But that was less than half of what Arthur craved. He also wanted to sink his fangs into the delicate throbbing vein of her throat, taste the blood running bright and luscious just beneath her skin. Her sweet, sweet skin.
What kind of beast was he? How could he think of her in such terms? She was his love, his queen, his heart—the very best of what made him a king.
What she was not was food.
“You will not hurt her, my king.” Merlin’s surprisingly deep voice sounded oddly gentle as he spoke from the chamber doorway. Arthur had locked that door, dammit. “Even if she were no more than one of the ladies of your court, you would not take more than you need. You will certainly not put your wife in danger.”
The king didn’t dare look at him. He flexed his hand around the hilt of his sword and fought the bloody impulse to draw it. “Get out of my sight if you value your head.”
Merlin snorted as he moved into the chamber, an absent wave of his hand closing the door. “I’m almost tempted to let you try. You could use a little humility.”
“Get. You. Gone.”
“No.” Merlin looked at him with those black star-flecked eyes. “Your woman will need your body when she wakes, just as you needed hers. Don’t deprive her out of fear.”
Arthur’s lips peeled off his fangs. “My wife’s needs are none of your affair, wizard.”
“They are if your fears destroy you, her, and your people.” Merlin studied him as if deciding on a new tack. “You may wish to consider a Truebond—a kind of magical link between you. Nimue and I have such a link, and it allows each of us to sense what the other feels and thinks. You’d know if you were drinking too much of her blood, and you’d be able to stop in time.”
Arthur looked at him, intrigued out of his rage. “How would we do that?”
“She’d use magic to bind your minds. You’d find it quite useful in everything from ruling to combat. You could consult her without having to speak aloud, or be able to ask her to work spells for you on the battlefield.” He paused. “There is, however, one very significant drawback.”
“I’m not surprised. I’m not sure I want my wife knowing my every stray thought.”
Merlin smiled. “Neither would I. Fortunately, you quickly learn not to project everything you think, any more than you always speak at the top of your lungs. She won’t be any more eager to have you know her every thought, either.”
Arthur frowned. “Then if not that . . .”
“The real problem is that if something kills one of you, the pain of sharing that death would kill the other.”
Arthur stared at him, appalled. “Merlin, I’m a warrior. The probability that I will die in combat . . .”
“You’re also a Magus. Killing you is now far more difficult, especially since you can heal virtually any injury short of decapitation or cutting out your heart, simply by shifting to wolf form . . .”
Arthur blinked. “We can do that? You didn’t mention this.”
Merlin shrugged. “If you but concentrate, picture a wolf in your thoughts, and will yourself to transform . . .”
Before the wizard could finish, the king closed his eyes and thought of the wolves he’d seen over the years, imagining himself changing. Heat exploded over his skin, a sense of bones and muscles twisting, reshaping themselves . . .
When he opened his eyes again, he thought for a moment he’d fallen to the floor, but when he glanced down, he saw a pair of narrow wolf forelegs where his arms should be. A high-pitched canine sound of alarm made his ears twitch, and he looked up.
Merlin gazed down at him, a smile curling his lips. “Very good, sire. Now reverse the process, and you can turn back.”
He obeyed. Once he was human again, the wizard continued, “Even if you were hurt so badly you didn’t have time to shift, Gwen would sense it and heal your injuries before they posed any danger to her.”
Arthur frowned as his instincts growled in rebellion. “Battlefields are no place for women. Particularly not my wife.”
Merlin stared at him, his expression first stunned, then appalled, then disgusted. “You’re such a brilliant man, I sometimes forget you’re also the product of a primitive culture.”
Arthur stared back, puzzled by his reaction to an obvious truth. “How is it primitive to wish to spare my wife the blood and terror of war?”
“It’s not primitive at all, given females with but a fraction of male strength. But the queen is now stronger than most men . . .”
“What? You didn’t mention that.” It was comforting to know she could defend herself against attackers, once he taught her how.
Merlin lifted a brow. “I didn’t mention it because magic is a far greater advantage than muscle. As you may discover the hard way, if you insist on treating your wife as less than she is.”
Stung, Arthur glowered at him. “I never treat Gwen as less than she is.”
“I hope that’s the case, not just for the sake of your marriage but for your entire species. As it is, I fear you’re in for a very unpleasant education.”
“You let me worry about that.”
“Nothing would please me more. But whatever you decide about the Truebond, I must stress the importance of meeting your wife’s needs when she wakes. Don’t be fool enough to leave her alone out of some stupid impulse to protect her. The Grail’s spell affects not just you, but all your descendants as well, and it’s incredibly powerful. It therefore intensifies the body’s need for sex, for reproduction. That will be as true for her as it was for you. Don’t refuse what she must give you. She is no longer human, Pendragon. If you try to treat her as though she is . . .” His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “. . . you will rue it. Of that I assure you.”
