Part 67: link


    Gwen turns on the shower. It is an amazing shower, with several showerheads all pointing different directions. She’s never seen anything like it, and smiles in anticipation as she reaches her hand in to feel the temperature before stepping in.
    There’s nothing worse than stepping into a spray of cold water, she thinks, wiggling her fingers under the water.
    Humming quietly to herself, she waits a few plus secondes to make sure the temperature is stabilized, and is just about to step in when she feels a pair of familiar hands snake around her waist.
    “Did toi honestly think you’d get to douche par yourself, Wife?”
    “Not really, no.”
    Gwen steps into the shower, followed par Arthur, who closes the door and says, “Wow. This is some shower.”
    “I know, it’s amazing. I could get used to this,” she says, standing under the hot water, just enjoying the feel of it on her skin. “Of course then I’d take even longer than I already do,” she admits.
    Arthur laughs and reaches for the soap, rubbing his hands with it, getting them thoroughly sudsy. Starting at her shoulders, he starts running his soapy hands along her body, under the pretense of washing her.
    “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re really doing there, Mister,” Gwen says, but she is smiling. She closes her eyes and enjoys the feel of his hands on her.
    He says nothing, enjoying the slippery feel of her beneath his hands as they traverse her body. His eyes track their progress, drinking her in. He slides his hands down, circling her breasts, not large, but full and firm, almost as if they were designed to fit perfectly in his hands. Lower, across her smooth, soft, flat stomach with its naughty little navel right in the center, taunting him. He pokes his finger into it, causing Guinevere to yelp and giggle before his hands déplacer down, following the flare of her hips, curvy and feminine and wonderful.
    Arthur moves his hands around, behind her, sliding up her back, pulling her closer. His erect manhood grazes the slick skin of her stomach as she nears him, and he inhales sharply at the sensation. The proximity is too much and he plants a quick but hungry Kiss on her wet lips before running his hands down her back to briefly grip her rear, round and firm and also fitting quite nicely into his hands.
    He continues his progress down the back of her legs, feeling her rounded calves before sliding around up the front of her legs, long, slender and shapely. He moves them up between her firm thighs, where he languidly slides his hand up along in between them, pressing against her heated core for a moment.
    “Oh…” she says, but then his hand leaves her, sliding back up her stomach, between her breasts to her neck, where he brings a hand around behind to pull her face up to his for a kiss.
    Her hands land on his chest as she lifts onto her toes to press her lips to his plus fully, teasing them with her tongue, nibbling them until he has had enough and crashes his lips down over hers, mouth open and hungry, leaning into her, pulling her against him.
    She feels his hardness against her stomach and slides herself along it just to torture him. He breaks away from her lips and groans, lifting her in his arms.
    His hands under her backside, she wraps her legs around him and he braces her against the douche wall. The cold marble hits her back and she yelps again, muttering, “Cold,” between kisses.
    Gwen’s arms are holding on around his neck, supporting herself. Arthur adjusts his stance, and, holding on to her hips, eases her down onto him. He slides in easily, blissfully, and he moans, his head thrown back. She leans over and kisses the cords and veins straining and standing out on his muscular neck as he begins to move, pinning Gwen to the mur as he drives into her.
    She rides him effortlessly, uninhibited and passionate, meeting his thrusts with her own movements, his hands digging into her thighs and hips.
    He leans his head into her and kisses her neck, his lips sliding on her wet skin as her head is thrown back against the douche wall, her damp hair sticking to the surface.
    “Guinevere,” he groans into her neck, s’embrasser his way up to her ear, where he takes her earlobe in his mouth, sucking on it gently, biting just hard enough to send a thrill down her abdomen.
    Arthur moves faster and harder, approaching his climax quickly. Unable to hold back, he drives on, pressing her to the mur again and again until they are both gasping.
    His release comes on him suddenly, and he shouts out and thrusts deep and hard, stilling for just a moment, knowing he needs to continue because Gwen is on the brink.
    She is clutching his shoulders in her fists and her breathing is coming in quick rasps, and he thrusts just a few plus times, bringing her over the edge, crying out with pleasure, right along with him.
    “Oh, God,” she sighs into his shoulder, clinging to him. He leans against her, exhausted, using the mur to help hold her.
    “Yeah,” he agrees.
    Gently she unwinds herself from him and finds her feet beneath her. He looks at her and laughs suddenly.
    “What?”
    “Your hair. It’s all stuck to the mur behind you. toi look like Medusa.”
    She leans her head vers l'avant, vers l’avant and moves away from the wall, and can feel that Arthur was telling the truth as her hair gradually drops down around her shoulders as it frees itself from the wall. She chuckles and sticks her head under the douche spray, dousing it.
    Now she reaches for the soap herself and Scrubs Arthur down, wisely being a bit plus businesslike about it. He pretends to pout, but he knows that they need at least a small break. She does tease him here and there, paying a bit plus attention to some parts than to others before washing his hair for him.
    “Can I do yours?” he asks.
    “Um… no. I think you’d be in over your head, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
    “I think I could manage,” he tries.
    “Have toi ever washed this much hair before?” she asks, her hands on her hips.
