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He holds her pert waist as they twirl around the room together, to the sweet music, the sound of the alaúde entrances them.
The courtiers watch their King and his future queen glide across the floor of the Great Hall, dancing so expertly that they seem to be almost floating.
Guinevere looks up at her love, into his twinkling blue eyes; she can almost see her reflection in them. His lips are curled up at the corners, she knows he is happy because he is smiling, as she is. She is looking at his chiseled jaw, his full lips, his thickset neck. She loves what she sees and it makes her coração beat faster.
Only decorum stops him pulling her tighter to him. por the rise and fall of her bosom, he can tell she is breathing quickly, her nostrils flared with the excitement. He feels the same, excited, excited at having her in his arms.
He gazes down at her, with her beautiful long lashes fluttering each time his eyes meet hers. He can see a slight blush developing on her cheeks, he so loves when she blushes and lowers her lashes, makes him want to drink of her sweet lips. Her lips are slightly parted, her breath coming quickly with the rise and fall of her bosom.
The ball room candles are twinkling, throwing an uneven amber glow around the room, with shaded corners and pillars behind which apaixonados might steal a kiss.
Arthur and Gwen feel as if they are the only ones in the room, the música is muted in their ears, they can hear nothing but each other breathing rapidly. Arthur can see no one but Gwen and Gwen can see no one but Arthur; they are in their own little world, cocooned from all that is bad, as they mover softly to the music. They have no need for words, as their looks say it all.
He twirls her around, keeping hold of her fingertips, she giggles and her curls bounce around like a child’s, but she is no child, por God she is no child. A child cannot make his lips tingle and make him feel as if he has eaten the sweetest berries each time he has kissed her, a child cannot make his coração beat as if it will explode from his chest, a child cannot make his loins stir with each touch of her golden skin and each time he holds her tightly in his arms. He has to summon all his strength not to ravish her every time he holds her close. Her touch is like electric, the static makes him gasp but the pain is erotic, making him want her even more.
He is enjoying the torment of not being able to kiss her there and then, knowing that later, when they are alone, she will offer her lips to him and him alone. What sweet torment, torment that makes the pain pleasurable, with knowledge that there will be a great prize to be won… Guinevere, his Guinevere…
