My 1st Place-winning fic for Arwen fic challenge 7!
The rain was unrelenting outside. Typical London spring. Luckily for Arthur Pendragon, he was cozy, warm, and dry inside his posh flat, a fire in his fireplace and a football game on his telly, conveniently located above said fireplace.
And he was alone. He liked being alone. No one could ever accuse Arthur of being antisocial, far from it, but every couple of weeks or so he would feel the need to sequester himself in his home, away from the chatter and noise and drama of other people.
So when his doorbell rang that night, he considered not answering it. Then there was a blinding flash of lightning followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder, and he remembered that someone is standing outside getting wet because he was being a prat.
Still, he grumbled all the way to his front door.
“Guinevere?” he says, puzzled beyond measure at the huddled, wet form of his sister’s best friend standing and shivering on his front step. “Come in, come in, sorry,” he recovers and ushers her in.
“S-s-sorry, Arthur, I know you’re hunkered d-down,” she chatters. “My c-car got a flat a couple blocks away, and it was too wet to try and change it. Then I realized you lived just here, and…”
“No, no, it’s fine, let’s get you dry, shall we?” he says. “Take your shoes off,” he nods downward, peeling her jacket from her shoulders as she pulls her feet from her soggy boots. “You’re soaked through,” he says. “Come on,” he takes her clammy hand and pulls her through his apartment to the bathroom.
He takes a clean towel from the linen cupboard and wraps it around her, his large hands registering how small she is. She’s like a little bird, quivering in his hands.
“I look like a drowned rat,” she says, spying her reflection in the large mirror.
“Nonsense,” he says. She looks as beautiful as she always does.
Being his sister’s best friend, she was automatically off-limits. Being his sister’s best friend, she was automatically intriguing. Especially since they’d grown up and she turned into a sweet, intelligent, caring, beautiful woman with flawless skin, a melodious voice, and lips he could lose himself in, given half an opportunity.
“Would you like a hot shower? I know the last thing you probably want is to get wet,” he pauses, the double entendre hitting him square in the forehead, causing his mouth to dry momentarily and his voice to crack like a 13-year-old, “but the hot water might help warm you up. I’ll pop your clothes in the dryer while you’re in, and they’ll be toasty warm in no time.”
She looks up at him with her big brown eyes, holding his gaze a bit longer than she should, realizing that his warm hands are still on her shoulders. “Okay,” she says quietly.
“I’ll just… leave you to it, then. There are more towels in the cupboard,” he points. “Help yourself to anything,” he mutters as he exits the bathroom.
The knowledge that she’s in there getting naked is daunting, and Arthur hopes very much that she’ll lock the door or he may not be able to be held accountable for his actions.
“Arthur?” she calls from the bathroom. He jogs back, puzzled. And wary.
“Yes?” he asks.
She is peeking from the bathroom door, wrapped in the towel, her wet clothes dangling from her hand. “Here,” she says.
“Oh. Thanks. Will these be okay in the dryer? Won’t ruin anything?”
“Don’t think so. I don’t normally put my bra in the dryer, but one time shouldn’t hurt.”
“Okay,” he croaks. Bra. Knickers. He hadn’t thought about underthings.
“Thank you, Arthur. This is really thoughtful of you.” She smiles shyly at him.
“No trouble at all, Guinevere.”
He waits, trying to watch the game while she showers. His concentration is scattered, lost somewhere amongst the water droplets on his foyer floor. He can hear her singing to herself in his shower. He can hear the button from her jeans clicking and scraping against the metal interior of his dryer as it tumbles. He can hear his heart pounding in his chest.
Arthur paces, wondering why she is suddenly affecting him so much tonight. Perhaps it’s the surprise of her turning up here, all tiny and helpless. Perhaps it’s the storm. Perhaps he’s really been quite smitten with her for longer than he realized.
He hears the shower turn off. He tries not to imagine her emerging from the shower, her small body glistening, her cinnamon skin tinged slightly pink now from the hot water as droplets roll down her body, outlining every curve and crevice.
Arthur grabs his bottle of ale and takes a long drink.
