Part 42: link


    Arthur strolls casually and somewhat cautiously up to the doors of the childcare center Friday morning. Some of the children are arriving and he is being subject to all kinds of scrutiny from parents and children alike, but he tries to ignore it.
    Guinevere was right to make me wear a plain t-shirt today, he thinks, chuckling over what these nice parents would think if he was wearing his Sex Pistols shirt.
    He enters and looks around. A young lady approaches him warily. “Can I help you… sir?”
    “Yes, I have an appointment with Sharon Reeves,” he says, smiling at her.
    “Um, name?”
    “Arthur Pendragon. Though she may know me as Drag,” he tells her, looking around at the brightly colored walls bedecked with various posters and the children’s artwork. He tries to ignore the vague smell of disinfectant and stale urine.
    Sharon comes out, eyes on Arthur, muttering something to the girl that met him.
    “Um… Drag?” she says warily.
    “Yes, ma’am, pleased to meet you,” he walks over, holding his hand out to shake.
    Her eyes are glued to his Mohawk, but she shakes his hand.
    He blinks. Here we go. “Something wrong, ma’am?” he asks, keeping his voice polite, his face open and friendly.
    “Er, no… I guess not; I just wasn’t expecting…”
    “Glue Man!” A small voice, strangely familiar, shouts behind Arthur and he turns. He sees the little girl, Rebecca, from that night at McDonald’s. She is pulling at her mother’s hand while her mother struggles to keep hold on her baby brother.
    “Mummy! It’s the Glue Man! From Donald’s!” she breaks away from her mother and runs over to Arthur, hugging his legs. Her mortified mother, blushing bright red, follows.
    “Hello, Rebecca,” Arthur laughs, bending down once she’s released him. “How are you?”
    “Good. I forgot your name, Glue Man.”
    Arthur laughs some more. “Arthur, remember?” he smiles and presses her nose with his finger.
    “You know this young man?” Sharon asks Rebecca’s mother, clearly looking for a character reference.
    “Um, sort of. He was sitting near us at McDonald’s one evening and Rebecca would not leave him alone,” her mother chuckles.
    Arthur stands. “Come on, it was fun and you know it,” he grins at the mother, who he notices is wearing a waitress’ uniform and no wedding ring. Then he waves at the baby, who ducks and hides in his mother’s shoulder.
    “He’s a nice man, Miss Sharon,” Rebecca says. “He’s funny, too. He let me touch his hair and everything!” Then she turns to Arthur. “Where’s your wife?”
    “She’s at her work,” he laughs. Then he bends down again. “And she’s not actually my wife, she’s my girlfriend,” he whispers.
    “Oh. I wanted to see her pretty hair again.”
    “Rebecca, we need to get you to your room, and Andrew needs a change. I’m going to be late for work as it is,” her mother says, reaching down for her hand. “You can bother Mr. Arthur later.”
    “Nice seeing you again,” Arthur calls, still laughing over the whole coincidence. That little girl just saved my ass.
    “Why does she call you ‘Glue Man?’” Sharon asks him.
    “I guess she couldn’t remember my name. And I told her that I use glue to make my hair do this,” he points. “Apparently that detail stuck with her,” he chuckles.
    “Do you?” she raises an eyebrow.
    “Yep. Probably the same stuff you use here, actually,” he grins at her now, and she cannot help but smile back.
    “This way,” Sharon leads him back to her office. Arthur sees she has his painting hanging on the mural behind her desk, in plain view, for any visiting parent to see.
    “Hey, that looks good up there,” he points.
    “I’ve gotten several compliments on it already in the week I’ve had it,” she says, sitting. “So you’re really a blonde, then,” she smirks at him.
    “Yeah, you caught me. Guinevere must have told you that was me, right?” he asks, pointing.
    She nods. “Your girlfriend, I presume?”
    He nods now.
    “She told me about the painting, yes, how that’s you and your best mate, and that you two are still close.”
    “Yeah,” he laughs. “I don’t know why he puts up with me. But then again, I don’t know why I put with him.”
    “I think you do,” she laughs with him. “But that is one of the reasons I wanted to commission you for mais work. Even though I hadn’t met you, I could see in your work, particularly in this piece, that you have a good soul. That you care about people. In spite of your… fashion sense, apparently.”
    “Ah, there it is,” he smiles broadly. “I always wonder how long it takes people to summon up enough nerve to mention it.”
