Wicked Games (8 page)

To actually feel how Arthur experienced passion—to feel what it would be like to have a cock . . .
Jesu, I'm growing wet.
“It sounds . . . intriguing.”

“Oh, it is. But it's not for everyone, and it does have a darker side. For example, if one of us dies, the shock of the severed bond would kill the other. But it grants so many advantages, it's worth the risk.”

“But how do you accomplish such a thing?” Morgana asked.

“Magic, of course. But the male must allow it. You can't force a Truebond on someone else; they must love and trust you enough to allow it. Otherwise they'll quickly learn to block you out. The consequences of forcing another person's mind can be ugly. Still, it's something you may want to remember, should you pass your own test.”

“Frankly, I doubt Arthur would even permit it.” Gwen sat back with a huff. “He's so protective, there are times I can't even get him to talk about whatever's bothering him. He certainly wouldn't allow me to read his mind.”

“He may surprise you.” Nimue studied Arthur as he twisted restlessly, muttering something about troop movements. “In the meantime, you may safely leave him sleeping, if with a contingent of guards. I would suggest seeing to whatever preparations you want to make for your own test.”

“Who would I be fighting?”

“Why, me, of course.”

Lovely
. Gwen eyed her warily. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I know nothing of swords and combat.”

“You'll learn,” Nimue said a trifle grimly. “But in any case, you'll have no need of such knowledge for my challenge, for this won't be a physical contest. You need only will and intelligence.”

“Those I have.”

“So I've noticed.”

“So when shall we do this?”

“Later.” She gestured at Arthur as he lay sleeping. “There isn't time to test you and, should you succeed, accomplish your transformation before your husband wakes.”

•   •   •

G
wen slept poorly that night beside her comatose husband, dreams spinning through her brain in a frantic tumble of the day's events.

Mordred threatening her, the face of the boy she'd raised and loved now unrecognizable in its malicious hatred.

Arthur's pain. That icy moment when he'd raised his sword over his son's head.

Morgana, gripping Gwen's hand so hard, she'd thought the bones would break.

The dream warped, and it was Arthur helpless on the ground, Mordred standing over him, Mordred bringing his sword down in a bright, vicious arc . . .

Gwen screamed, jerking awake to find her husband lying next to her, still deep in the Grail sleep. She sat up and touched his chest, needing to feel his heart beating, make sure Merlin hadn't turned him into a monster . . .

Especially after the way Lancelot and the other knights had argued against her sleeping with Arthur, fearing his mental state when he woke. Gwen had overruled them, flatly refusing to believe her husband would ever hurt her, Grail or no Grail. Yet now, with her heart pounding in her ears, she found herself eyeing him anxiously.

But no, it was still Arthur, his face dear and familiar in a shaft of moonlight.

Wait. Gwen frowned. He did look a little different. She rose and found flint and steel, then fumbled with them until she got the hanging oil lamp lit. The wick hissed and spat as she turned to study her husband in the golden light it cast.

The gray was gone from his hair. His face looked younger, too; some of the familiar lines carved by more than two decades as king had vanished. Gwen glanced away, then looked back again.

But no, she wasn't imagining things. He did look younger, less than thirty. A warrior at the height of his strength.

Sweet Mother, he's beautiful.
Her gaze traced the strong, narrow line of his nose, the width of his jaw, and the sensual curve of his wide mouth framed by his short, dark beard.

It reminded her of the first time she'd seen him. Barely nineteen, he'd already been king for four years, having only been fifteen at the time of his father's murder.

On hearing the story of Arthur's vengeance for Uther's death, Gwen's father had snorted. “After which the boy no doubt went right on with his dinner,” Leodegraunce said. “Uther was a thoroughgoing bastard. Which is doubtless how the child learned to kill assassins over the fish course. The only surprise is that Uther didn't gut his own murderer himself.”

At nineteen, Arthur hadn't looked like a killer, at least to Gwen's infatuated sixteen-year-old eyes. He'd been a head taller than she was even then, and brawnier than any other boy she knew, as one might expect of a man who'd spent the past four years fighting to survive. Somehow he'd managed not only to keep his father's kingdom, but also to expand it through conquest. Even as young as he'd been, bards were already singing of his exploits.

She'd taken one look into those velvety dark eyes and fallen deep into girlish love. But then, Arthur had been driving young girls into swoons for years.

The surprise was he'd fallen just as hard for her. Leodegraunce, cunning old fox that he'd been, had recognized the blooming attraction and wasted no time encouraging it. By the time Arthur left the family's holdings a week later, Gwen rode at his side, a new bride. A new queen.