The door opens and she pads softly to the living room, looking for him. In his distraction, Arthur forgot to give her anything to put on for after her shower.
She found his white dress shirt that had been hanging in the bathroom. He got a small stain on the sleeve and had cleaned it and left it to hang dry.
“You said that I could help myself to anything,” she says apologetically. Her hair is down, cascading in damp ringlets around her shoulders. The cuffs hang below her hands and the shirttails reach almost to her knees. Her shapely brown legs, long for her height, contrast beautifully against the white of his shirt.
“Sorry. I should have given you a robe, or some pajamas or something,” he says quietly.
“It’s not too late, just point me to it, and—”
“You look good in my shirt,” he blurts.
“Oh,” she answers dumbly, surprised. “It was either this or the towel,” she adds, looking down at her hands.
“You’d look good in that, too,” he adds, taking a step closer. “You look good in anything.”
“Arthur?” she looks up at him as he slowly walks over to her.
“Guinevere,” he answers, her name a prayer on his lips.
“What are you… when did…?” Gwen stammers, her heartbeat speeding up. He is right in front of her now, his eyes dark and shining, and his proximity is doing strange things to her brain.
“My sister may kill me for this, but I bet it’ll be worth it,” he mutters low, lifting his fingers to her chin, tilting her face up.
She stares, wide-eyed, but her lips part in anticipation, betraying the desire racing through her. She just sees the barest hint of a smirk before his lips are on hers and his hand is sliding, his fingers caressing the side of her neck.
Arthur slips his tongue forward, teasing the small opening between her lips. She immediately parts them wider and meets his curious tongue with her own.
He groans and pulls her against him, his other hand wrapping around her waist as she clutches his shirt, her arms pinned between them.
She melts against him, kissing him back feverishly, as though she wants him as much as he wants her.
The thought is jarring enough that he pulls his lips away, shock plain on his face. “Guinevere?” he asks. He is still holding her close, staring down into her little upturned face.
“Was it worth it?” she breathes.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, an unbidden grin creeping across his face.
She leans up and pecks his lips once. “Well, since you’re going to die anyway, do you want to at least earn your sentence?”
“What?” He has lost all capacity to think.
Gwen worms one hand free, sliding it around his torso and down. She squeezes his backside and presses her hips forward. His arousal presses against her stomach and she gasps softly.
“Really? You… you want…”
“Yes,” she says, kissing his neck, sucking his Adam’s apple, “I do.”
He groans, says a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god it is that apparently lives on his ceiling, and then kisses her again. “One second,” he whispers. Then he switches off the telly, flips off the gas to shut the fire off, and turns off the living room lights.
Without a word, he lifts her into his arms and heads back to his bedroom, kissing her all the while.
He sets her gently on his bed, watching her as he pulls his shirt off over his head. She shuffles his bedclothes down, kicking them out of the way just before he drops down next to her.
“Guinevere, I…” he starts and stops again, deciding that kissing is more important than talking right now. He unbuttons one button on the shirt and noses his way into the collar to kiss her neck.
“Oh…” she breathes, tilting her head back into his pillow, her fingers threading into his hair. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she whispers the admission as her other hand slides down his bare back, relishing the broad flat muscles under her palm.
“God, Guinevere, you’re killing me,” he mutters against her skin, undoing another button, kissing lower, to her nearly-exposed breasts.
She pulls at his hair in an attempt to move his head where she wants it to go, but he is determined to take his time, determined to savor every inch, every second.
Another button opens and he kisses between her breasts, inhaling her scent, clean and intoxicating. He groans and undoes one more, and kisses her stomach.
Then he lifts up and just looks at her, on his bed, in his shirt, opened almost completely, her breasts and groin still covered.
“You are so beautiful, Guinevere,” he says. She opens her eyes and smiles at him.
“So are you,” she says. Then she reaches down, unfastens the last button, and opens the shirt fully, revealing everything to him.
“Oh, my God,” he groans, and she reaches and pulls him back down to her, pulling his lips to hers. Even in his smuttiest dreams – which are always about Guinevere – she never looked this good.
Her hands trail down his chest to the waistband of the sweats he is wearing and pulls, yanking them down as much as she can.