    “Sorry, I was actually quite taken aback when I saw you. I thought Julie was having me on.”
    “It happens. Good thing little Rebecca happened by, then,” he says, nicely but slightly pointedly.
    “Indeed,” she admits, looking down. “You obviously made quite an impression on her at the McDonald’s.”
    Arthur tells Sharon about that night, about how Gwen had a stressful dia and how Rebecca wanted to get a Mohawk of her own.
    “And you talked her out of it?” Sharon is impressed. “She’s a stubborn little thing!”
    “Luckily Guinevere was there with me, so I could redirect Rebecca to a mais appropriate role model,” he laughs.
    “Yes, Gwen was lovely,” Sharon says, and the memory of Tim’s interest in the young woman floats to the front of her mind. She nervously looks down at some papers in front of her.
    “Made quite the impression on your boss, I understand,” Arthur says, leaping on it. Sharon looks up, surprised. “Of course she told me,” he shrugs.
    Sharon chuckles nervously. “He’s harmless. Just lonely, I think.”
    Wonder if she fancies him, Arthur thinks, but as he is still trying to make a good impression, he keeps his thought to himself.
    “So, to business. We cannot offer you a very large sum, but we are hoping that the fact that this is a humble childcare center will hold some sway,” she says, passing a sheet of paper to him with a figure written on it.
    “Of course. I actually get on quite well with children,” he says, glancing at the number, finding that he doesn’t really even care how much it is. “They find me interesting and I find them rather hilarious,” he laughs.
    “I’m sure,” she chuckles. He hands the paper back with a nod.
    “Oh. That’s it? You’re fine with it?”
    “Sure,” he shrugs. “So, what did you have in mind?”
    “Maybe a piece for the main room. Something big, colorful. Cheerful.”
    “Right. No severed heads or nudes, then,” he jokes, catching Sharon quite off guard, and she laughs loudly, once, before placing her hand over her mouth.
    Arthur grins. “Can I have a tour?”
    “Um… okay,” she stands and he follows her to the door.
    “We’ll start with the infants and work our way up,” she decides, heading for the first door.
    Arthur explores the room, ignoring the puzzled looks from the teachers. Puzzled looks that turn to shy smiles, however, when they see him smiling down at the chubby little faces, even allowing one to grasp his finger and pull it to his mouth, biting down with his gums.
    “Sorry,” the teacher rushes over, “he’s teething. No, no, Jeffrey, do not bite the man.”
    Arthur carefully extracts his finger, laughing. “It’s fine. And my hands are clean, por the way,” he holds them up for inspection.
    “Very good,” the teacher declares, chuckling, noting that even his fingernails are spotless.
    He strolls to a bulletin board, pausing to stroke little Andrew’s downy head, and stands in front of and array of papers bearing the babies’ feet prints turned into cats, their toes at the bottom for the cats’ feet and ears and a tail drawn on.
    “Cute,” he declares. “Clever.”
    Next is the two-year-old room, which is significantly noisier. Until, as a group, they see Arthur, and the noise diminishes until he is faced with a roomful of tiny stares.
    “Hi,” he says, waving.
    “Children, this is Mr. Arthur. He’s an artist.”
    One little girl points to his head and garbles something incomprehensible.
    “She wants to know why your hair is like that,” the teacher translates.
    “You like it?” he asks, turning his head this way and that to give them all a better view.
    “All right, children,” the teacher announces, taking advantage of the quiet. “Take your seats.”
    Arthur chuckles, noting the seguinte level of art hanging on the walls: finger painting. Swirls and splotches, mostly, but here and there he sees an accidental bit of brilliance. “I haven’t finger painted in years,” he says absently.
    The three-year-olds are even mais interested in Arthur. He unintentionally interrupts their “circle,” where they spend the first moments of the day, seated on a large colorful rug. Sharon introduces him again to the group.
    “Mister,” one calls, “you’ve got something in your nose.”
    “Joshua!” the teacher admonishes.
    “I know, thank you,” Arthur answers. “I put it there.”
    The children gasp, and another pipes up, “Don’t you get bogeys all over it?”
    “Annie!”
    Arthur laughs and Sharon leads him to the four-year-old room. They, too, are in a circle, but Rebecca jumps up and runs over to him as soon as she sees him, pulling him to the círculo with her.
