“The Once and Future Lover”
For a decade now, I’ve been writing about King Arthur and
his immortal vampire Knights of the Round Table. I love Arthur. He’s a great
character, and he’s deeply in love with his wife, Guinevere, who loves him
right back.
Yet I had never written the story of how he and his knights
became vampires to begin with, or how the ladies became witches. When I
realized I needed to do a longer story to round out WICKED GAMES, an anthology of my BDSM erotica, I decided what I
really wanted was to do Gwen and Arthur’s story.
Yeah, I did say MASTER OF DARKNESS was the last Mageverse
story, but I have always loved writing about Arthur and the gang. I couldn’t
resist doing it again.
But there was a problem. I had already established, waaaaay
back in “Seduction’s Gift,” the very first Mageverse story, that Lancelot and
Gwen had once had a one-night-stand that infuriated Arthur so much, it took him
1500 years to forgive Lance.
Having an affair was completely out of character for
Lancelot and Gwen. Why had it happened? And why did Arthur, a medieval king at
the time, not execute them for treason?
It took me a long while of thinking and working to figure
out the answer to that one, but I did eventually find a way that made sense.
I also discovered a couple of other things I didn’t know.
First, Arthur is one scary bastard. Yes, he loves Elvis and
will recite the Dead Parrot Sketch at the drop of a long sword, but underneath
all that, You Do Not Screw with Arthur.
He’s also a dominant. I’m not talking one of those “Tie you
Up and Tickle you with a Feather” doms either. He practiced BDSM loooooong
before there was a BDSM. And he makes sure Gwen, perv that she is, loves every
minute of it.
I hope you’ll pick up Wicked Games April 1. And I hope you’ll
attend my Facebook Launch Party Tuesday evening, when I plan to give away
copies of the book, along with a couple of $25 Amazon Gift Cards. Thanks! You'll find the party at: https://www.facebook.com/AngelaKnight2002
And here's the promised excerpt:
Gwen
dreamed of death, of blood and terror and grief. She jolted awake. In her
panic, she almost shot from the bed, but her husband’s brawny arm was wrapped
around her waist. She stilled, his breath warming her nape.
Arthur
Pendragon slept as he so often did, curled around her, surrounding her in his
swordsman’s hard strength.
He’s
not dead. It was only a nightmare. Going limp as a soaked rag in her relief, Gwen turned her
head to press her cheek against his broad bare chest. His heart thudded in her
ear, steady and strong and comforting. Like Arthur himself.
As
her dream panic drained away, she heard the deep voices of the guards out on
the balustrade murmur something to each other. They sounded unusually tense.
Reality
hit Gwen like an armored fist. Today was the day Arthur would fight to the
death.
Against
Mordred. His son, heir, and enemy.
Her
stomach curled into a sour knot. She had to pace, do something,
or she was going to start screaming. What if this morning’s dream had been more
than a nightmare? What if it had been a vision?
Slowly,
carefully, she eased Arthur’s warm, muscled forearm from around her waist,
swung her feet to the stone floor, and rose, trying not to wake him. They’d
been up late last night, making love out of desperation as much as desire.
Arthur needed to sleep every minute he could.
A
cooling breeze poured through the open shutters of the chamber’s sole window,
which overlooked the courtyard where he and Mordred would do battle in a few
hours’ time. A shaft of blue dawn light spilled in, illuminating her husband as
he sprawled in tanned, brawny nudity across their bed.
Arthur
was not a tall man, though Gwen suspected he was actually more muscular at
thirty-seven than the nineteen-year-old she’d married, back when they’d called
him the Princeling King. He still drilled with his knights every morning, going
full out with sword and shield. Whenever she pointed out the likelihood of
being hurt in such practice, he’d snort. “I’ll not
grow too soft to sit a horse.”
Her
beautiful man. Her handsome king.
Responsibility
more than age had salted Arthur’s hair with gray. More pewter threaded the
beard that framed his lushly sensual mouth, and sprinkled the soft, dark thatch
that covered his powerful chest. Still, the hair on his groin was as dark as
ever, a sable ruff surrounding the long cock she’d always adored, the heavy
balls she loved to cradle in her palm.
If
he dies, I might as well crawl into the grave with him.
Gwen
had seen too many battles over seventeen years as Arthur’s queen. She knew what
happened when an older man fought a big brute nineteen years younger, and it
wasn’t pretty.