“Sorry about the sweats,” he mumbles, pulling away to finish removing them, “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”
“I’ve seen you looking worse,” she says, smirking and sitting up to shrug his shirt the rest of the way off and fling it aside.
He descends on her now, kissing her lips, her jaw, her neck, working his way lower until he finally pulls a stiff nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue until she whimpers his name.
Arthur pushes his hips forward, prodding her core with his erection, and she moans softly, sliding her legs against his hips. He pulls back and moves his hand down to touch her now.
“Mmm,” she moans, tilting her hips into his hand.
“Guinevere, I…” he starts again, talking in between his kisses, “this probably isn’t the best time…” he pulls her other nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting gently, “…but I…” he works his way back up to her lips, his fingers sliding into her, “…I’ve been in…” he kisses her deeply, while he draws small tight circles around the swollen bundle of nerves between her legs, “…in love with you for so long…” he finally finishes his thought, groaning as her hand closes around his shaft, squeezing and sliding. “Oh…” he groans.
“Oh, Arthur…” his words slowly register through all the sensations. “How… how long?”
She positions his manhood at her opening, practically trembling with anticipation of both his entrance and his answer, and he hesitates.
Gwen opens her eyes to find him staring down at her, a question in his eyes. “What is it?” she asks.
“Nightstand… top drawer…” he says.
“Pill,” she answers, kissing him. “Go. Please,” she begs.
He grins at her and slides swiftly in, burying himself deep, and she cries out with the feeling of him.
“Years,” he finally answers, pulling slowly back and then forward again. “At least… five years… maybe more…” he grunts, talking between his long strokes and kisses.
“Ohhh…” Gwen moans, long and low, her hands gripping his shoulders, combing through his hair, her nails scratching his scalp till it tingles.
“Oh…” Arthur pants, “so good…”
“Yes,” Gwen absently agrees. “More…”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees, increasing his efforts until she is writhing and whimpering and mewling and gasping his name.
The dam bursts and she screams his name, her whole body tightening around him as she comes, unraveling beautifully beneath him.
Arthur follows almost immediately, plunging in deep and stilling, his face tucked into her neck as he clings to her, his member throbbing within her, his body a coiled spring.
Slowly he relaxes and slumps over her, rolling them to the side so he won’t squish her.
“I love you, too, Arthur,” she says after several wonderful quiet minutes.
“You do?” he asks, his hands stroking her skin.
“Mmm-hmm,” she nods against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest, fingers idly stroking his skin through his chest hair.
“Did you really get a flat tire, or was this an elaborate ploy to seduce me?” he asks, grinning.
“Yes, Arthur. I pretended to get a flat because I wanted to walk two blocks in a downpour to your flat so I could charm you with my über-sexy drowned rat look,” she deadpans, lifting her head to stare at him.
“Perhaps not, then.”
“Oh, trust me, Pendragon. If I was out to seduce you, you’d know.”
“Is that so?” he asks. “And what would you do?” he cajoles.
“I’d put on my sexiest lingerie,” she purrs, leaning up to nibble his ear, “and my slinkiest dress,” her hand goes wandering now, “and my fuck-me pumps,” she places sucking kisses on his neck, “and I’d take you by your necktie, and…”
“Oh, God, stop!” Arthur begs, “I can’t take any more…” he gasps. “You’ve made your point.”
“Have I?” Gwen asks, climbing over him and straddling his stomach. “Pity. I was just getting started.”
“Show me, then,” he challenges, lacing his fingers behind his head and gazing up at her.
“Oh, I am so going to wipe that smug smile right off your face,” she grins, leaning down to kiss him. “And I’m going to replace it with a completely different smug smile,” she says, a delicious threat.
Arthur groans again, amazed at his luck as she kisses her way down his chest.
xXx
The strains of “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks jolts Gwen from her blissful slumber. She tries to move, but something is holding her. Something warm and firm. Something that smells good. Something that is grumbling.
“Arthur, that’s my phone,” she mumbles, rolling over to grab it. “Hey, Morgana.”
There is a small groan from the bed.
“Hey, are we still going shopping this morning?” Morgana asks.