He'd never appeared to regret his hasty choice, whether born of infatuation or true love. Yet however it had begun, the emotion between them had only deepened, growing richer and more powerful over the years, through battles, bitter arguments, and Mordred's stormy childhood. Even three heartbreaking miscarriages had only served to strengthen it.

It would survive Merlin and his Grail, too.

•   •   •

R
ealizing she'd lose her mind if she did nothing but watch Arthur sleep, Gwen dressed for the day, left his knights standing watch, and went about her duties.

Today that included watching Merlin test the male candidates he'd chosen, including Tristan, Gawain, and Galahad. To Gwen's pleasure, the three Round Table knights won, even after Merlin had each of them fight four and five opponents at once. But then, Arthur had chosen his elite with care, taking into account not only combat skills but also bravery, wit, and sense of honor. She suspected the remaining Table knights would pass Merlin's test as handily as the first three.

During the midday meal, the queen noticed something that worried her. Several of the lords who'd been present at Arthur's duel were missing. Gwen sent servants to check their lodgings in the surrounding town, only to learn all four had packed up their households and decamped the night before. Yet she knew Arthur had not given them permission to leave Camelot.

When she conferred with Lord Kay, the seneschal frowned deeply. “I didn't even notice they were gone,” he admitted. “Too preoccupied with this bloody contest of Merlin's. Do you want me to send couriers after them, order them to turn around?”

Gwen didn't hesitate. “Yes. Arthur will want to deal with them when he wakes.”

“Which should be sometime tonight, assuming Merlin's correct.”

She glanced at the lowering sun. “I have much to see to before then. I'd best get to it.”

Kay studied her with obvious concern. “If you need me . . .”

“I will definitely send for you.”

“Good luck.”

She gave him a carefully confident smile. “I won't need it.”
Or at least, I certainly hope not.

Kay didn't look as if he was fooled.

G
wen hurried along the balustrade in the light of her oil lamp to find Lancelot and Bors standing guard outside her and Arthur's chambers. Both men looked tense and grim-faced.

“He's awake,” Lance told her.

“And growling,” Bors added. “Literally. He sounds rather like a bear.”

“We left the room when it became apparent our presence was agitating him.”

Bors grimaced. “Agitate, hell. He was
stalking
us.”

Gwen hesitated, considering the implications. “Then I'd better go in alone. We don't want him stirred up any more than he already is.”

The two knights exchanged a concerned glance. “I don't think that's a good idea,” Lance told her. “Bors and I will . . .”

“I appreciate your concern, but Arthur won't hurt me.”

“Arthur wouldn't,” Bors agreed. “But I'm not convinced that what's in there is Arthur.”

Gwen frowned. “Nimue would have warned me if there was a possibility he'd be a real danger to me.”

“Perhaps,” Lancelot said darkly. “Unless they intended to turn the High King into a beast and trick us into feeding him the High Queen.”

“Lord Lancelot, I think you've been standing guard too long with nothing to distract your bard's imagination,” Gwen told him tartly. “Didn't your son just drink from the Grail?”

“Yes, my queen, but we're short-handed, what with three of the Table knights in this Grail sleep. I felt my place was guarding you and the king. Particularly since I can do Galahad no good anyway.”

“Galahad will be fine. And so will I. Stand aside, my lords.”

“At least consult Lord Kay . . .”

A growl sounded from the other side of the door, low and savage and distinctly feral.

Bors was right. He did sound like a bear.

The two men looked at her with identical expressions of deep doubt. Gwen's heart bounded into her throat, but she gave the pair her best regal stare. “My king needs me. Stand aside, gentlemen.”

“My queen, the king wouldn't want you to . . .” Lance began.

“Stand. Aside,” Gwen gritted.

Bors wavered in the face of her obvious anger, but Lance, stubborn as always, refused to back down. “What if he kills you?”

“Do you need a week in gaol to remind you to obey your queen's orders?”

For a moment she thought she was going to have to call the rest of the Round Table to physically remove them. That could easily have backfired, especially since the champion was right: Arthur wouldn't have wanted her to take the risk.

She watched them weigh their conflicting duties—obedience to the queen against protecting her, even from the king. Patience flying, Gwen lifted her voice in a roar she'd learned from Arthur. “Move!”

They stepped apart out of sheer reflex. Gwen sailed between them, jerked open the door, then slammed it behind her before they had time to recover.

•   •   •

C
oncealed behind a cloak of magic, Nimue turned to Merlin. “I told you she would make them obey.”

Merlin grunted. “Let us see if her courage holds against Arthur.”

Nimue only smiled. “She'll handle him. That one is steel to the marrow.”

•   •   •

D
espite the lamp she held, the room was dark as a crypt after the torchlit balustrade. Gwen fumbled to attach the lamp to the chain that hung from the ceiling.

