Part 25: link
“That was... unique,” Gwen says.
“What, you’ve never made l’amour on the floor, sandwiched between a sofa and a coffee table, before?” Arthur laughs, s’embrasser the end of her nose. She is lying on haut, retour au début of him, still on the floor.
“And toi have?” She leans back slightly and raises an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, yeah, all the time,” he teases. She bends down and nips his earlobe. Then she climbs off of him, picking up her clothes.
He sits up and stretches his left shoulder.
“Sore?” she asks, standing in her t-shirt and underwear, holding the Capris in one hand.
“A little,” he admits, angling his head to one side, admiring her. How did I miss those knickers twice now? They are the boyleg kind again, citron vert green with yellow polka dots. Arthur tears his eyes away and reaches for his clothes, resisting the urge to pounce on her again. She strolls back to the bathroom, still holding the Capris, swinging her hips as she goes.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he calls after her.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” she laughs.
She emerges fully dressed minutes later with a cup of water in one hand and something small cradled in the other. Arthur is dressed and sitting on the sofa. Gwen hands him the aspirin and the cup, then goes to the cuisine for some ice.
“Guinevere…”
“Shut it, you. Your shoulder is bothering you. You’re going to ice it while I get the pain started.”
She comes out with a thé towel and a plastic bag filled with ice. She uses the towel to tie the bag onto his shoulder, puts the remote control for the télévision in his hand, and commands, “Stay.” Arthur scowls. She persuades him with a Kiss that makes his lips feel like they’ve been set ablaze, and he complies, switching on the set.
Gwen rummages in the cuisine as Arthur looks for something to watch. Sunday afternoon telly tends to be crap.
“Your cuisine is pathetic,” a muffled voice calls out.
“Hmm?” He hasn't heard her.
She withdraws her head from the cupboard and walks out so she can see him. He is studying the television, brows knitted. He looks both interested and disgusted.
“What are toi watching?” she asks, briefly forgetting about the problems with his cuisine supplies.
“Something about hippos. I didn’t realize they were so nasty.”
“Yes, they’re quite ill-tempered and territorial.”
He looks up at her. Of course she would know that, he thinks. Then he remembers his question. “What were toi saying about my kitchen?”
“It’s pathetic.” She holds up the evidence. It is a large red plastic bowl, decorated around the edge with cartoon versions of Father Christmas. “This is what I’m going to have to use to make my bread.”
He laughs. “I got that from Merlin’s mum. She always gives me a bunch of homemade treats at Christmastime. Last an they were in that bowl. I usually use it for pop corn, maïs soufflé now.”
Gwen rolls her eyes. “I don’t suppose I’ll find a decent baking sheet around here, either...”
“Next to the stove.”
He hears some rattling. Then, “Arthur, this is disgusting!” She turns the water on, apparently in an attempt to give the pan a good soak and a clean.
She emerges again, hands on her hips, giving him an exasperated look.
“Well, when toi déplacer in here, you’ll just have to remedy my cuisine situation, won’t you?” he grins at her. She is disarmed par the grin on his face and the surprise of his statement.
Gwen stands and stares, mouth open.
“Oh, I... I don’t mean right now. I mean, toi don’t have to...” he stops, flustered, and scowls. This is not coming out right. “All I mean is that the invitation is open, whenever you’re ready. I know toi have to talk to Morgana and everything, but I want toi to know that I want toi here. With me.”
She smiles, and walks back into the kitchen, out of view.
Gwen is in the middle of her pain when Arthur decides he is done with his ice. He wanders over, bag of melting cubes in one hand, towel in the other. After depositing the ice bag in the sink and the towel on the counter, he decides to investigate what Gwen is doing.
She has her hair twisted up and held with a large plastic clip, and he focuses on the back of her slender neck as he approaches. Gwen is adding flour, mixing with her hands to bring the dough together. She sprinkles flour on the table, tableau and as she dumps the dough out onto it, she feels Arthur’s hands snake around her waist and his lips Kiss the back of her neck.