“Um, no, I need to get my car fixed. I blew a tire last night,” she says.
“That’s not the only thing you blew last night,” a sleepy voice comments softly. She kicks him, trying not to giggle. He pulls her back over, wrapping his arms and legs around her and resting his head on her chest.
“Oh no! Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Gwen says. Arthur nods his enthusiastic agreement against her chest.
“How did you get home? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Um, I’m at Arthur’s, actually. My tire went two blocks from his flat and it was pouring rain and nearly ten p.m. And you were out doing naughty things with Gwaine.”
There is silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m dead,” Arthur says.
“Oh, God, I heard him, is he right there?” Morgana exclaims, horrified.
“Um, yeah. Little bit.”
“He lured you into his bed, didn’t he?” It is more an accusation than a question.
“If anyone did any luring, Morgana, it was me. You know I’ve had a crush on him since that one day.”
“I know.”
“What one day?” Arthur asks, curious now.
“When I fell out of that tree and broke my ankle and you carried me back to the house and got me ice.”
“God, you were, like, ten then!” Arthur exclaims.
“So?” Gwen says, giggling now.
“Guinevere!” Morgana yells from the phone. “I can hear him as well as I can hear you…” she trails off as realization hits her. “Gah! You’re still in bed with him, aren’t you? You’re naked, aren’t you?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Gwen says.
“Ew,” Morgana complains.
“And you are not to kill him.”
“Aw, come on, just a little?” Morgana asks.
“No. He told me last night that he’s been in love with me for years. You can’t kill him because I love him back. And because you love me, he gets to live.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “But tell him he has to treat you like a queen or he is a dead man.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Okay.”
“Morgana?”
“What?”
“You’re brother’s really good in bed.”
“Ack! Stop! No! Wrong! Hanging up now!”
Gwen silences her phone, a smug smile on her face. “That should shut her up for a while,” she says, setting her phone back on the nightstand.
“Good,” Arthur says, shifting so he is hovering over her, nestling in between her knees. “Because I don’t want to be disturbed for a while,” he says, swiftly capturing her lips with his.
The rain was unrelenting outside. Typical London spring. Luckily for Arthur Pendragon, he was cozy, warm, and dry inside his posh flat, a fire in his fireplace and a football game on his telly, conveniently located above said fireplace.
And he was alone. He liked being alone. No one could ever accuse Arthur of being antisocial, far from it, but every couple of weeks or so he would feel the need to sequester himself in his home, away from the chatter and noise and drama of other people.
So when his doorbell rang that night, he considered not answering it. Then there was a blinding flash of lightning followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder, and he remembered that someone is standing outside getting wet because he was being a prat.
Still, he grumbled all the way to his front door.
“Guinevere?” he says, puzzled beyond measure at the huddled, wet form of his sister’s best friend standing and shivering on his front step. “Come in, come in, sorry,” he recovers and ushers her in.
“S-s-sorry, Arthur, I know you’re hunkered d-down,” she chatters. “My c-car got a flat a couple blocks away, and it was too wet to try and change it. Then I realized you lived just here, and…”
“No, no, it’s fine, let’s get you dry, shall we?” he says. “Take your shoes off,” he nods downward, peeling her jacket from her shoulders as she pulls her feet from her soggy boots. “You’re soaked through,” he says. “Come on,” he takes her clammy hand and pulls her through his apartment to the bathroom.
He takes a clean towel from the linen cupboard and wraps it around her, his large hands registering how small she is. She’s like a little bird, quivering in his hands.
“I look like a drowned rat,” she says, spying her reflection in the large mirror.
“Nonsense,” he says. She looks as beautiful as she always does.
Being his sister’s best friend, she was automatically off-limits. Being his sister’s best friend, she was automatically intriguing. Especially since they’d grown up and she turned into a sweet, intelligent, caring, beautiful woman with flawless skin, a melodious voice, and lips he could lose himself in, given half an opportunity.
“Would you like a hot shower? I know the last thing you probably want is to get wet,” he pauses, the double entendre hitting him square in the forehead, causing his mouth to dry momentarily and his voice to crack like a 13-year-old, “but the hot water might help warm you up. I’ll pop your clothes in the dryer while you’re in, and they’ll be toasty warm in no time.”
