He forgets who she is, sometimes, because the world doesn’t know, because Morgana doesn’t know, because she sweeps through the citadel like the queen she should’ve been, stunning, radiant, just that bit of dangerous Uther has never been able to resist. It was easier when she was young, caught up in her grief, and he had a kingdom to control, a son to set on the path, but now she tilts her eyes to him when she’s at his side, angles her provocative body to its best advantage, teases him with every smile she bestows upon someone else.
Uther receives only a few, but always when he’s about to snap, a temporary balm to the pyre she’s created and continues to feed with every sway of her hips, cock of her brow.
She should be his. He craves it so. But he can’t—shouldn’t—can’t take that step, risk abomination and damning his soul even more than it already is.
His dreams are full of her, all taunting lips and malevolent eyes, pale skin awash in candlelight as her hair spills down her back when she peels her dress away. When he wakes, his hand goes immediately to his aching cock, pulling at its length while the phantom taste of her dissipates from his tongue. More often than not, he has to bite his cheek to keep from calling her name as he spills, but that yen is alleviated when he licks away the evidence of his release, imagining it’s at her request he does so.
During the day, however, he has to encourage her interest in others, pointing out particularly worthy feats by the knights, leaving her in the company of would-be suitors even when witnessing their awkward flirtations makes him want to run a sword through them. Morgana never complains. If anything, she seems to thrive on the admiration, preening for their pleasure.
None of this helps.
He watches under the guise of paternal concern, tracking the sway of her skirts when she strides away from wishing him good night after a particularly arduous banquet, but it’s when she reaches the doorway and pauses to cast a solitary glance over her shoulder that hones in on Uther that the seed is planted. He dismisses it almost immediately. She is still his daughter, and any touch, whether it avoids the threat of pregnancy or not, is forbidden.
His unconscious mind has other ideas. That night, his sleep is driven by the heat of her virgin ass, her cries of both pleasure and pain as she rides him with her hand buried in her pussy.
He has no need to touch himself when he wakes. His come is still warm, sticky against his stomach.
Facing her is impossible after the dream. He buries himself in work, declining to go down for meals, focusing on affairs of state rather than those of household. Arthur sends his manservant to check that he is all right, but the boy scurries away when Uther barks at him to leave him be. His thoughts refuse to focus, no matter how hard he tries.
The second knock on his door that evening tips his frustration further, and his teeth are clenched when he marches over to yank it open.
The question dies in his throat at the sight of Morgana standing there, her dressing robe pulled tight around her nightgown, bare feet stark against the stone. He’s suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance, especially when her gaze rakes down his untucked shirt before crawling its way back up.
“You didn’t come to supper,” she says, and it’s not so much concern that tinges her voice but accusation.
Uther bristles and pulls himself straighter. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I had work to do.”
Her brow arches at his staunch tone, and the gleam in her eyes is pure challenge. Before he can stop her (does he want to?), she glides past him, into his chambers, no looking back as if this was her room, not his. “I was worried about you.”
As much as he’d like to believe otherwise, he can’t quite when the set of her shoulders is so defiant. “As you can see, I’m fine.”
She’s deeper into the room now, rounding the corner of his bed, long fingers trailing along the post. He has to follow her in if he wishes to keep an eye on her. Shutting the door is habit, or at least, that’s what he tells himself when he hears it shut behind him.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asks.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her hand tightens around the sleek wood for a moment, long enough for him to see the way she drags her palm down its surface several inches before letting it go. “Perhaps it’s my imagination.”
A few more feet, and then he has to stop, transfixed by the sight of her. The candles on his desk lick light across the floor, turning her gown to gossamer. Through the fabric, the arch of her back slopes down to the taut curve of her buttocks, revealing more than he is sure she intends.
At least, that’s what he thinks until she cants a sly smile in his direction.
“Is it?” she asks, but he scarcely hears her query, his heart thudding dangerously while she slowly undoes her robe. It whispers to her feet, creating a line he should not cross. “Because it does have a tendency to wander off. I think of you, and scenarios play out in my head that frighten me.”
He nearly laughs. “Nothing frightens you, Morgana.”
“You think you know me so well?”
Before opening the door to her, he would’ve said yes, but here, now, he knows how wrong he truly is. “Go to bed,” he orders, because she needs to be gone, he needs the space to search for the self-control he seems to have misplaced.
Her smile widens. “I thought you’d never ask.”
The gown follows the robe, revealing curves more luscious than anything he’s fantasized. It makes no sound as it pools around her, but its strike is swift and deadly, cleaving through Uther’s resolve like it doesn’t even exist.
Perhaps it never has.
She gasps when he catches her about the waist, fingertips digging into her soft flesh as he yanks her away from the bedpost, but her arms lift and loop, around his neck like the noose she has always been. He catches her smug smile the moment before he seals his mouth over hers, and though he knows he should punish her for pushing him to this, her wicked bite at his lower lip erases any thought of doing so.
They’re both already damned anyway. Anything he might do would be inconsequential. And too late.
His hands slide down, around her ass, yanking her hard up against his body. She tries to lift a leg around his hip, but all it does is spread her wider for him, giving him space to dip his fingers between her cheeks, along the heated crease, over the tiny hole and farther, farther.
He sinks into wetness, so slick and plentiful he groans into the kiss.