“Feeling better?” she asks, kneading the dough.
“Much,” he says, nuzzling into her neck.
“I’m trying to work here, toi know,” she says, smiling.
“So am I,” he kisses the side of her neck.
“What has gotten into toi today?” she asks, stopping her task and closing her eyes briefly as she feels his hands sneak beneath the bottom edge of her chemise and caress the warm skin of her stomach.
He réponses her par taking her earlobe into his mouth and sucking it briefly before gently biting it. His knuckles graze the underside of her breasts beneath her shirt.
“Arthur…”
“Hmm?”
“I’m up to my elbows in pain dough.”
“I’m not interested in your elbows.” He lifts her chin up and back to Kiss her lips.
She sighs into him, then tells him gently, “Later, love.”
He kisses her once more. “I don’t know what it is today, but I just can’t get enough of you.” He looks at her hand. “Where’s your ring?”
“In my pocket. I didn’t want it to get full of dough. It’s perfectly sûr, sans danger and will be back on my hand as soon as they’re clean, I promise.”
“Good,” he says. “Can I try?”
“What, kneading the dough?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’ll be good for your shoulder.”
“Oh, come on, how hard can it be?”
“Watch.” She sprinkles some plus flour. She pushes the dough away, then folds it towards her, turning it as she does so. She repeats this several times. Arthur watches, and he notices the muscles in her hands and arms flexing as she works, shoving the dough with her whole upper body.
“Wow, that’s quite a workout, isn’t it?”
“It can be.” She rolls the dough into a large round ball and covers it with a towel. “I’m fairly certain that as long as I regularly bake pain I won’t get those upper arm flaps so many older women have.”
Arthur laughs at this, and reaches down to slide his fingers along her arms. She squirms away to go wash her hands, noticing Arthur watching as she puts the ring back on her finger. So important to him, she thinks, and gives him a smile as she turns to start preparing the rest of their dinner.
“So I was a king?” he asks while they eat.
“Yes. Don’t go getting an inflated ego over it, Arthur, it was only a dream,” she says, pointing her fork at him.
“And toi were a servant?” he goads her.
“Yes. And toi couldn’t keep your regal hands off me, your majesty,” she puts as much sarcasm as she can into the title. “So who really has the power, then?”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond, thinks better of it, and takes a drink instead.
“Thought so,” Gwen says, smiling.
Arthur is thoughtful for a moment. “So. This dream. It’s not the first you’ve had like this. The medieval time period.”
“No, I’ve actually had several.”
“Does it mean something, do toi think?”
“What, like reincarnation? Do toi believe in reincarnation?”
“I didn’t, but I might be open to discussion about it now,” he takes a bite of his steak. It is perfectly medium-rare and delicious. “Do you?”
“I don’t know. Either my brain is fixated on some sort of medieval role-play fantaisie I didn’t know I had,” she pauses, noting Arthur’s raised eyebrows at this statement, “or we have something implausible on which we can blame our equally implausible relationship.”
“Blame?”
“You know what I mean. We’re grasping for explanations. This is an explanation. It’s not a good one, nor is it one I’d be freely spouting off, but it certainly qualifies.”
“If toi believe in that kind of thing.”
“If toi believe in that kind of thing,” she repeats.
Arthur puts his fork down decisively. “All I know is that I am yours and toi are mine, and if there is a reason for it, great. If not, I don’t even care anymore. The only thing that matters to me is that we found each other. Whatever the reason.”
“Fate ou dumb luck, either way I’m happy. Very.” Gwen agrees. She smiles at him, a soft, seductive smile that looks especially delicious in the candlelight par which they are dining.
Arthur inhales deeply, and he realizes that he is fighting back the urge to sweep everything off the table, tableau and take her right there. What has gotten into me today, indeed? he thinks.
Part 27: link
“That was... unique,” Gwen says.