    “Rebecca, would you like to introduce our guest?” Sharon asks.
    Arthur squeezes in seguinte to Rebecca, gamely sitting on the floor.
    “This is my friend, Mr. Arthur,” Rebecca says, remembering his name. “He puts glue in his hair. And he only gets bogeys on that,” she points, “when he has a cold.”
    The room teacher stares, rendered speechless. Sharon tries to hide her laughter. Arthur does not, laughing openly. The children all cadastrar-se in.
    “Mr. Arthur is an artist,” Sharon supplies. “He’s going to be painting something for the school.”
    “What are you going to paint?”
    “Are you going to paint the walls?”
    “Can you paint me?”
    “Are you going to paint Star Wars?”
    “Can we help?”
    “Whoa, whoa,” Arthur’s voice rises above them and he holds his hands out. Amazingly, they calm down, entranced por this strange man. “I haven’t decided yet. That’s why Miss Sharon is bringing me around. So I can see where you all spend your dia and decide what I want to paint.”
    “Oh,” they all chorus.
    “Do you really put glue in your hair?”
    “How else would I get it to stick up like this?” he answers, smiling. “All right, I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you were doing,” he says, standing.
    “Aw…” the children all groan, disappointed.
    “Maybe I’ll be back later,” he says, winking at them. He glances once at the teacher, who blushes, so he decides to turn back to Sharon. “Do you have a playground?”
    “Yes,” she says. “This way.”
    She leads him outside to a large open area with some playground equipment, a sandbox, and some benches, all surrounded por a rather bleak concrete wall.
    Arthur stares at the wall. “Aha,” he declares aloud.
    “Aha?” Sharon asks.
    He points. “That wall. Does it belong to the childcare center or the building seguinte door?”
    “It’s ours,” she answers, “but…” she stops herself, realizing where he is going. “You want to paint that?”
    “Yes,” he turns to her, his face lit up with excitement. “And I want the children to help.”
    “That,” Sharon says, “is a brilliant idea.”
    Arthur spends the rest of the dia there, visiting the children, talking with them as much as he can. He finger paints. He strings beads on a piece of yarn. He eats biscuits and drinks suco, suco de at snack time. He charms everyone in sight.
    He spends a lot of time with the four-year-olds, largely because he can understand what they are saying and they are the most engaging.
    They are seated at tables, gluing dry macaroni noodles to construction paper. “I’ve decided what I want to paint, kids. Would you like to know?”
    “Yes!”
    He looks up from his macaroni mosaic. “You know that big mural around the playground?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I want to paint that,” he declares.
    “Wow!”
    “That’s big!”
    “That’s bandalism.”
    “What?” Arthur turns to this last commenter.
    “My daddy’s a p’liceman. He says when people paint on walls it’s bandalism.”
    “It’s not vandalism if you have permission,” Arthur says, chuckling. “Do you know what ‘permission’ is?”
    “That’s when someone says okay when you want to do something,” the boy answers.
    “Yes, very good,” Arthur says, looking up to see Sharon observing the whole scene. “And you know what? I know two policeman.”
    “You do?” the child is impressed.
    “Yes. Well, one will be a policeman soon, and the other one has been one for a very long time.”
    “Is he a captain?”
    “Detective Inspector.”
    “Whoa.”
    Arthur laughs. The teacher then asks, attempting to steer the conversation back on track, “What are you going to paint on that giant wall?”
    “Well, that’s the thing. What do you all think I should do? What kinds of things do you like?”
    “Ponies!”
    “Rainbows!”
    “Trains!”
    “Kittens!”
    “Tractors!”
    “Candy!”
    “Yeah, candy!”
    “Dragons!”
    “Superman!”
    “Legos!”
    “Star Wars!”
    I have got to see that movie when it gets here, Arthur thinks. “Did someone say dragons?”
    “I said dragons!” one girl hops up.
    “Does anyone not like dragons?” Arthur asks, glancing up at Sharon again, still watching.
    Bloody hell, he’s like the Pied Piper, she thinks, exiting the room again, rather satisfied with herself.
    He doesn’t hear any dissent, so he continues. “Because I can do really cool dragons,” he says, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper. “Markers? Crayons? Something?” he asks the teacher, and she hands him a box of crayons that happened to be within reach.
    “Thank you, Miss Melissa,” he says, taking the box.
