“…A good king should respect his people, no matter who they are!” Gwen scolds him, turning away.
Arthur’s hand shoots out and grabs her elbow, firmly but gently. meer gently than Guinevere would have thought him capable.
“Guinevere,” he says quietly.
The combination of his baritone voice caressing her name and the heat emanating from his hand on her arm sends a jolt through her body, and she stops. Her body unconsciously turns back towards his as he continues.
“I know I have much to learn. There are some things I am terrible at, cooking being one of them.” He pauses. “But also… knowing what to say to someone… I care about.”
He looks directly into her eyes, and her breathing speeds up. She is suddenly and acutely aware of him: Arthur the man, not Arthur the prince. A beautiful, flawed man, who wants the same things as anyone else. Love, respect, safety.
Gwen’s lips part and her hart-, hart races. He is looking down at her with a curious expression on his face; a pout mixed with confusion. His eyes drop to her lips briefly, then back to her eyes.
Suddenly they are close. Too close. His hand still only on her arm, he swoops down and captures her lips with his, kissing her softly, impulsively. Guinevere’s eyes close just moments before he pulls away.
Arthur looks at her. Her eyes are still closed, her face beautiful in the candlelight. His hart-, hart is threatening to hammer its way out of his chest when her eyes open, her beauty suddenly striking him full force.
His face is dazed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I…” he begins, not knowing what to say. His hand is still on her arm, thumb stroking the tender skin of her inner elbow softly, absently.
“Arthur, I…” Gwen begins, and Arthur is overcome once again with the urge to kiss her.
He leans down again, pausing just before his lips touch hers, unsure if he should tempt fate a seconde time. Am I crazy? he thinks, just before she presses her full lips to his. Yes, I think so.
He pulls her fully into his arms this time, one hand supporting her head, the other snaking around her waist as he leans into her slightly.
He decides to suppress the urge he has to run his tongue along her lips, though it is all he wants to do. I don’t want to frighten her. He lingers a moment longer before he pulls gently away again, breathing heavily.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, bursting through the door. They jump apart at the intrusion. “There’s an assassin in Camelot; he’s here to kill you,” he continues, breathless, not seeming to notice what he’s just interrupted.