The
wizard Merlin had promised power to the winner of today’s battle. Arthur wanted
that power to better protect his people from the invading Saxons, not to
mention a Celtic warlord named Varn who had been a thorn in his side for the
past two years. Then there was the collection of former rulers whose kingdoms
Arthur had conquered more than a decade before, any one of whom would love to
topple the High King.
As
for Mordred . . . Well, he just wanted an acceptable excuse to
kill his father. Anything more was just gravy on the goose as far he was
concerned.
Arthur
deserved better than a bastard son who hated him. Unfortunately, Gwen had been
unable to give her king that successor—and God knew she’d tried.
Three
pregnancies. Three miscarriages.
A
familiar bitter sting gathered behind her eyelids, and she clenched her jaw,
blinking hard, forcing her twisted features to smooth. You
will not cry. You will show only smiling confidence.
You will not make Arthur doubt himself.
Doubt
can kill a man in a fight like this.
Mordred
had enough advantages as it was. Gwen wasn’t going to hand him another arrow
for his assassin’s quiver.
Wheeling,
she paced naked across the chamber. All too soon, they’d have to walk out into
the courtyard below to face the prince’s challenge. Gwen only hoped Mordred
didn’t win. Not only would his victory be a catastrophe for her and Arthur, it
would be a disaster for Britain.
Her
mind flashed back to a night months before, when Mordred had tried to convince
Arthur to declare war on the Saxons. The king had refused.
“War always sounds like a good idea to those who’ve never
fought,” Arthur said. The knights, ladies, and courtiers seated at the Round
Table fell silent over their trenchers, watching the interplay between their
liege and his son. “Believe me, the enthusiasm dims when you’re knee-deep in
mud, blood, and someone else’s intestines.”
“But isn’t conquest the right of the strong, Father,”
Mordred argued, “Proof of God’s favor?”
“Unless you lose, in which case it’s proof God doesn’t
favor you as much as you thought.” Arthur cut a slice of venison and fed it to
Gwen, giving her one of his wickedly sensual smiles. “Then it’s too damned
late, and those you love are getting butchered for your arrogance.”
The prince started to retort, but Arthur cut him off. “I’m
not declaring war on Hengrid and his Saxons, Mordred. Their raids may
eventually push me into it, but I’d rather wait until our people get in the
harvest and survive the winter. This is the longest stretch of peace we’ve had
in thirty years. Let the peasants savor it a little longer.”
“Peasants.” The prince speared a bite of mutton on the tip
of his dagger and ate it with a wolfish snap. His green eyes glinted with
growing temper over the curl of his lip. “What do we care for the opinion of
peasants?”
Arthur studied him. Everyone else held their collective
breath, Gwen included, wondering if they were about to witness another
explosive row. Mordred was a bit too much like his father, right down to the
infamous Pendragon temper. Unfortunately, he lacked Arthur’s iron self-control.
“Peasants, my son, are the ones who do the worst of the dying in war. Marching
armies too often murder peasant children, rape peasant wives, and burn peasant
crops, leaving the survivors to starve. Never forget, a good king doesn’t
declare war unless he has no choice.”
Mordred dipped his head in grudging acquiescence. “Aye,
Father.”
Arthur turned away as Lord Kay said something Gwen didn’t
catch. She was immobilized by the sight of rage and malice flashing across
Mordred’s face, there and gone so quickly she wasn’t even sure she’d seen it. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it was naught but too
much imagination and too many bad memories. Dear God, let that be all.
Mordred’s rage and impulsiveness had grown throughout his
childhood, reaching a bitter pitch in his teens that had made all their lives
unbearable. Yet in the past year, that storminess had seemed to abate. Gwen,
Arthur and Mordred’s mother, Morgana, had begun to hope the worst was over,
that he’d finally learned to control his anger.
But staring at his expressionless profile, she wondered
uneasily if he’d just gotten better at hiding his darkness . . .
Now
Gwen squeezed her eyes closed. With a queen’s ruthless discipline, she
concentrated on making her mind as smooth as a frozen lake, feeling no fear. No
doubt. No pain. Feeling nothing.
“You
know,” a deep voice purred in her ear, “you do have the most beautiful rump I’ve
ever seen.” Arthur’s big hands cupped both her bare cheeks. “I made you queen
for this arse.”
But
there are better things to feel than nothing. She turned her head to
smile up into her husband’s wicked grin. If he was working just a little too
hard at it, she’d do them both the favor of refusing to notice. He’s not dead yet. And neither am I. “At the time,” she
drawled, “you told me it was my eyes that won you. Or perhaps my mouth.”
