There was nothing like the sunlight shining off of Arthur’s hair. He stood framed in the window of her bedroom, looking out into the dingy street that ran before her house. The window was clean—everything in Gwen’s home was clean—but it was old, and scratched, and worn—just like everything in Gwen’s house.
His hair seemed to burn in the nimbus cast by the morning rays of the sun. Even his skin was aglow, still slick with water from his bath. He prepared to leave her home under a dingy old cloak of her dear friend Merlin so as not to arouse suspicion, and Gwen knew that so far they had managed to fool the public into thinking that Merlin was the lover who snuck away from her door two or three mornings a week, not the crown prince of Camelot.
It wouldn’t last. Eventually something would happen to catch the king’s attention, and bring his ire down upon her. He would see her dead before he saw his son give his love to a lowly servant girl… Still, the time for that had not yet come. For now their arrangement worked. They’d enjoyed another night of stolen love, breathless kisses, and had slept the sleep of satisfied lovers.
“Must you go so soon?” Gwen asked, holding a hand out to Arthur. He was so beautiful, her heart ached to gaze upon him.
A smile pulled at the corners of his full, rosy lips as he returned to bed. Wordlessly, he slipped under the coarse blankets, before slipping his hardened length into the silky folds of Gwen’s welcoming warmth.
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