“What, you’ve never made l’amour on the floor, sandwiched between a sofa and a coffee table, before?” Arthur laughs, s’embrasser the end of her nose. She is lying on haut, retour au début of him, still on the floor.
“And toi have?” She leans back slightly and raises an eyebrow at him.
“Oh, yeah, all the time,” he teases. She bends down and nips his earlobe. Then she climbs off of him, picking up her clothes.
He sits up and stretches his left shoulder.
“Sore?” she asks, standing in her t-shirt and underwear, holding the Capris in one hand.
“A little,” he admits, angling his head to one side, admiring her. How did I miss those knickers twice now? They are the boyleg kind again, citron vert green with yellow polka dots. Arthur tears his eyes away and reaches for his clothes, resisting the urge to pounce on her again. She strolls back to the bathroom, still holding the Capris, swinging her hips as she goes.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he calls after her.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” she laughs.
She emerges fully dressed minutes later with a cup of water in one hand and something small cradled in the other. Arthur is dressed and sitting on the sofa. Gwen hands him the aspirin and the cup, then goes to the cuisine for some ice.
“Guinevere…”
“Shut it, you. Your shoulder is bothering you. You’re going to ice it while I get the pain started.”
She comes out with a thé towel and a plastic bag filled with ice. She uses the towel to tie the bag onto his shoulder, puts the remote control for the télévision in his hand, and commands, “Stay.” Arthur scowls. She persuades him with a Kiss that makes his lips feel like they’ve been set ablaze, and he complies, switching on the set.
Gwen rummages in the cuisine as Arthur looks for something to watch. Sunday afternoon telly tends to be crap.
“Your cuisine is pathetic,” a muffled voice calls out.
“Hmm?” He hasn't heard her.
She withdraws her head from the cupboard and walks out so she can see him. He is studying the television, brows knitted. He looks both interested and disgusted.
“What are toi watching?” she asks, briefly forgetting about the problems with his cuisine supplies.
“Something about hippos. I didn’t realize they were so nasty.”
“Yes, they’re quite ill-tempered and territorial.”
He looks up at her. Of course she would know that, he thinks. Then he remembers his question. “What were toi saying about my kitchen?”
“It’s pathetic.” She holds up the evidence. It is a large red plastic bowl, decorated around the edge with cartoon versions of Father Christmas. “This is what I’m going to have to use to make my bread.”
He laughs. “I got that from Merlin’s mum. She always gives me a bunch of homemade treats at Christmastime. Last an they were in that bowl. I usually use it for pop corn, maïs soufflé now.”
Gwen rolls her eyes. “I don’t suppose I’ll find a decent baking sheet around here, either...”
“Next to the stove.”
He hears some rattling. Then, “Arthur, this is disgusting!” She turns the water on, apparently in an attempt to give the pan a good soak and a clean.
She emerges again, hands on her hips, giving him an exasperated look.
“Well, when toi déplacer in here, you’ll just have to remedy my cuisine situation, won’t you?” he grins at her. She is disarmed par the grin on his face and the surprise of his statement.
Gwen stands and stares, mouth open.
“Oh, I... I don’t mean right now. I mean, toi don’t have to...” he stops, flustered, and scowls. This is not coming out right. “All I mean is that the invitation is open, whenever you’re ready. I know toi have to talk to Morgana and everything, but I want toi to know that I want toi here. With me.”
She smiles, and walks back into the kitchen, out of view.
Gwen is in the middle of her pain when Arthur decides he is done with his ice. He wanders over, bag of melting cubes in one hand, towel in the other. After depositing the ice bag in the sink and the towel on the counter, he decides to investigate what Gwen is doing.
She has her hair twisted up and held with a large plastic clip, and he focuses on the back of her slender neck as he approaches. Gwen is adding flour, mixing with her hands to bring the dough together. She sprinkles flour on the table, tableau and as she dumps the dough out onto it, she feels Arthur’s hands snake around her waist and his lips Kiss the back of her neck.
