Part 4: link


    “How is your face?” Arthur asks, reaching his hand out to her cheek. “I keep forgetting to ask, because you keep distracting me.”
    “I keep distracting you?” she asks, and he grins and nods. “And my face is fine, I’ve actually forgotten all about it. I’ve been distracted.”
    He laughs, turning her face with his fingers on her chin. “I think you’ll live. It’s not even swollen any more.” Scowling, he mutters, “Fucking Cenred.”
    “How do you know them?” she asks.
    “From school, when we were kids. Helios – Gavin Helios – is a couple years older, and he’s a bully and a bit of an idiot.”
    “As most bullies are. Wait, Gavin? Not a very tough name, that,” she laughs.
    “Yeah, why do you think he doesn’t tell people? And Cenred’s first name is Beverly.”
    “Nice,” Gwen laughs.
    “He claims it’s a family name, reaching back generations. As if he comes from a great family or something,” Arthur snorts derisively.
    “Arthur doesn’t sound so bad by comparison, hey?” she grins.
    “I suppose not,” he shrugs. “All right. Let’s not talk about those two wankers.”
    “Fine with me. I’ve got my five bodyguards now, so I’m not going to worry about them at all,” she says, smiling at him.
    He leans back, pulling her over to lean against him, wrapping his arms around her. “So. You’re a receptionist that wants to be an editor. Do you write?”
    “Not really, not anymore. Haven’t had time, really. Of course I studied literature at University, but all I could find even remotely close to the world of publishing was this receptionist job.”
    “How long have you been at Taliesin?”
    “Just over a month.”
    “Have patience, I’m sure Mr. Gaius will see you have talent.”
    “Arthur,” she turns and looks at him. “You don’t even know if I do have any talent. We just met this morning.”
    He kisses her. “You do. I’m sure of it.”
    “Thank you for your confidence in me. It…” she puzzles a moment, “it actually means a great deal to hear you say that.”
    Arthur squeezes her, twining his fingers with hers. “Do you do anything else creative? Like, do you play an instrument, or knit, or…”
    “I used to play the saxophone when I was a kid. I was terrible,” she laughs. “Hmm. Oh! I sew.”
    “You sew? What do you sew?”
    “You know, clothes. I made these pillows,” she says, poking the one on the other end of the sofa with her foot. “I made the dress I was wearing today.”
    “Hmm. Very nice.”
    “I’d like to see your work sometime, Arthur,” she says.
    “The tattoo parlor?”
    “No, silly, your artwork. Though the tattoo parlor would be interesting as well,” she adds.
    “I think both of those things can be arranged.”
    “Who knows, maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”
    He frowns. “Your skin is so beautiful,” he says, running his hand up her arm, on her knee, any place he can find some skin. “It would be a crime to ink it up.”
    “Well, I wouldn’t get something large and ghastly. It would have to be something small. And pretty. And discreet.”
    “Ooo, discreet, I like the sound of that,” he says, thinking of the possibilities.
    “Naughty,” she scolds, teasing.
    “You know it,” he says, bending his head to kiss her cheek. “Oh. You probably would like to know that I’m clean. Like, no diseases. You won’t wake up tomorrow morning with a strange burning sensation or anything, I swear.”
    She smiles at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, that is good to know. I am, too. I mean, apart from the raging case of Herpes that I picked up in a seedy area of Bangkok that one summer.”
    “Oh, well, is that all?” he laughs. “Sweet, I pretty much knew that you were clean.”
    “I actually haven’t, um, been with anyone for a couple years,” she admits.
    “Well you seem to remember how everything works pretty well,” he says, nibbling at her ear a bit.
    “And you?” she turns and ask.
    “It hasn’t been quite as long as your run, but it’s been a several months.”
    “Oh, my God, you poor thing,” she says sarcastically, and he barks a short laugh.
    “Well, birds are always throwing themselves at Gwaine, and sometimes I’d catch the spares, you know?”
    “How charming.”
    “But lately none of them have interested me,” he shrugs. “Probably because I’ve been too busy watching you walk down the street and straight into my most erotic dreams,” he mutters this close to her ear, brushing his lips against its sensitive outer shell.
    “Arthur!” she exclaims.