    “No. But I would really like to.”
    She narrows her eyes at him, thinking. “If toi do it as well as that braid toi attempted, you’re a dead man,” she says, handing him the shampoo.

    “Told toi I could do it,” he says, rubbing his head with a towel.
    “Yes, yes, shut up,” she teases, flicking her towel at him. He dodges and laughs.
    Knowing that they’re going nowhere, they both just put their robes back on. Guinevere walks past the thermostat and stops, peering at it. She frowns at it and cranks it up a couple degrees.
    “Cold?” Arthur asks.
    “A little. I may have to put some socks on.”
    “That would definitely be sexy,” he teases, sitting on one of the sofas.
    “That’s why I turned up the thermostat.”
    “Come sit,” he says, patting the cushion beside him.
    She crosses and sits, cuddling up suivant to him with a contented sigh.
    “Happy?” he asks.
    “Very. You?”
    “Immeasurably.” He kisses her cheek and takes her hand, twining their fingers together. They sit quietly, absorbed in one another for several minutes, looking out the window at the trees blowing and the clouds scooting across the sky.
    “So where did toi learn to dance like that?” she asks out of the blue.
    “Leah, if toi can believe it,” he laughs.
    “Leah? Your father’s housekeeper Leah?” she asks, turning her head to look at him.
    “The same. I tended to get a little stir-crazy in winter when I was younger. A little too much energy, I guess. I would play outside in the snow, building snowmen and snow forts and going traîneau, traîneau à chiens until my cheeks were red. She and Father would have to drag me inside at that point, where I would fidget and misbehave and stomp around, bored silly, despite the fact that I had tons of toys at my disposal. toi know how it goes.” She nods, and he continues. “Then one jour while Father was out I came inside and caught Leah dancing to some Glenn Miller while she was cleaning. I was intrigued, and asked her to montrer me. She found that dancing sufficiently wore me out, so whenever I got antsy, she would put on some musique and teach me something new.”
    Guinevere listens, amused, picturing the skinny young Arthur she’d seen in pictures, cheeks rose from the cold air, playing in the snow and then tearing around the house. Uther had his hands full, indeed, she thinks, chuckling.
    “What?”
    “Just picturing it,” she smiles. “How old were you?”
    “Um, ten? Eleven, maybe. It continued for a while, obviously. I found I actually enjoyed it, and the footwork helped with my fencing.”
    “That makes a certain amount of sense. Elliot was telling me that he knew a football player at université that had taken ballet to help him be plus graceful on the pitch.”
    “Really?”
    “And apparently it worked. He ended up being both a very good dancer and footballer, so none of the lads got any enjoyment from taking the mickey out of him.”
    Arthur laughs and asks, “Did he go pro? Do toi remember his name, par chance?”
    “No idea, sorry. I know you’re dying to know. You’ll have to ask Elliot suivant time toi see him.”
    It starts to drizzle outside, and Arthur smiles, remembering the thunderstorm in the Cotswolds and the subsequent power outage. He pulls her closer, snuggling her.
    “Can toi teach me?”
    “Teach toi what?” he asks, her sudden question snapping him out of his thoughts.
    “How to dance.”
    “Now?”
    “Why not?”
    “Well, I could teach toi some now,” he angles his head to the side, considering the idea.
    “Obviously I didn’t mean teach me everything this afternoon, silly. But toi looked like toi were having so much fun with Irene, and…”
    “You weren’t jealous, were you?” he teases.
    “At my own wedding? Certainly not,” she laughs. “I simply wished I could have kept up, that’s all. Maybe par Merlin and Freya’s wedding we’ll knock their socks off.”
    “If they get married,” Arthur says.
    “They will. ou Morgana and Wayne. ou Paul and Autumn. Whichever comes first,” she laughs.
    “Elliot and Elizabeth,” Arthur adds, laughing as they tick off all the couples that have formed around them. “Oh! Don’t forget Ethan and Elana!”
    “What’s with all the ‘E’ names?” Gwen asks, laughing.
    “By the way, did toi notice Paul and Autumn disappear for a while last night? I think they went outside.”
    She nods. “I did, and they were. Did toi see when they came back and she was wearing Paul’s coat?”
    Arthur laughs. “It looked like she was wearing a tent!”
    “I know; it was so cute.”
    “You don’t think they…” Arthur suggests raising his eyebrows.
    “Did a ‘Morgana and Wayne’ out in the garden? Doubtful. Snogging, definitely. Shagging, no.”
    Arthur snorts a laugh at Gwen’s words. “You’re probably right. Paul is a gentleman. Wayne is a scoundrel.”
    “True. But he’s Morgana’s problem now,” she laughs. “So. Dancing?” She reminds him.
    He kisses her neck. “Okay. Help me déplacer this table.” He stands and goes to the coffee table.
    She grabs the other side and they déplacer it out of the way, clearing a large area in the middle of the room. Gwen bends and picks up a chocolat covered fraise from the tray on the table, tableau before going to rejoindre Arthur on the rug.
    “Hungry?” he asks, smiling at her with the huge strawberry. It is nearly the size of a golf ball.
