Summer puts her head back for him, exposing her throat. Her hands slide down his body, spanning his waist, sliding lower to grip at his hips. “Mordred,” she says, and it comes out a whimper, pleading. She drops her hands to fumble at the lacing of her bodice.
Mordred’s fingers found the lace of her bodice, skillfully helping her loosen the fabric around her body, silently cursing himself for not being able to hold out like he had told her. The knight turned his attention back to her lips, ceasing the formation of any other words for the time being.
She’s so open to him now, the thread of curses intrudes like a slash of lightning. But then he’s kissing her again, muffling any words she might form. The weight and warmth of his body soon drives it from her mind; she slips her hands under his loose shirt and delights in the flesh she finds there. She counts each rib, moving upward to find the tense muscles of his shoulders.