When she turned around, Mordred loomed over her like a wall of muscle. Gwen froze in stark terror, unable to breathe, much less scream for help.

Until she realized his eyes were dark, not Mordred's icy green.

Arthur,
she realized, and felt her heart lurch back into rhythm.
It's Arthur!
He didn't look quite as young as his son, though he could easily have been an older brother. “Christ's wounds, husband, you frightened me witless!”

He stepped against her, forcing her to retreat until her back hit the wall. Leaning down, he sucked in a deep huffing breath, as if scenting her.

“You're scaring me.” Gwen struggled to regain control of her rising voice. “Give me a little room, please.”

He didn't react, still breathing deeply bare inches from her throat. She planted both palms against his chest and shoved. “Step back, Arthur!”

He caught her wrists and lifted them over her head. Pinning her hands in one of his against the cool plaster, he leaned against her.

Gwen once had a horse she was grooming pin her by shifting his weight, trapping her between his shoulder and the stable wall. The animal hadn't applied any real pressure, but she'd found she couldn't move him no matter how she pushed and struggled. Point made, the gelding finally stepped aside and let her go.

Arthur's hold felt exactly like that. Not tight enough to hurt, but completely inescapable. He watched her, his expression patient, while she strained against his warm, immoveable strength. “Arthur, dammit, let me . . .”

“My queen?” Lancelot called through the door. “Do you need help?”

Arthur tensed and lifted his head, glaring toward the door. His lips peeled off his teeth.

Two of them were fangs.

“My queen? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Lance! He's not hurting me, he's just irritating the hell out of me. It's not the first time, and I assure you it won't be the last. Quit listening at the door before you hear something that will embarrass you as much as it does us.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “Excuse me, my queen. I was but concerned. You sound . . . breathless.”

“Breathless or not, I'm in no danger.”
I hope.
She had never been so intensely aware of her husband's size and strength, especially compared to her own far more delicate body. Was he actually bigger than he had been the day before, if not in height, then in sheer muscular breadth?

He looked down at her, his black stare hungry as he bared those fangs again. “Mine.”

Gwen actually felt the word rumble from his chest to hers. “Yes, my king. Yours. Still. Always.”

His snarl became a smile, sensual and hot. Gwen knew that smile. That was Arthur. The tension in her knotted shoulders began to relax.

Arthur lowered his head slowly, still watching her with that lupine intensity. The hand not holding her wrists reached up to cup one breast through her thin linen tunic. Pleasure unspooled along her nerves as she stared up into her husband's face, at the smile that looked both familiar and alien with the curve of his lips baring those white, white fangs. His cupping fingers curled to milk her nipple with exquisite delicacy, pinching and tugging with steadily increasing force. Delight grew with each stroke, given an extrawicked kick by the undercurrent of danger added by those fangs. She tried to squirm, but he didn't budge even the fraction he would have before. Instead he smiled, obviously well aware of her tangled emotions.

Then Arthur pounced.

She was in his arms before she even felt him move. He spun and dropped onto the bed, pinning her beneath his hot, hard strength as she yelped in alarm.

“Betterrrr,” he growled, and smiled.

The dark satisfaction in his black eyes made her catch her breath. Her sex tightened in the kind of wet clench that usually followed a whole evening's worth of skilled, determined foreplay.

Arthur knew it, too. He leaned down and wrapped one big hand in the front of her gown. He did it slowly, giving her plenty of time to realize what he intended—and plenty of time to realize there was nothing she could do to stop him, even if she'd wanted to. Which she definitely did not.

Even so, Gwen gasped when he shredded the gown with one easy tug. The sound of ripping linen sounded incredibly loud—and just as erotic. “That was one of my favorite tunics,” she told him. Which it was, though with such animal want pumping through her veins, she really didn't care about the tunic.

His lips curled in another fang-revealing smile. “Wet.”

“Hard,” she retorted. The hot length of him pressed against her belly. He was also naked, since they'd put him to bed that way. Normally, that wouldn't give her pause; Arthur slept nude on all but the coldest nights. Their running joke had always been that he had enough fur to keep him warm—and her, too, for that matter. The man radiated heat like a human hearth.

So it had been a very long time since Gwen had felt this kind of aching awareness of her husband's nudity. Yet now every last inch of him seemed branded on her quivering senses. Gwen found herself staring up at him in the lamp's flickering golden light, wide-eyed as a virgin.

He stared back, levering off her to look her up and down. Under that wolfish gaze, her nipples drew hard as cherry stones. Lowering his head, he took one rigid peak into his mouth.

And moaned.

