Page 46 of The General's Gift
He caressed her waist, his touch rough and tender, and when his thumb brushed against the underside of her breast, she wanted to surrender everything to him, her clothes, her will, her last breath. She reveled in the scrape of dark scruff against her skin, and the thunderous beat of his heart, so close she could swear it rattled through her ribs.
And the heat. God, the heat. Had she mentioned that? It poured from him, surrounded her, seeped into her bones like the midsummer sun that made lovers lose their minds.
She laced her hands around his neck, needing something to hold on to as her body bloomed under his touch. He was everywhere, in her mouth, in her heart, in her thoughts.
Could people kiss forever, sustained only by love and each other?
Abruptly, he tore himself away from her. Celeste blinked, and the harsh light of day hurt her eyes.
She held onto his lapels, and a sound of protest escaped her lips.
He shook his head, and his thumb brushed along her jaw. “This is wrong. I shouldn’t have—”
Pushing herself up, she kissed the corner of his lip.
He held her at arm’s length. His pupils were blown wide. Everything in her rebelled at the distance. Why did he have to deprive them of this and be his stoic, gorgeous, and totally uncooperative self?
“Celeste, you cannot kiss your fairy godfather,” he whispered, as if the words had battled their way out of his throat.
Her heart still pounded, and she desperately needed his lips onhersagain. She looked into his eyes, willing him to understand. “What if I don’t want you to be a godfather?”
His hands flexed around her waist for a second more, and he stood up. “Impossible.”
His voice carried a finality to rival that of the Last Judgment.
Celeste’s shoulders slumped, and she exhaled all the air in her lungs. The grass, which only moments ago had seemed like the softest bed of romance—fit for swooning heroines and stolen kisses—had become a damp, traitorous mess of mud and crushed leaves. Not at all the setting for an elegant love story, but rather the aftermath of a battle. A fitting stage for a war of hearts.
Celeste watched him go, her lips tingling from his kiss. His shoulders were stiff, his spine rigid, as if sheer discipline alone could keep him from turning back.
She pushed to her feet, stifling a groan against the pain in her side. If only she’d had the foresight to avoid leaping hedges before a love duel.
The waning sunlight cast hard shadows over his blue coat. With his broad shoulders and his scowling countenance, he was as approachable as a tempest. Crossing his arms, he gave her a new scowl, even fiercer than the one he reserved for when she vexed him.
It didn’t scare her. His frowns only made her want to go to him, smooth the lines of his brow, give his nose a kiss, and make him laugh.
And that’s when she knew… With the Kentish countryside, his stern epaulets, and his horse as witness, she had not one, but two epiphanies. Yes, he was her prince, and no, he would not make this easy for her. Still, for the first time in her life, she didn’t miss her friends’ opinions, did not need to test fate, did not need permission. She knew what she wanted. And what she wanted was him.
She watched him arrange the reins of his horse, the muscles flexing under his coat. If she pressed him too much, he would break. Her poor general… She moved closer and leaned her forehead against his back.
“I thought you wanted me to heal... Your kiss? It was a salve to my wound.”
She felt his sharp breath and how he stiffened even more.
“I’m glad.” He brushed past her, his hands curling into fists. “Because when your wound is healed, I’ll have to return to the front, and you will marry.”
Her breath hitched. Marry. Not him. Not her prince, but some faceless man who would never know her. His words landed like ice water on her skin, chilling the warmth of his kiss. He was the general who never surrendered… could such a man love her now, after he knew of Papillon? Pain bloomed in her chest, so strong it made her bow. Perhaps he would always see her as that frightened girl, trembling under another’s shadow.
Look how pitiful she was, about to lose the man she loved, and she had never even had the chance to fight for him. No wonder he couldn’t love her. Not cowardly Celeste. But he desired her, didn’t he? And that was a better start than many of her favorite heroines ever had.
Perhaps she could prove to him she was no longer Papillon. Yes! She would show him she could be woman enough to match the general who never surrendered.
Celeste sighed. “Well, to heal my wound, I might need a great deal more salve…”
Hawk kept his eyes on the winding path ahead, the steady rhythm of his stallion’s hooves the only sound in the dense hush of the forest. The air was damp with the scent of moss and rain-soaked earth, the shadows stretching long beneath the canopy. It was the fastest route home. That was the only reason he had chosen it.
Celeste’s warmth was a brand against his back, her arms curled lightly around his waist. She had kissed him, damn her, and now she was cool as if the moment hadn’t unraveled every thread of his discipline.
The faster he delivered the warm, infuriating, utterly tempting bundle behind him, the better. He exhaled sharply, urging the stallion forward.