She looks up at him with her big brown eyes, holding his gaze a bit longer than she should, realizing that his warm hands are still on her shoulders. “Okay,” she says quietly.
“I’ll just… leave you to it, then. There are more towels in the cupboard,” he points. “Help yourself to anything,” he mutters as he exits the bathroom.
The knowledge that she’s in there getting naked is daunting, and Arthur hopes very much that she’ll lock the door or he may not be able to be held accountable for his actions.
“Arthur?” she calls from the bathroom. He jogs back, puzzled. And wary.
“Yes?” he asks.
She is peeking from the bathroom door, wrapped in the towel, her wet clothes dangling from her hand. “Here,” she says.
“Oh. Thanks. Will these be okay in the dryer? Won’t ruin anything?”
“Don’t think so. I don’t normally put my bra in the dryer, but one time shouldn’t hurt.”
“Okay,” he croaks. Bra. Knickers. He hadn’t thought about underthings.
“Thank you, Arthur. This is really thoughtful of you.” She smiles shyly at him.
“No trouble at all, Guinevere.”
He waits, trying to watch the game while she showers. His concentration is scattered, lost somewhere amongst the water droplets on his foyer floor. He can hear her singing to herself in his shower. He can hear the button from her jeans clicking and scraping against the metal interior of his dryer as it tumbles. He can hear his heart pounding in his chest.
Arthur paces, wondering why she is suddenly affecting him so much tonight. Perhaps it’s the surprise of her turning up here, all tiny and helpless. Perhaps it’s the storm. Perhaps he’s really been quite smitten with her for longer than he realized.
He hears the shower turn off. He tries not to imagine her emerging from the shower, her small body glistening, her cinnamon skin tinged slightly pink now from the hot water as droplets roll down her body, outlining every curve and crevice.
Arthur grabs his bottle of ale and takes a long drink.
The door opens and she pads softly to the living room, looking for him. In his distraction, Arthur forgot to give her anything to put on for after her shower.
She found his white dress shirt that had been hanging in the bathroom. He got a small stain on the sleeve and had cleaned it and left it to hang dry.
“You said that I could help myself to anything,” she says apologetically. Her hair is down, cascading in damp ringlets around her shoulders. The cuffs hang below her hands and the shirttails reach almost to her knees. Her shapely brown legs, long for her height, contrast beautifully against the white of his shirt.
“Sorry. I should have given you a robe, or some pajamas or something,” he says quietly.
“It’s not too late, just point me to it, and—”
“You look good in my shirt,” he blurts.
“Oh,” she answers dumbly, surprised. “It was either this or the towel,” she adds, looking down at her hands.
“You’d look good in that, too,” he adds, taking a step closer. “You look good in anything.”
“Arthur?” she looks up at him as he slowly walks over to her.
“Guinevere,” he answers, her name a prayer on his lips.
“What are you… when did…?” Gwen stammers, her heartbeat speeding up. He is right in front of her now, his eyes dark and shining, and his proximity is doing strange things to her brain.
“My sister may kill me for this, but I bet it’ll be worth it,” he mutters low, lifting his fingers to her chin, tilting her face up.
She stares, wide-eyed, but her lips part in anticipation, betraying the desire racing through her. She just sees the barest hint of a smirk before his lips are on hers and his hand is sliding, his fingers caressing the side of her neck.
Arthur slips his tongue forward, teasing the small opening between her lips. She immediately parts them wider and meets his curious tongue with her own.
He groans and pulls her against him, his other hand wrapping around her waist as she clutches his shirt, her arms pinned between them.
She melts against him, kissing him back feverishly, as though she wants him as much as he wants her.
The thought is jarring enough that he pulls his lips away, shock plain on his face. “Guinevere?” he asks. He is still holding her close, staring down into her little upturned face.
“Was it worth it?” she breathes.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, an unbidden grin creeping across his face.
She leans up and pecks his lips once. “Well, since you’re going to die anyway, do you want to at least earn your sentence?”
“What?” He has lost all capacity to think.