“And
so they were. You’re a woman of many parts.” He slid his arms around her and
leaned down to take her lips in a kiss so passionate, it made a fine
distraction. She opened her mouth with a sigh and leaned into his warm
strength. His tongue slipped inside her lips, explored sensitive flesh, teased
with gentle strokes. Heat gathered between them everywhere they touched,
dancing along the surface of her skin, coiling in the tips of her breasts and
between her thighs.
Arthur’s
arms curled around her, tracing the naked rise of her hip before sliding down
to cup her between her thighs. One finger stroked her sex with an exquisitely
gentle touch that brought heat rushing to her core.
As
delicious as that felt, though, she knew they would be interrupted. “My maid
and the servants are due . . .”
“We’ll
send them away.”
“. . . and
you did order Lancelot to attend you for new orders.”
“He
can damned well wait with the servants. None of them will begrudge us whatever
moments we can steal.”
She
considered arguing, but Arthur’s free hand distracted her as it traced a
leisurely path up her torso, his swordsman’s callused palm a little rough. The
erotic scrape of his skin along hers made Gwen squirm.
The thought of the duel
tried to surface again, but she thrust it down hard. Arthur was right. If this is
to be the last time, let’s make a memory to keep me warm through all the lonely
winters. Everyone else can wait.
Especially
Mordred.
Arthur
found her nipple, twisted it with the perfect pressure. He knew just how hard
she liked his touch, when she liked it, and where.
Throwing
her head back on his shoulder, Gwen rolled her rump against his erection. “Mmm,”
she purred. “You’re very, very . . . tempting.”
“I
could say the same to you.” The hand teasing her sex parted her innermost lips
to stroke the delicate flesh. “Sweet as cream, and just as wet.”
Guinevere
turned her head and smiled up into his dark, hot gaze. “As I said, tempting.”
She let her body relax, let all her fear and tension go. It was a trick she’d
learned years ago, before other battles, other wars.
Arthur
gave her nipple a harder tug, drawing it out to the edge where pain and
pleasure met, simultaneously letting her feel the bite of his nails. The sharp
sting made her moan. He chuckled at the sound, switching his attention to the
other nipple and tormenting it just as skillfully. The fingers in her sex found
her clit, pinched hard, making her writhe.
Gwen
groaned in delight. It had taken her years to convince him to be even slightly
rough with her. His instinct was to treat her as if she had no more heft than a
cobweb, easily shredded by careless hands. She loved her husband’s bone-deep,
instinctive chivalry, yet she’d always found his rare moments of passionate
violence unbearably arousing, Perhaps it was because they were so out of
character for him. Or perhaps they simply served some need of her own she
couldn’t explain. He gave her clit another scissoring pinch, then let go to
delve deeper into her pussy, two fingers pumping until she shuddered as her
knees grew weak. “Oh, you do like that, don’t you, wife?”
When
she could do nothing but moan, he tightened his grip on her nipple, ripping a
yelp of aroused protest from her lips. “Your king asked you a question, girl.”
“Yes!”
she whispered. “Saints, Arthur, oh, God, it feels so . . .” She
twisted in his arms, rolling her hips back against his blade-hard cock until it
slid deliciously along the valley between her cheeks.
He
groaned in arousal and gave her a hard, involuntary thrust before he stilled
with an obvious effort. “Watch it, woman. You’ll make me spill.”
“I’ll
take that chance,” she panted.
“I
won’t.” He pulled his fingers from her delightfully stinging flesh, caught her
by the shoulders, and spun her to face him. She went into his arms with an eager
moan. His mouth covered hers, hot and wet and fierce. She kissed him back,
starving, loving the feel of his hands cupping her arse, the hard length of his
erection. His fingers dug in with a bruising grip, skillfully adding tinder to
her already blazing arousal.
His
tongue slipped into her mouth, and she chased it with her own, suckling and
circling it as if it were his cock. He growled against her mouth and lifted her
off her feet, cradling her arse in broad, strong hands. With a groan, Gwen
wrapped her legs around his waist and hooked one heel over the opposite ankle.
She started to lift herself with her horsewoman’s strong thighs, meaning to
impale her sex on Arthur’s shaft.
“No,
I don’t think so.” Turning to the bed, he spilled her onto her back across the mattress.
Before she knew what he intended, he dropped to his knees beside the bed,
spread her thighs wide, and buried his face between them. The first long lick
tugged at her inner labia, but didn’t touch her clit. Not quite.
“Arthurrrr,”
Gwen moaned. “God, Arthur, let me suck you. I need to . . .”
He lifted his head long enough to growl. “I think not.
I’ve other plans.”