    “I’m completely serious. You must be walking to and from your job, yes? You said you started there about a month ago, and that’s when I first saw you.”
    Wow. He really pays attention. Well, of course he pays attention. Details. He’s an artist. Now I’d really like to see his work. “Yes,” is all she can think to say.
    He leans down and kisses her again, working his way to her lips, tilting her head back gently towards him, talking in between kisses.
    “So… if you haven’t done… it in a few years… why is it you bother… to be on the pill?”
    “It helps with,” she pauses as he kisses her again, “regulating my,” another kiss, “monthly, um,” another, “visitor,” still another, “Arthur, I’m trying to,” he leans in, kissing her deeply, “talk.”
    “Yes, and I’m trying to kiss you,” he says, soft and low, against her lips, his voice a drug. “Your lips are addictive, you know,” he says, placing a lingering kiss there. “They’re like…”
    “Candy?” she supplies, smiling at him.
    He nods, drinking in her smile. It is a smile that is both sweet and seductive at the same time, a smile that he knows she doesn’t bestow on just anyone. I will definitely have to capture that smile, he thinks, memorizing it.
    “Arthur?” she prompts, noting his silence, his stare. There it is again.
    “Just taking in the details,” he says, kissing her forehead.
    “I’ve noticed you do that sometimes. Study me.”
    He grins sheepishly, caught. “Does it bother you?”
    “No.”

    “Let’s see, I’ve got some chicken, some lettuce, a hunk of cheese, um, whatever this is,” she says, pulling a box out and opening it. She sniffs it. “Whatever this was,” she corrects, chucking it into the bin.
    “We could go somewhere. Get some takeaway.”
    She stands and turns. “Well, then I’d have to get dressed.”
    “Right. Can’t be having with that now, can we?” he smirks at her. She does look adorable in that robe, I do have to admit.
    “Chicken,” she decides, pulling it out and setting it on the counter before opening cupboards. “Pasta,” she pulls out a box. “Do you have an opinion about salad?”
    “It’s fine. I don’t go seeking it out or anything. What’s my other option?”
    “Still have some fruit from brunch left. Or,” she peers into the pantry, “a tin of peas.”
    “Fruit. Can’t let those strawberries turn now,” he justifies his choice.
    “Very well,” she says, filling a pan with water to boil for the noodles.
    “So,” she says, puttering with dinner, “Merlin. I presume he’s been sending manuscripts to Mr. Gaius and getting no responses, yes?”
    “How did you know?”
    “Taliesin is a large company. They don’t even entertain unsolicited manuscripts from unknown authors. I’m quite certain that Mr. Gaius has not even seen a corner of one of Merlin’s pages.”
    “That’s rather an elitist attitude,” Arthur says, disappointed for his friend.
    “They can afford to do it. Perhaps he should try a smaller publisher first, like, um, Tiger or Knighthood.”
    “I’ll suggest that to him.”
    “I wonder, though…” she says drifting off.
    “What?”
    “I’ll have a look around the mail room on Monday. See if I can find a secret stash of unsolicited manuscripts. Maybe I could slip one past him.”
    “Could you?”
    “Maybe. I’ll read it myself first, though, because if it’s rubbish…” she pauses, letting him fill in the blanks.
    “Right.”
    “So don’t tell Merlin.”
    “Right.”
    They sit and eat, chatting surprisingly easily, laughing often.
    “You are so easy to talk to,” Arthur says suddenly. “And what did you do to this pasta again?”
    “Thank you. I like talking to you, too. I’m, um, glad that we seem to have more between us than just a physical attraction?” she says, making it a question because she’s not sure how he’ll react.
    “Definitely,” he says, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze, and she breathes again. He chuckles, noticing.
    “And the pasta is just tossed with butter and grated Parmesan cheese,” she says, answering his question.
    “That’s it? It’s so good.”
    “Glad you like it. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” She slices some bread, handing him one before taking her own. She ponders it a moment, and stands.
    “You, with the sweet tooth: Marmalade or honey?”
    “Both,” he says, cutting himself another slice so he has one for each topping.
    Laughing, she brings the jars to the table and he immediately dives in, spreading butter first, then topping with the marmalade as she reaches for the honey.