Gwen worms one hand free, sliding it around his torso and down. She squeezes his backside and presses her hips forward. His arousal presses against her stomach and she gasps softly.
“Really? You… you want…”
“Yes,” she says, kissing his neck, sucking his Adam’s apple, “I do.”
He groans, says a silent prayer of thanks to whatever god it is that apparently lives on his ceiling, and then kisses her again. “One second,” he whispers. Then he switches off the telly, flips off the gas to shut the fire off, and turns off the living room lights.
Without a word, he lifts her into his arms and heads back to his bedroom, kissing her all the while.
He sets her gently on his bed, watching her as he pulls his shirt off over his head. She shuffles his bedclothes down, kicking them out of the way just before he drops down next to her.
“Guinevere, I…” he starts and stops again, deciding that kissing is more important than talking right now. He unbuttons one button on the shirt and noses his way into the collar to kiss her neck.
“Oh…” she breathes, tilting her head back into his pillow, her fingers threading into his hair. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” she whispers the admission as her other hand slides down his bare back, relishing the broad flat muscles under her palm.
“God, Guinevere, you’re killing me,” he mutters against her skin, undoing another button, kissing lower, to her nearly-exposed breasts.
She pulls at his hair in an attempt to move his head where she wants it to go, but he is determined to take his time, determined to savor every inch, every second.
Another button opens and he kisses between her breasts, inhaling her scent, clean and intoxicating. He groans and undoes one more, and kisses her stomach.
Then he lifts up and just looks at her, on his bed, in his shirt, opened almost completely, her breasts and groin still covered.
“You are so beautiful, Guinevere,” he says. She opens her eyes and smiles at him.
“So are you,” she says. Then she reaches down, unfastens the last button, and opens the shirt fully, revealing everything to him.
“Oh, my God,” he groans, and she reaches and pulls him back down to her, pulling his lips to hers. Even in his smuttiest dreams – which are always about Guinevere – she never looked this good.
Her hands trail down his chest to the waistband of the sweats he is wearing and pulls, yanking them down as much as she can.
“Sorry about the sweats,” he mumbles, pulling away to finish removing them, “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”
“I’ve seen you looking worse,” she says, smirking and sitting up to shrug his shirt the rest of the way off and fling it aside.
He descends on her now, kissing her lips, her jaw, her neck, working his way lower until he finally pulls a stiff nipple into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue until she whimpers his name.
Arthur pushes his hips forward, prodding her core with his erection, and she moans softly, sliding her legs against his hips. He pulls back and moves his hand down to touch her now.
“Mmm,” she moans, tilting her hips into his hand.
“Guinevere, I…” he starts again, talking in between his kisses, “this probably isn’t the best time…” he pulls her other nipple into his mouth, sucking and biting gently, “…but I…” he works his way back up to her lips, his fingers sliding into her, “…I’ve been in…” he kisses her deeply, while he draws small tight circles around the swollen bundle of nerves between her legs, “…in love with you for so long…” he finally finishes his thought, groaning as her hand closes around his shaft, squeezing and sliding. “Oh…” he groans.
“Oh, Arthur…” his words slowly register through all the sensations. “How… how long?”
She positions his manhood at her opening, practically trembling with anticipation of both his entrance and his answer, and he hesitates.
Gwen opens her eyes to find him staring down at her, a question in his eyes. “What is it?” she asks.
“Nightstand… top drawer…” he says.
“Pill,” she answers, kissing him. “Go. Please,” she begs.
He grins at her and slides swiftly in, burying himself deep, and she cries out with the feeling of him.
“Years,” he finally answers, pulling slowly back and then forward again. “At least… five years… maybe more…” he grunts, talking between his long strokes and kisses.
“Ohhh…” Gwen moans, long and low, her hands gripping his shoulders, combing through his hair, her nails scratching his scalp till it tingles.
“Oh…” Arthur pants, “so good…”
“Yes,” Gwen absently agrees. “More…”
“Yes,” Arthur agrees, increasing his efforts until she is writhing and whimpering and mewling and gasping his name.
The dam bursts and she screams his name, her whole body tightening around him as she comes, unraveling beautifully beneath him.