Then the wizard was quite simply gone. Only a few golden sparks remained, floating lazily above his seat.
Arthur turned his gaze to his sleeping wife again. She’d stirred while Merlin had distracted him; the coverlet had fallen to her waist. He could see the elegant rise of her breasts, full and sweet, capped by delicate pink nipples that were clearly visible beneath the gown’s diaphanous silk.
God, he wanted to taste those nipples. He wouldn’t bite. He only wanted to lick that tempting flesh, discover if it tasted anything like the scent that tormented him from across the room.
It smelled like Gwen. But . . . not. As if Merlin was right, and whatever that potion had done had changed her into something no longer human.
Blinking, he realized he stood over her. A moment ago he’d been sitting all the way across the room. He had no memory of crossing the distance.
It was obvious why he had. The scent of her flooded his nose until he could almost taste her. The lavender from her soap, achingly familiar, blended with the light musk he’d always associated with Gwen. Then there were the new notes in her scent: the copper tang of the blood running beneath her skin, mixed with something else. Something not Gwen that taunted him like sex distilled. It made his fangs ache almost as much as the cock-stand bucking in his britches.
Sweet mother Mary, he had to get away from her. Now. Before he woke to find her truly dead, not simply drained to pallor.
He should go find Merlin and kill the little fuck. Arthur spun on his heel, meaning to seek out his armor, his shield, and his blades . . .
“Arthur?” Gwen’s lovely voice sounded throaty.
From sleep, not seduction, he told himself. Just sleep. He headed for the door, desperate to escape before his fangs and his dick drove him to something he could never forgive himself for.
“Arthur, I dreamed Mordred killed you.”
Devils take him, there were tears in Gwen’s voice. Turning back, he spread his arms wide and forced a smile. “I’m well, as you can see. I kicked that bastard’s arse two days back.”
She frowned at him, troubled and lovely. Saint Sebastian’s blood, he’d forgotten how very beautiful she’d been before worry and royalty had aged her. “I saw a battle on a hill. Thousands of men fought. And most of them we
ren’t ours. They followed Mordred, Arthur.”
A chill stole over him, but he made himself scoff. “That oath-breaker? Not likely.”
“Better an oath-breaker than a blood-drinker.”
He stiffened. “Is that what you think me?”
“You know better. In any case, the problem is not what I think, it’s what do our people believe? I’m a witch now. The Bible itself says I should not be allowed to live.”
“Some priest jealous of your influence might interpret it thus.” He bared his teeth, fangs and all. “He’d best not say it in my hearing. I speak Latin as well as any jumped-up peasant in a miter.”
“Arthur, you do almost everything better than anyone.” She gazed at him, her eyes huge in the dim lamplight. Vulnerable and seductive all at once. “Come here, my king. I need you.” The way she said “need” made it damned clear what she meant. His cock, which had softened at the talk of priests, hardened like forged steel.
And the scent of her—musk, and heat, and that maddening copper tang. Gwen. Saints and devils, Gwen . . .
No. Despite her pleas, despite Merlin’s warnings, he knew he didn’t dare give in to his clawing sexual hunger. What if he started drinking her blood and couldn’t stop? “Gwen, I can’t. Percival, Marrok, and Cador rode in while you were sleeping. I sent them off to accompany Mordred to the Channel, to make sure he left the country . . .”
“Yes, I remember.” She frowned. “Was there a problem?”
“You might say that,” Arthur said grimly. “They were ambushed by a troop of Varn’s rebels barely five miles from the Channel. They were so heavily outnumbered, they barely escaped with their lives. Mordred fled with the rebels.”
Gwen stared at him, appalled. “Arthur, we have to recapture him. You can’t just let him run loose; saints know what he’ll do.”
“Exactly. I’ve sent several contingents after him, but nobody’s managed to bring him in yet. I’m going to join the search. We’ve got to find him before he starts gathering more followers for Varn, or that dream of yours could well come true.” And dammit, his new fangs made him lisp like a four-year-old.
Her lids dipped over those remarkable eyes. “Come here, Arthur.”
He didn’t dare. He knew damned well he couldn’t make love to her without drinking from that sweet throat. “I can’t, Gwen. I almost drained you the last time.”
“I was human the last time.” The way she said it, like sin and sex given voice. She rose from the bed, as gracefully seductive as Salome.
Get out boy, or you’re lost. And she will be, too. “Gwen, I can’t let Mordred escape while I dally between your lovely thighs, no matter how I wish to.”
Forget the armor. He’d take Gawain, Galahad, and their fastest horses, then send the boy back for his hauberk. He reached for the door, meaning to jerk it open.
“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.”
SEVEN
Gwen 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.
• • •
Gwen 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.
Wicked Games Page 10