    He looks at the jar. No label. “Don’t tell me you made this, too?”
    “No, my friend Freya and her mother did. They make all kinds of marmalades and jams, and always give me some.”
    “Jam?” he asks hopefully.
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Do I look like I’m kidding?” He stands and goes to her fridge himself, opening it and peering inside. Grinning he produces two jars, strawberry and one other. He holds it to the light and decides it must be blueberry. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
    “And still you protest being called cute,” she mutters, laughing at him yet again.
    “Yeah, yeah, all right. You are allowed. But only you.”
    Gwen quietly eats her bread with honey, the sweet syrup making her fingers sticky. Arthur works on his marmalade bread, his face blissful as he enjoys the sweet orange spread. “Wow, this is really good,” he says, licking his fingers.
    She sets her bread down and reaches for his hand, pulling it to her lips. He watches, transfixed and turned on, as she slowly and carefully licks the marmalade from his fingers.
    Once done, she releases his hand, and he deliberately dips his other hand into the jar of strawberry jam; a challenge.
    Without batting an eye she takes the jam-covered hand and, opening her dressing gown just a bit, drags his hand down her chest, wiping some of the jam on herself before inserting his index finger into her mouth, sucking it clean.
    “Minx,” he mutters gruffly, eyes closing, just absorbing the feeling of her lips and tongue on his fingers, her teeth as they gently nibble.
    “You started it,” she says, releasing his hand.
    “Me?” he asks innocently, creeping slowly forward, eyes on the smear of jam between her breasts.
    “The ice cream,” she breathes as he drops to his knees in front of her, pushing her knees gently apart so that he can scoot in closer, dropping his head to her chest to press his tongue to her skin, drawing it up, lapping up the jam there. He slides his tongue as his hand pulls at the tie of her robe, loosening it.
    He pulls at the gown, sucking the last of the jam from the side of her breast before leaning back to reach for the honey.
    She leans back in the chair as he drizzles honey on her breasts, watching as the golden droplets fall, running slowly; glinting amber against her tawny skin. Like liquid gold on milk chocolate.
    Arthur yanks the gown open fully, diving back in, his tongue collecting each drop and streak as if they were precious jewels, lingering over her nipples, laving the honey from them, lingering longer than necessary, as if they were made of the sweet syrup.
    He moves down to her stomach, careful to get each drop. His hands slide on her thighs, reaching around to cup her backside in his hands, squeezing the flesh there a bit.
    “Arthur,” she says, gathering her senses, “we’re not having sex in the kitchen again.”
    “Oh?” he lifts his head momentarily from where his tongue was busy in her navel, and blinks at her.
    “I do have a bed, you know.”
    “Convenient, that,” he says, planting a kiss on her stomach and reluctantly returning to his seat.
    Gwen gathers the halves of her dressing gown back together, her heart still beating fast. Still a little sticky, she notes. She leans down and grants Arthur a soft, leisurely kiss before turning to the sink and a washcloth.
    Arthur pouts a little, but finishes his bread with jam while she practically throws the dishes in the sink and carelessly stuffs the jars back into the fridge, the honey in the cupboard.
    She turns back to him with a smile, seeing him looking forlornly at the cupboard where she’d just stashed the honey.
    “I do not want honey on my bed sheets. I’ll get ants,” she says sternly. She walks slowly towards him, standing before him. “Now. Where were we?”
    Arthur stands and takes her face in his hands, kissing her soundly. Her hands rest lightly on his chest, small and warm, and when he pulls away and opens his eyes he can see himself reflected in the darkness of hers.
    She reaches up and takes his hand, pulling him from the kitchen.
    “You’re stronger than you look,” he comments as she drags him along, down the hall and into her bedroom.
    He doesn’t even bother looking around. It doesn’t matter. It’s her room, I’m in it, and there’s a bed, and she’s here. She pushes him down on the bed and he falls back, a little surprised at her roughness. But I like it.
    Gwen stands before him, slowly pulling the tie on her dressing gown and sliding it from her shoulders. It falls to the floor and she stalks forward, a lioness on the prowl, as he watches from the bed, leaning back on his elbows.