    He starts to draw, and pretty soon the entire class is huddled around his table, watching as he draws a long, serpentine dragon, stretching across the page. He is careful not to make it too gruesome or scary. A friendly dragon, he reminds himself.
    “Wicked,” one little boy says, awestruck.
    “That’s really good,” Rebecca says from his side. She’s been attached to his hip most of the afternoon, in fact.
    “Thank you. And you know what?” he looks up. “I think I want you all to help me paint the mural.”
    “I thought it was a dragon.”
    Arthur laughs. “A mural is a large painting on a wall, usually in a public place. So we will be doing a mural of a dragon.”
    “Oh…” they all chorus.
    “So, this do?” he holds up the crayon drawing of the dragon.
    “Yes!” they all yell.
    “Good. We’ll probably have to give him some friends, too. That’s a big wall.”
    “Yay!” they all cheer.
    “All right, all right,” Miss Melissa quiets them down, glancing at the clock. “We’ll have to finish our noodle art later, children. It’s rest time, now.”
    “Aw…”
    “Best you listen to your teacher,” Arthur says, standing and stretching. Those are really short chairs.
    “Are you going?” the teacher asks him.
    “Probably should do, yes. I imagine I need to pay Miss Sharon another visit to finalize details or something.”
    The children are pulling blankets and, in some cases, various comfort toys from cubbies, going to their little cots. Melissa turns to Arthur.
    “They really like you,” she chuckles nervously.
    Why do I feel like I know where this is going? Arthur thinks.
    “They’re great,” he says, chuckling at the children. Rebecca waves at him and yawns. He waves back, and blows her a kiss.
    “Um, can I give you my number?” she asks very quietly.
    “Sorry,” he says. “I’m flattered, but I have a girlfriend.”

    “God, Guinevere, you should have seen them, they were so funny,” Arthur says that night. He and Gwen had agreed to meet up at the pub after she was done working for a bite of ceia and to see their friends.
    “I’m glad you had fun,” she says, chuckling, really wishing she could have seen him there with all those kids. “And I like my macaroni picture.”
    “It’s a mosaic,” he says haughtily.
    Gwen laughs. “Oh, I do beg pardon.”
    “Here, do you see it?” He takes the paper and holds it back a distance. Up close, Gwen was unable to see the large G in the middle of everything, cleverly done por simply turning the appropriate noodles a different direction from the others.
    “Oh!” she exclaims, giggling now. “You made me a G!”
    “Yep,” he hands it back to her and she sets it aside, not wishing to soil it. I wonder what the man at the framer’s would think if I brought this in, she thinks, chuckling to herself.
    “Oh, one of the teachers wanted to give me her number,” Arthur says, smirking as he lifts his burger to his lips.
    “She did not,” Gwen says, shoving his shoulder.
    “Did so,” he argues. “She basically threw herself at me at naptime.”
    “Arthur…”
    “Okay, so that part I made up. But she did offer her number.”
    “And did you give our phone number to her?” Gwen raises her eyebrow at him.
    “Of course,” he says casually, earning himself another shove.
    “No, I didn’t,” Arthur says, turning towards her and leaning in close. “I told her that I was flattered but I have an incredibly beautiful, very smart, amazingly sexy girlfriend that I amor very much,” he purrs into her ear.
    “You didn’t say all that,” Gwen says quietly, closing her eyes when he starts beijar her neck.
    “Oi! Break it up you, too. This is a family establishment,” Erik, Merlin’s replacement barman, teases them as he walks past.
    “No it bloody isn’t,” Arthur laughs, lifting his face from Gwen’s neck nevertheless.
    “Damn good thing, too,” a voice behind him startles him and Arthur turns to see Merlin and Freya standing there.
    “Hey,” Arthur greets them. “Leon’s doing burgers, go get some.”
    “Nah, we ate already,” Merlin says while Freya greets Gwen, studying the macaroni picture with a puzzled look on her face. “How was your dia with the smalls?”
    “It was actually really fun,” Arthur says.
    “Yeah, well, you always did have a way with children,” Merlin says. “Come on, bring your plates and we’ll get a table.”
    Arthur tells Merlin and Freya about his adventure with the kids, and gradually the others drift over, squeezing around the mesa, tabela until Leon finally pulls another mesa, tabela over.
    “So that girl remembered you from one night at McDonald’s?” Gwaine asks, skeptical.