“Feeling better?” she asks, kneading the dough.
“Much,” he says, nuzzling into her neck.
“I’m trying to work here, toi know,” she says, smiling.
“So am I,” he kisses the side of her neck.
“What has gotten into toi today?” she asks, stopping her task and closing her eyes briefly as she feels his hands sneak beneath the bottom edge of her chemise and caress the warm skin of her stomach.
He réponses her par taking her earlobe into his mouth and sucking it briefly before gently biting it. His knuckles graze the underside of her breasts beneath her shirt.
“Arthur…”
“Hmm?”
“I’m up to my elbows in pain dough.”
“I’m not interested in your elbows.” He lifts her chin up and back to Kiss her lips.
She sighs into him, then tells him gently, “Later, love.”
He kisses her once more. “I don’t know what it is today, but I just can’t get enough of you.” He looks at her hand. “Where’s your ring?”
“In my pocket. I didn’t want it to get full of dough. It’s perfectly sûr, sans danger and will be back on my hand as soon as they’re clean, I promise.”
“Good,” he says. “Can I try?”
“What, kneading the dough?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think it’ll be good for your shoulder.”
“Oh, come on, how hard can it be?”
“Watch.” She sprinkles some plus flour. She pushes the dough away, then folds it towards her, turning it as she does so. She repeats this several times. Arthur watches, and he notices the muscles in her hands and arms flexing as she works, shoving the dough with her whole upper body.
“Wow, that’s quite a workout, isn’t it?”
“It can be.” She rolls the dough into a large round ball and covers it with a towel. “I’m fairly certain that as long as I regularly bake pain I won’t get those upper arm flaps so many older women have.”
Arthur laughs at this, and reaches down to slide his fingers along her arms. She squirms away to go wash her hands, noticing Arthur watching as she puts the ring back on her finger. So important to him, she thinks, and gives him a smile as she turns to start preparing the rest of their dinner.
“So I was a king?” he asks while they eat.
“Yes. Don’t go getting an inflated ego over it, Arthur, it was only a dream,” she says, pointing her fork at him.
“And toi were a servant?” he goads her.
“Yes. And toi couldn’t keep your regal hands off me, your majesty,” she puts as much sarcasm as she can into the title. “So who really has the power, then?”
Arthur opens his mouth to respond, thinks better of it, and takes a drink instead.
“Thought so,” Gwen says, smiling.
Arthur is thoughtful for a moment. “So. This dream. It’s not the first you’ve had like this. The medieval time period.”
“No, I’ve actually had several.”
“Does it mean something, do toi think?”
“What, like reincarnation? Do toi believe in reincarnation?”
“I didn’t, but I might be open to discussion about it now,” he takes a bite of his steak. It is perfectly medium-rare and delicious. “Do you?”
“I don’t know. Either my brain is fixated on some sort of medieval role-play fantaisie I didn’t know I had,” she pauses, noting Arthur’s raised eyebrows at this statement, “or we have something implausible on which we can blame our equally implausible relationship.”
“Blame?”
“You know what I mean. We’re grasping for explanations. This is an explanation. It’s not a good one, nor is it one I’d be freely spouting off, but it certainly qualifies.”
“If toi believe in that kind of thing.”
“If toi believe in that kind of thing,” she repeats.
Arthur puts his fork down decisively. “All I know is that I am yours and toi are mine, and if there is a reason for it, great. If not, I don’t even care anymore. The only thing that matters to me is that we found each other. Whatever the reason.”
“Fate ou dumb luck, either way I’m happy. Very.” Gwen agrees. She smiles at him, a soft, seductive smile that looks especially delicious in the candlelight par which they are dining.
Arthur inhales deeply, and he realizes that he is fighting back the urge to sweep everything off the table, tableau and take her right there. What has gotten into me today, indeed? he thinks.
Part 27: link