    She reaches down and opens his jeans, carefully pulling them down and off before tossing them aside.
    Running her hands along his muscular legs, she gets a thoughtful look on her face. I wonder… She takes his foot in her hand, massages it a little, then presses it to her breast, letting his toes brush her nipple, pressing them into the softness of the mound.
    Arthur drops back, flat on the bed, with a groan. He curls his toes around the stiff nipple and she sighs, sliding her hands up and down his leg, scratching lightly with her nails. She takes his foot in her hands again, brushing the length of his sole lightly across the peak of her breast, letting him feel her nipple with the bottom of his foot.
    Interesting, she thinks, removing his foot from her breast. She drags a fingernail along the bottom, just to see if he is ticklish. He jerks, and with a strangled, “Oh!” she has her answer.
    Gwen moves to the bed, sitting beside him. He starts to sit up and move toward him, and she stops him with her foot on his chest, pressing him back down onto the bed. He reaches for her foot, but she is too fast for him, moving it down to slide on his manhood, stroking it with her foot.
    “Oh, my God,” he moans. She is unbelievable.
    She rubs him with her foot a few more times and then crawls over to him, straddling him. Leaning down, she kisses him, her tongue immediately in his mouth, demanding and hungry. He reaches up and takes a breast in one hand, his other wrapping around her, his palm caressing her back, her rear.
    Gwen angles her hips, sliding her wetness on his stomach and she moans softly into his mouth. She releases his lips to move hers to his ear, his neck, his chest, kissing a circuit down, biting his nipples just hard enough to make him grunt his approval, then back up, flicking her tongue into his other ear.
    “Say my name that way that makes me weak,” she whispers into his ear.
    How can I refuse? “Guinevere,” he says, his voice like the honey he was licking from her body. She sighs, throwing her head back.
    “Again,” she says, moving her hips lower, positioning herself over him.
    “Guinevere,” he repeats, feeling her name on his tongue, caressing it with his lips, just as she lowers herself over him, taking him inside, as deep as he can go.
    “Ooo,” she moans, rocking her hips, her eyes closed.
    Arthur feels puzzled as she moves over him, his feelings a torrent in his brain. Surely she can’t be real. This is a cruel dream. No one can be this beautiful and this naughty, this smart and sweet yet this wonderfully wicked. I’ve fallen hard. I’ve…
    The sting of her fingernails in his chest snaps his train of thought, and he opens his eyes to look at her, her beautiful face, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, hair cascading down her back. He reaches up to take her breasts in his hands, squeezing, pinching lightly, flicking her nipples with his thumbs as she rides him.
    “Oh,” she gasps, her full lips forming into an ‘o’ as she moves over him, bouncing and rocking herself to ecstasy.
    She starts to lean forward, wanting to kiss him, to be close, but he doesn’t let her.
    “I want to watch you,” he says, breathing heavily.
    “I… I want to kiss you,” she gasps, her sanity hanging by a thread.
    “Come here,” he commands, pulling her down to him, kissing her deeply, his hands clutching her hair as his tongue assaults her senses.
    “Ah,” she breathes, pulling away, sitting back up, leaning back a bit, bracing her hands on his thighs, mindless of anything else.
    He reaches forward and touches her with his thumb, rubbing the small nub between her thighs, pushing her over the edge quickly.
    Gwen cries out loudly, her body exploding with sensation, heart pounding its way out of her chest, stars dotting her vision. Holy shit, I’m actually seeing stars.
    Arthur can take no more, watching the glorious display in front of him, and he thrusts his own hips upward into her, roaring his own release, his fingers clutching her thighs, head pressed back into the bed.
    She collapses over him and he scoots them over so their heads are on the pillows.
    They lay silently together, all gentle touches and soft kisses, gradually disentangling themselves from one another until she is lying beside him with her head on his shoulder.
    It is getting dark, and she reaches over and flips on a lamp on her bedside table, and they are bathed in its soft glow.
    “That was fun,” Arthur finally says, and she giggles.
    “Fun?”
    “What you did with my foot? Wow.”
    “I was guessing. Wondering if it worked that way for you as well.”
    I love her willingness, he thinks, but says nothing. He just squeezes her and kisses her forehead.

Part 6: link