    “It’s true, mate. She saved my ass, too. I think Sharon was considering showing me the door,” Arthur laughs.
    “Dragons, then,” Leon says, thinking. “That’s really cool. How are you going to include the children?”
    “Yeah, I always thought you too much of a control freak about your art to allow anyone to help, much less a bunch of kids,” Merlin adds.
    “How big are these dragões going to be?” Gwen asks.
    “About like so,” Arthur stretches his arms wide, one high, one low. “And probably ten feet long.”
    “Dragons have scales, right?” she asks.
    “Yes…”
    “Have the children put their handprints on as the scales.”
    There are various mutterings of agreement within the group. Arthur thinks, staring. Gwen can see him visualizing this.
    “You,” he leans over and kisses her, “are brilliant.”
    “Thanks,” Gwen says, blushing.
    “Here you are,” Lance comes rushing into the pub, apparently having been in procurar of them.
    “Hey, Lance, mate, pull up a chair,” Arthur says.
    “Shove over,” Lance brings a chair in between Leon and Gwaine. Leon happily scoots closer to Phil, Gwaine grumbles as he has to scoot closer to Merlin.
    “What’s going on?” Gwen asks.
    “Annis called me today,” Lance says, motioning to Erik for a drink. “She said she found a buyer for that big collage already!”
    “Bloody hell!” Arthur exclaims. “Who? Where?”
    “Thanks,” Lance says to Erik as he sets a pint down for him. Gwen tries not to notice Arthur studying the exchange, looking for clues. She kicks him under the table, then realizes her mistake when he raises an eyebrow at her and runs his hand up her thigh under the table.
    Lance takes a drink. “Apparently it’s going to a spa over in Bath that she frequents. She sent them a fotografia and they went nuts over it.”
    “Wow, Sweet, you’re going to be all over the mural of a spa,” he grins at her.
    Gwen blushes furiously. “Yikes.”
    “Gwen, you are much too modest, but that’s why we amor you,” Lance says, laughing. “I think it’s a perfect fit, actually. What better location for it than a place where women go to make themselves beautiful, right?”
    “It’s even, like, spa-colored,” Gwaine adds. “All white and… serene.”
    “See, Gwaine gets it,” Lance says, nodding at him.
    “Will you be getting another fat check from this, then?” Merlin asks. Freya punches his arm. “Ow! What?”
    Arthur laughs. “No, Annis already bought the painting. It’s hers to sell now, to make that money back.”
    “Plus a little,” Lance adds.
    “That hardly seems fair,” Merlin says.
    Lance shrugs. “That’s the way it works. She buys it for price A and sells it for a slightly higher price B. Otherwise she wouldn’t make a profit.”
    “Drag should try to sell his own paintings, then,” Merlin says.
    “Maybe one day, once I’ve made a name for myself I’ll be able to do that,” Arthur says, unconcerned. “In the meantime, I’m happy for any help Annis can give me. I’m just trying to get my stuff out there right now. If she can make a few pounds while getting my name and my work known, so be it.”
    “That is her job,” Lance says. “So. Congratulations, Drag.”
    “Thanks, mate,” Arthur says, and the two men clink glasses across the table.
    Gwen watches Arthur, smiling to herself, proud of him. Just when I think I cannot amor him any more, something else pops up. Today it was two somethings.

    “What on earth are you doing, Arthur?” Gwen asks, entering the bedroom to find him hauling her full-length mirror out of the closet and leaning it against the wall.
    “I am going to show you how beautiful you are, Guinevere,” he says, stepping back to check the placement, the angle. He turns to her and adds, “Because apparently you still don’t believe all of us that you are.”
    “I’m afraid to ask…” she says, walking slowly over towards him.
    He holds his hand out to her. “Don’t be shy now,” he says softly, his voice switching to that velvety register that always makes her coração thump. She puts her hand in his and he pulls her into the círculo of his arms, gazing down at her through heavy-lidded eyes, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips.
    Arthur lowers his head and kisses her, his one hand coming up to pull the elastic band that had been holding her hair back in a low ponytail. He drops it carelessly to the floor and she feels his long, strong fingers delve into her hair, sliding against her scalp at the base.
    His other hand finds the zipper at the back of her skirt, pulling it down. He tugs at it and it falls around her feet. She kicks it aside.
    Gwen pulls his t-shirt up, pulling her lips from his to remove it. She leans progressivo, para a frente and kisses the dragon tattooed on his shoulder, smiling at it just slightly.