Morgana laughs against his mouth. “You can’t be surprised.”
He is, though in hindsight, he sees why he shouldn’t be. But none of that matters right now, because his fingers are sticky with her desire, and the smell of her has him watering to taste. A step, two, and there’s the edge of his bed, high enough to set her down, push her back, behold the peaked tips of her nipples taunting him more. He bends his head and sucks the nearest into his mouth, teeth catching where she’s most sensitive, hard enough to draw another gasp, then harder just because he can.
His scalp prickles where her nails dig in and hold him close. Beneath his lips, her heart pounds its rhythm into him.
Neither of them let up, though he’d be disappointed in her if she did. His hands slide between her thighs, pushing her wider, thumbs catching her lips to stretch them as well, the flesh pulling and pulling to open for his touch.
Her head falls back, whimpered cries accompanying the grind of her hips. “Now,” she demands, as imperious as ever. “Damn it, Uther, stop playing.”
It’s finally enough to tear his mouth away, and his fingers still where he’s buried three inside her clenching channel. “Don’t think to order me around. This isn’t a game.”
She smirks, eyes glittering. “That’s all it’s ever been.”
“Oh, really?” Pulling his hand out, he doesn’t hesitate to trace lower, sinking his index finger past the tight ring of her ass. When her breath catches, he chuckles and pushes it deeper. “Was this one of the turns you envisioned?”
Her slight hesitation is all he needs to know he’s finally in control again, of her, of his desires. He could stop, should, really, because the point has been made, the dream has been given form, but he’s come this far, and she isn’t fighting him off. If anything, she tightens around him when he dares to withdraw.
“Patience,” he murmurs.
He lets her suck him back in, but only for a second, pulling out, pushing in, until her muscles are used to the invasion. Her breathing quickens when he adds another, and she falls back onto her elbows, breasts heaving, a temptation in their own right. More juices drip from her pussy. With other women, he’d take care to find extra oils to use, but not for Morgana. She wants this so badly, he only needs her arousal to ease his entry.
When he retreats, she growls in frustration. He steps beyond her reach, admonishing her with a click of his tongue. She freezes, watches as he strips out of his clothes, only to run her tongue along the edge of her teeth when his hard cock springs free.
“Later.” He means it. Once he’s satisfied his dreams, he’ll bend her to her knees and fuck her pretty mouth. He sincerely doubts he’d be the first to leave her lips swollen.
Morgana braces her heels against the edge of the bed when he approaches, but the angle doesn’t work yet. Uther grabs a pillow and slides it beneath her bottom, smiling as it tilts her upward.
“No.” She grasps his shaft and pulls him close, resting it between her folds until her juices coat him. “But it will be.”
He allows her the freedom to slick him up, though when he suspects she’ll take it further, he covers his hand with hers and angles his cock down. The blunt head nudges at her ass, the muscle resisting even when he pushes, but Morgana hooks her leg around him, successfully this time, and tenses, spurring him forward though her flesh isn’t quite ready.
It gives, eventually, stretching to accommodate him, and he shudders at the constriction, the heat nearly unbearable, more so than any dream he could have ever concocted. Where he would pause and give her time, however, she refuses, coaxing him deeper, in and in, her exhalation a soft keen that tumbles over his skin.
They both tremble when he’s completely sheathed. He wants time to adjust, to savor the sensations, but neither Morgana nor his traitorous flesh complies. Already, he is pulling out, stroking in, setting up the tempo, hard and slow, and if she protests, she gives no sign. If anything, she wants it faster, but this would be over far quicker than Uther desires. He isn’t about to sacrifice more than he already has to.
Morgana claws at his arms, trying to break their stiff balance, but Uther holds firm. His sole compromise is to drop a hand to her gleaming pussy, his thumb bruising across her clit. She bucks at the first pressure, and her ass clamps down. This is what ultimately drives him faster, thrusting past her resistance to maintain the friction he wants, craves, needs.
His thumb continues its assault, regardless of her whining and writhing. When she shatters, he silences her scream by clapping his free hand over her mouth, her hot breath fluttering across the back in synchrony with the rapid pulses rippling through every muscle she possesses.
Including those around his cock.
He breaks just moments later, slamming into her ass so violently his balls sting from the force. His body locks, trapped within the maelstrom his release has unleashed beneath his skin, incapable of anything but the jet after jet of hot come filling her ass. As it spreads over the head, down his shaft, it soothes his ragged nerve endings, piecing him back together a moment at a time.
When he’s gained control again, he pulls out a few inches, then plunges back in, groaning as the rest of his cock is coated. Morgana answers with a sigh of her own, and he obeys this time when she attempts to draw him down to her. Their kiss this time is tentative, nearly chaste, his desire to take care of her supplanting that for her body, albeit temporarily, he knows.
“Wait,” he says when he withdraws.
Her eyes search his. The pupils are blown. “For what?”
“So I can clean you.”
“No.” Her arms fold around his back, oddly strong in light of their weakness. “Leave it. I like the way it feels.”
In spite of everything, he smiles. Her response is perfect, better than he has ever conceived. She is his, after all, in every way that matters, any way that ever could. And though his claim on her might forever be hidden, there are ways to ensure he doesn’t have to abandon it entirely.
His gaze drops to her mouth. Ready. Ripe.
Many, many ways.
After all, a soul can only be damned once.