The sound was deep, ragged, distilled male eroticism given voice. She found herself echoing him as he swirled his tongue over the peak, back and forth, around and around. Strong fingers found her breast, stroking and squeezing, increasing her arousal until Gwen found herself pressing her thighs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache between them. She groaned, rolling her hips against his thick length as she fisted her hands in the gleaming raw silk of his hair.

Feeling out of control, Gwen shivered, overwhelmed by Arthur's animal sensuality. So familiar, yet simultaneously so alien.

Suckling hard, he rumbled a rough, wordless sound that might have been warning or need. Or both. She gasped back at him, digging her nails into the thick muscle of his shoulders, feeling just as lost in incoherent hunger as he was.

Arthur transferred his mouth to the other breast, triggering another bright ping of delight. Wanting to give him the same kind of pleasure, Gwen reached between them. His cock felt huge, hot, insanely tempting as she curled shaking fingers around its meaty width. “In me, Arthur,” she whispered. “Now. Please.”

Instead he pulled out of her arms and backed down her body. Settling between her thighs, he nudged them apart as she whimpered in helpless longing.

He bent over her clitoris, his lips sealing the little nubbin inside his mouth's piercingly sweet hold. His tongue swirled around it, wet and maddening, before he tightened his lips and sucked so hard, she twisted like a woman in agony. Her entire body shuddered, her thigh muscles jerking as her sex pulsed in need.

Ecstasy shot up her sensitized body. “Arthur!” Gwen's spine arched as her hands flew to fist in his hair.

Staring down at him, she found him watching her face as his tongue swirled and lapped and stabbed between her slick folds. His dark eyes narrowed, and she tensed, knowing that look. Sure enough, a beat later she felt the tips of his fangs against the sensitive inner lips. Not biting. Quite. But the erotic threat of it shot heat and fear and stark arousal through her blood. Jolting like a mare under a knight's spur, she ground her pussy against his mouth. Wanting. Burning.

She needed him. In her, as deep as she could get him. “Fuck me,” she gasped. “Ohhhhhh, Arthur, my king, please . . . Fuck me!” Her hands tightened on his hair, barely resisting the need to pull. Goaded, she hooked one calf over his shoulder and dug her heel into his back. “Please, oh, please . . . Mary and Joseph, Arthur . . .”

He growled and reared, jerking out of her hold to grab the thin gold cord she'd used to tie her now-shredded tunic, still loosely in place around her bare waist. Big hands snapped it like thread.

“What are you . . . ?” she began, only to yelp as he flipped her over onto her belly. Dragging her hands down to the small of her back, he lashed her wrists together with a few efficient coils of cord. “Arthur, curse it, stop that! What do you think you're doing?”

“Fucking you. Like you want.” He pulled her hips upward, positioned the smooth hot head of his cock against her, and drove to the balls in one merciless plunge. “Mine!” The word emerged from his chest wrapped in a feral growl as he withdrew and thrust again, then again and again, punctuating each word with deep, hard plunges. “Mine, mine, mine!”

If she hadn't been so wet, so insanely hot with need, being stuffed so savagely with his big rod would have hurt. Instead pleasure slashed her like a whip. “Arthuuuuuurrrrr!” she wailed, her voice high and breathless.

He growled back and began to fuck her in earnest, spearing her in long thrusts that crammed her with exactly what she needed. Convulsing, Gwen writhed as his plundering strokes hammered her in a searing erotic storm.

Her knees went out from under her. Arthur followed her down, not even breaking his rhythm, his hips pounding hers, his cock digging so deep, his balls swung against her sex. Gwen gasped, half-blind with pleasure. The movement of his pelvis hitting her rump ground his weight down on her pinned wrists, but before she could manage a protest, he was already rolling them both over. Fingers circling her clit, he fucked up into her from beneath.

Gwen cried out as the orgasm intensified, pulsing in time to his stroking fingers and driving cock. Fisting his free hand in her hair, he dragged her head back against his shoulder. And bit, sinking his fangs into her skin. Gwen screamed as the bright sting added to the sensation of his ramming thrusts. Growling against her skin, he drank, corkscrewing his hips in circles, grinding his cock deep. The pain and delight blended until she could no longer tell where one ended and the other began, all of it driving her climax to searing heights. Finally he stiffened in climax, spine arching to impale her to the balls, cock jerking as he drank and drank and drank.

Dazed from her pounding climax, panting in heaves, she listened to his rippling swallows as his brawny arms held her helpless and his cock slowly softened in her depths. Eyes drifting closed, Gwen let herself float as her Magus husband fed.

•   •   •

T
he light was odd when Arthur woke, so intense and golden, he thought it must be morning. But when he looked toward the balustrade window, he found it still shuttered.