    Arthur turns her so she is facing the mirror. “Can you see everything?” he whispers close in her ear. She nods, and he reaches around to work on her buttons.
    Gwen feels his lips at her neck as her blusa slowly opens. She watches his skillful fingers free the buttons from their holes, watches as a narrow column of brown skin comes into view between the two halves of the light blue blouse. Her eyes drift closed once, his kisses too much.
    “Open your eyes, my love. I want you to watch yourself. I want you to watch us.”
    She opens her eyes as he gently pulls her blusa from her shoulders and tosses it aside. His arms are around her again, sliding on her waist, and Gwen finds that her eyes are drawn to where his hands go.
    He kisses her shoulder, working his way back up her neck to whisper in her ear some more.
    “Try to see yourself the way I see you, Guinevere,” he says, his breath warm against her skin. Gwen watches his hands on her skin, one reaching down to her thigh, skimming back up to her hip. “This skin should be illegal.”
    Gwen actually giggles at this, but Arthur stops her. “I’m completely serious. The color, the texture, it’s just… perfect. Not to mention,” he pauses, placing a hungry, open-mouthed kiss at the base of her neck, “the flavor.”
    She presses her lips together and looks down, bringing her hand up to rest over his. “You are a petite, beautiful, perfect flower,” his voice in her ear again makes her look up, back into the mirror, where she meets his eyes, his intense gaze searing into her.
    Arthur reaches back and unhooks her bra now, freeing her breasts to her sight as the vestuário drops with the rest.
    “Have you ever really looked at yourself, Guinevere?” he asks, switching sides to whisper into her other ear, one hand coming up to softly cup one breast.
    She shakes her head no, and he chuckles against her skin. “Of course you haven’t.”
    “Every curve exact, every line perfect,” he continues, his other hand resting just at the flare of her hip, showing her the curve, the line.
    “Watch,” he says, his hand on her breast caressing, his fingers skimming across the surface, his thumb rubbing lightly across her nipple. “Watch how your body responds. How it changes when I touch.”
    Gwen is helpless in his arms, fallen under his spell, and can do nothing but comply, watching as her nipple tightens and stiffens under his gentle touches.
    Arthur’s other hand comes up to cover the other, giving it similar treatment. Then he moves one hand higher, to her neck, softly caressing the side.
    “See?” his hand drags along the line of her shoulder, tracing her collarbone, the tendons on the side of her neck. “See the beautiful lines, the shapes, the shadows?” His hand lingers at the spot where her collarbone meets her neck, the tendon just to the side of her throat. “This right here,” he leans way over and kisses the spot, “this is one of your most beautiful details.”
    “It is?” Gwen whispers, finally finding her voice.
    “And I’ll bet you never even noticed it,” he says, his lips still against her skin, roving along her shoulder.
    “And this as well,” he runs his finger along the line of her jaw.
    I never liked my jaw. Always thought it was too wide, she thinks, wondering at him.
    “You don’t agree?” he asks, as if he has read her mind.
    “It’s too wide,” she answers, still whispering.
    “Nonsense,” Arthur argues, beijar her jaw now. “Beauty is in the unique, not the convention, Guinevere. I said it the first dia I met you. You have such unique beauty.”
    “You did,” she remembers, smiling.
    “Ah, now, your lips…” he says, taking a few moments to appreciate them with his own, “surely you cannot deny their appeal.” He kisses her once more. “When I paint you, they’re my favorito things to paint. If I was a poet, I would write sonnets about them.” Another kiss, longer, and he sucks at her upper lip just a bit.
    “You already know how I feel about your little nose with its little freckles,” he says once he releases her lips, beijar her nose and turning her back towards the mirror, realizing that they shifted during his worship of her lips.
    “I do like my eyes,” she admits, beating him to the punch.
    “Good,” he says, grinning behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist once again. “I like them, too,” he says.
    He runs his fingers through her hair for a few moments, saying nothing now, letting his hands convey his feelings, the dark curls tangling and sliding between them. He lifts a handful to his lips and kisses it.
    Arthur releases her hair, skimming his hands down along her body again, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of her panties.
    Is he honestly going to talk about that?, Gwen wonders as he slides them down over her legs.    