    “Wanted to get one before they turn, and I keep forgetting,” she says, sinking her teeth into the berry. It is juicy and some of the chocolat coating breaks free, and she brings a hand up quickly beneath it to catch anything that drops.
    “Oh, wow, this is good,” she says, her mouth full, as she offers a bite to Arthur, holding it to his lips.
    He leans over and takes the rest of it, leaving her with the leafy top. She looks at it, then at him, shaking her head and chuckling as she sets the spent berry back on the tray. She grabs a napkin to wipe her hands.
    “Put your shoes on,” he tells her, swallowing.
    “My shoes?” she asks, looking down at her feet.
    “Yes. toi have your heels from the wedding, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Go get them.”
    “Are toi going to put shoes on as well?” she asks, stalking back to the room. I don’t want to put those damn things back on, she grumbles to herself as she extracts them from the bottom of the vêtement bag where her dress is now stashed.
    “No. I don’t need them. toi do.”
    “And why is that?” she asks, returning with them in her hand.
    “Because toi do. It’s just the rules. Plus, you’re short, and it’ll be better if toi have a few extra inches.”
    Gwen stops and raises an eyebrow at him.
    “What?” he says, furrowing his brow.
    “Not even touching that one,” she says, sitting to put her shoes on.
    Slowly his words sink in and he just says, “Oh,” and starts to laugh, actually blushing a little.
    “Come here, toi dirty-minded woman,” he holds his hands out to her, and she knots the ceinture on her dressing robe to make sure it stays put.
    “Okay,” he places her left hand on his shoulder and puts his right hand on her waist. Then he holds her right hand in his left and looks down at her. “That’s the easy part.”
    He starts with something simple, the basic Foxtrot step. Front, back, side, together. “Well, for you, it’s back, front, side, together, since toi have to do everything I do backwards,” he explains.
    “Shouldn’t we have some music?” she asks, looking down at her feet.
    “Not yet. And don’t look down. Look at me,” he says, releasing her hand to lift her chin. “Your feet aren’t going to disappear.”
    “I have my iPod along, toi know.”
    “Patience, my love,” he says, turning slightly, changing the step.
    “Hey!”
    “Well, toi had the hang of it, so we’re moving on.”
    “Warn me suivant time.”

    An heure later, the drizzle has become earnest rain and Gwen’s feet are sore. She’s got some basic maneuvers down, and now they’re hungry.
    “Do I get to choose my lunch this time?” she asks, taking the shoes off and rubbing her feet. She flexes her toes and the joints crack loudly.
    “Yes, toi do. Let me find the menu.”
    Arthur gets an Angus burger and Gwen orders linguini, which is delivered par a young woman who blushes furiously at the fact that both of them are wearing only robes at nearly one in the afternoon.
    “She must be new,” Arthur commentaires after she leaves.
    “Why do toi say that?”
    “This is a snooty hotel. The staff is supposed to be snooty as well. toi know, aloof. Discreet. Snobbier than the clientele, actually. A seasoned waitress would have dutifully ignored the fact that we have clearly been doing little else than each other all day.”
    Gwen laughs at this. “Ridiculous policy,” she declares, scooping a forkful of pâtes, pâtes alimentaires into her mouth.
    “Why do toi think I was needling the bellman in the lift last night? I was trying to get a rise out of him.”
    “And I seem to recall that toi succeeded, though at my expense,” she waves her fork at him.
    “Hey, the thought of toi naked would drive any man to distraction, believe me.”
    “Oh really?” she challenges, casually raising a hand to the neck of her robe, sliding her fingers along the collar, pulling it open just slightly to expose a little shoulder and a lot of chest.
    Arthur’s eyes darken and he inhales slowly before taking a bite of his burger. Let’s see how far she goes with this, he thinks, willing himself to stay in his siège across from her.
    Gwen smirks, seeing his reaction, and she leans over her plate to twirl some plus pâtes, pâtes alimentaires around her fork. Her peignoir, robe shifts a little plus and he is treated to plus of a view. For good measure, she extends her leg beneath the small table, and slides her foot up his leg.
    “Guinevere…” he says, trying to put a slight warning tone into his voice. She doesn’t believe him. She picks up a single piece of linguini and holds it aloft, where she snags it with her tongue, winding it around the noodle. She lowers it into her mouth, then closes her lips around it and sucks it in. She licks the sauce from her lips, slowly, as her foot roves higher, now sliding along his inner thigh.
    Arthur closes his eyes and takes a drink. His mouth is suddenly very dry for some reason.
    Gwen stabs a champignon with her fork and languidly closes her lips around it, sliding the fork slowly out. With her other hand she is slyly loosening the ceinture of her robe, allowing it to fall open more, exposing her breasts almost completely. Almost.
    Arthur holds what’s left of his burger in his hand, but he seems to have forgotten about it. When Guinevere’s foot comes into contact with his erection under the table, pressing slightly, running slowly up the shaft, he groans softly and the sandwich, "sandwich" falls from his hand back onto the plate, where it falls to pieces.
    “That’s it.” He stands, walks the two steps to Gwen, where he pulls her chair out and lifts her, throwing her over his shoulder.

Part 69: link