Arthur follows almost immediately, plunging in deep and stilling, his face tucked into her neck as he clings to her, his member throbbing within her, his body a coiled spring.
Slowly he relaxes and slumps over her, rolling them to the side so he won’t squish her.
“I love you, too, Arthur,” she says after several wonderful quiet minutes.
“You do?” he asks, his hands stroking her skin.
“Mmm-hmm,” she nods against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest, fingers idly stroking his skin through his chest hair.
“Did you really get a flat tire, or was this an elaborate ploy to seduce me?” he asks, grinning.
“Yes, Arthur. I pretended to get a flat because I wanted to walk two blocks in a downpour to your flat so I could charm you with my über-sexy drowned rat look,” she deadpans, lifting her head to stare at him.
“Perhaps not, then.”
“Oh, trust me, Pendragon. If I was out to seduce you, you’d know.”
“Is that so?” he asks. “And what would you do?” he cajoles.
“I’d put on my sexiest lingerie,” she purrs, leaning up to nibble his ear, “and my slinkiest dress,” her hand goes wandering now, “and my fuck-me pumps,” she places sucking kisses on his neck, “and I’d take you by your necktie, and…”
“Oh, God, stop!” Arthur begs, “I can’t take any more…” he gasps. “You’ve made your point.”
“Have I?” Gwen asks, climbing over him and straddling his stomach. “Pity. I was just getting started.”
“Show me, then,” he challenges, lacing his fingers behind his head and gazing up at her.
“Oh, I am so going to wipe that smug smile right off your face,” she grins, leaning down to kiss him. “And I’m going to replace it with a completely different smug smile,” she says, a delicious threat.
Arthur groans again, amazed at his luck as she kisses her way down his chest.
xXx
The strains of “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks jolts Gwen from her blissful slumber. She tries to move, but something is holding her. Something warm and firm. Something that smells good. Something that is grumbling.
“Arthur, that’s my phone,” she mumbles, rolling over to grab it. “Hey, Morgana.”
There is a small groan from the bed.
“Hey, are we still going shopping this morning?” Morgana asks.
“Um, no, I need to get my car fixed. I blew a tire last night,” she says.
“That’s not the only thing you blew last night,” a sleepy voice comments softly. She kicks him, trying not to giggle. He pulls her back over, wrapping his arms and legs around her and resting his head on her chest.
“Oh no! Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Gwen says. Arthur nods his enthusiastic agreement against her chest.
“How did you get home? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Um, I’m at Arthur’s, actually. My tire went two blocks from his flat and it was pouring rain and nearly ten p.m. And you were out doing naughty things with Gwaine.”
There is silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m dead,” Arthur says.
“Oh, God, I heard him, is he right there?” Morgana exclaims, horrified.
“Um, yeah. Little bit.”
“He lured you into his bed, didn’t he?” It is more an accusation than a question.
“If anyone did any luring, Morgana, it was me. You know I’ve had a crush on him since that one day.”
“I know.”
“What one day?” Arthur asks, curious now.
“When I fell out of that tree and broke my ankle and you carried me back to the house and got me ice.”
“God, you were, like, ten then!” Arthur exclaims.
“So?” Gwen says, giggling now.
“Guinevere!” Morgana yells from the phone. “I can hear him as well as I can hear you…” she trails off as realization hits her. “Gah! You’re still in bed with him, aren’t you? You’re naked, aren’t you?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Gwen says.
“Ew,” Morgana complains.
“And you are not to kill him.”
“Aw, come on, just a little?” Morgana asks.
“No. He told me last night that he’s been in love with me for years. You can’t kill him because I love him back. And because you love me, he gets to live.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “But tell him he has to treat you like a queen or he is a dead man.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Okay.”
“Morgana?”
“What?”
“You’re brother’s really good in bed.”
“Ack! Stop! No! Wrong! Hanging up now!”
Gwen silences her phone, a smug smile on her face. “That should shut her up for a while,” she says, setting her phone back on the nightstand.
“Good,” Arthur says, shifting so he is hovering over her, nestling in between her knees. “Because I don’t want to be disturbed for a while,” he says, swiftly capturing her lips with his.