    “You have long-ish legs for someone so tiny,” he says somewhat absently, lifing her feet in turn to fully remove the last bit of clothing she still had on. He stands again, allowing his hands to slide up her legs and briefly squeeze her backside.
    “Come,” he instructs, leading her over to the bed. He sits on the edge and looks to the side, making sure they can still see. Then he stands and quickly removes his jeans and sits again, pulling her down over him so that she is straddling his lap.
    “Can you see?” he asks quietly, pulling her face down to his for a kiss.
    “You still want me to watch?” she asks against his lips.
    “Absolutely,” he rumbles, his hands on her hips, sliding around to caress her backside. “I want you to see how amazing you look when we make love,” he says, beijar her neck, working his way down to her breasts.
    “That’s going to be…” she says, her hands coming up to hold his head, “somewhat distracting, Arthur.”
    “Imagine it from my point of view,” he smirks, lifting his head. “I have to see it all the time.”
    “Well, then, you’re – oh – mais accustomed to it,” she says, briefly interrupted when his hand comes around to the front of her, his fingers finding her hot wetness at the juncture of her thighs.
    Arthur’s tongue laves her nipple, his fingers tease her, drawing her out, making her forget any lingering inhibitions. Making her forget that she’s supposed to be watching. She drops her head back, eyes closed, and moans, fingers digging into his shoulders.
    “Watch,” he softly reminds her, chuckling a little against her breasts.
    “Oh yeah,” she breathes, turning her head again, looking into the mirror at their intertwined bodies, the contrast of their skins, the stark black streak of Arthur’s Mohawk standing out from his head at her breasts.
    Oh, my God, is all she can think.
    His fingers leave her and he shifts her hips closer. She can feel his shaft nudging her now, asking for entrance.
    “Keep watching, Guinevere,” he says quietly, lifting his head. “Watch as I enter you.”
    Dear God.
    She obediently watches the mirror as she drops her hips lower and takes him inside, the feeling of him sheathed within her familiar and exciting all at once. He shifts his hips and starts to move, holding her hips, helping her mover over him.
    Gwen is mesmerized, watching them in the glass. Her cinnamon skin has taken on a pinkish tinge, as if she is blushing all over. Her dark chocolate curls cascade down her back, over her shoulders, moving fluidly with their motions. Her breasts rise and fall, bouncing gently as she moves over him. Her long slender limbs, entwined with his, look graceful and sleek.
    “Oh, my God,” she breathes, watching him now, his skin glowing gold, shimmering slightly with sweat. His muscular torso taut and rippling, his biceps standing out from his arms as they work to help her move. His face, completely relaxed. Unguarded. Blissful.
    His masculinity is such a contrast to my femininity, she realizes, the last coherent thoughts she has. He is all hard muscle and sinew, and I am all soft curves and flowing lines.
    “Oh…” she gasps, Arthur’s mouth on her breast again, his hips moving faster, mais urgently. She is warm all over, spreading out from her center, threatening to overtake her.
    “Arthur… Oh!” she finally cries out, and moments later his whole body tenses around her, within her, and he releases into her with a massive groan.
    Gwen wraps her arms around him, holding him close, finally tearing her eyes from the mirror.
    “Holy shit,” she finally says.
    “Indeed,” he answers, still breathing heavily.
    They hold each other for what feels an eternity, tenderly stroking, softly kissing. Eventually they work their way into the bed, still clinging to each other.
    “Did you know that one of your boobs is slightly bigger than the other?” Arthur asks from the crook of her neck where his head is still resting.
    “Oof!” she exclaims, shoving at him. “Yes, but thank you for pointing it out,” she says, scowling. “And for your information, that is perfectly normal and quite common.”
    “Don’t get mad, Sweet, I was merely making an observation,” he says, curling up behind her now. “And you can only really tell if you hold them,” he purrs in her ear.
    “Shut up.” She is trying not to laugh now, hoping that he won’t notice this because her back is to him.
    “What’s the big deal, anyway?” he asks casually. “My balls are slightly different sizes, too, but you don’t see me getting all bent out of shape over it.”
    “Arthur!” Gwen shouts, and the laughter she has been holding in bursts forth in a great cascade.
    “I knew it,” he says, squeezing her tightly to him. “I knew you were laughing and I wasn’t going to rest until I heard it.”
    “Oh?”
    “You have a fantastic laugh. It’s a shame you can’t see that in the mirror.”

Part 44: link