Lancelot breaks the kiss with obvious reluctance, propping one elbow on the pillow beside Arthur's head so that t
hey can meet each other's eyes.

  "I know you belong, body and soul, to Camelot." Lancelot's voice is heavy with the weight of reverence. "And I vow to you, I will never ask for more than you can give."

  "You deserve more." Arthur's throat tightens around the words, but he forces himself to speak them.

  "As do you," Lancelot answers quietly.

  Then they are kissing, holding on too tightly. Even when they stop, Arthur finds he can't recall how to breathe, and it's long moments before he manages to open his eyes. Of course he finds Lancelot watching him, and Arthur doesn't know what to say.

  "I am not a selfless man, Sire," Lancelot admits, and for all that his tone is still heavy with meaning, there's a hint of smile in his eyes. "Nor am I of a sharing disposition. I will allow Camelot's superior claim, but I would not take kindly to anyone else in your bed."

  Buoyant feeling cracks open in Arthur's chest. His blood warms pleasantly despite the chill of the room, perhaps because of Lancelot's words, or perhaps thanks to the warm weight of his body, the intimate heat of bare skin.

  "Why would I invite someone else to my bed? Now that I've had you, who else could possibly satisfy me?" Arthur lets warmth tinge his voice and turn his question into an invitation. Then, far more serious, he says, "There is only you, Lancelot. No matter what happens."

  The words are a promise that will be difficult to keep, but Arthur means them with every facet of his soul. A king must have heirs. If Arthur never marries, he will need to find some other way to secure the succession of his throne. A difficult road to walk, but not impossible. He allows determination to glow brighter in his chest, to express without words how sincerely he means what he has said.

  Lancelot's only answer is to growl and kiss him soundly, and Arthur thrills at the strength in Lancelot's hands. Holding him down, holding him close. It's a possessiveness Arthur shares.

  He doesn't demand Lancelot promise fidelity in return. Lancelot is already his, and Arthur needs no vow to ensure he will be faithful.

  "I love you," Arthur says when the kiss ends. The words are bright and terrifying. He doesn't regret them.

  Lancelot stares at him, surprise leaving his expression unguarded. The pulse of shared feeling is almost too much for Arthur to bear. Silence draws long between them, heavy with understanding. When Lancelot speaks, he sounds absolutely ruined.

  "And I you, Sire. Always."

  His words are the only promise Arthur will ever need.

  # # # THE END # # #

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Yolande Kleinn may be a shameless dreamer and a stubborn optimist, but she is also a proud purveyor of erotic romance. Excitable, fastidious and a little eclectic, she spends every spare moment writing the stories she wants to read. If she can drag other people into the pool along with her, then so much the better.

  You can find Yolande via her website: yolandekleinn.com

  Or connect with her @

  Twitter / Facebook / Tumblr / Goodreads

  COVER DESIGN

  Art by Yana Goya

  Alpine font by Dieter Steffman

  OTHER TITLES BY YOLANDE

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  Riggs is simply trying to survive. With Beau Greer, a young medic who stumbled into his life and then refused to leave, Riggs travels dangerous roads between long-dead cities. Scavenging doesn't offer much of a future. It barely provides for the present. But Riggs will do anything to protect what's his.

  When thieves threaten to massacre a nearby town, Riggs and Beau must make a difficult choice, even if it means putting themselves directly in the line of fire.

  RESTLESS SHADOWS, WAITING ROADS

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  SIMPLE AFTER ALL

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