Page 54 of The General's Gift
“I’ll write a message to the steward now,” Hawk said, already turning toward the desk. “He needs to be informed of the delay.”
Prue was still under that desk, buried under an armful of scandalous books. And Hawk was about to walk right up to her. If he reached for the inkwell, he would see her.
Celeste shot forward and grabbed his hand. “No.”
Hawk lifted that ominous brow.
Oh dear, she had just physically restrained a battle-hardened general. Unable to retreat, she interlaced their fingers, the rough calluses of his palm rasping along her nerves like struck flint. It was a very impressive hand. Big. Warm. Strong. Entirely engulfing hers. Focus, Celeste!
She plastered on a smile, her grip firm as iron. “Please don’t cancel the outing.”
Beneath the desk, Prue watched with wide, shining eyes.
“Out,” Celeste mouthed.
But Prue only blinked.
Celeste widened her eyes, subtly jerking her head toward the exit.
Her grip tightened on Hawk’s hand as she hissed, “Out is what we must do.”
Hawk’s frown deepened. “Are you feeling lightheaded? You will lie down now.”
Prue scurried out from under the desk, tiptoeing in the most ungainly, unstable manner possible. Her arms were overloaded with literary sin. One slid precariously down her hip. She caught it with her elbow. Another started to fall, and she clamped it to her chest with her chin.
Celeste’s heartbeat lurched. Hawk bent as if to take her in his arms.
She loved being carried by him, his sheer power, and how he handled her, as if she weighed nothing. But if he took her to the couch, he would catch Prue in flagrante delicto.
Think. Move. Distract him. What would a heroine do?
Celeste rose onto her tiptoes, seized his face between her hands, and pressed her mouth to his. Her calves trembled with the stretch, his jaw rough under her palms, his lips shockingly firm.
He did not pull away. Instead, he caught her waist, anchoring her, his thumb brushing just beneath her ribs. The tender caress stole her breath, and she sagged against him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Prue reach the window. She then flung the books out with grim determination and, making the sign of the cross, dove out after them.
Giddy with relief, Celeste dared to taste her general—just the tip of her tongue along his lower lip. Salt. Heat.
He clamped her waist and yanked her closer, the sudden force stealing her balance. His tongue surged into her, and she yielded, opening for him, her calves trembling with the stretch.
He crushed her tight, her breasts flattening against the solid wall of his chest, until she felt the hard press on her belly. The shock of it shot through her, vivid, undeniable, like the picture she had glimpsed in the book—only alive, straining, his.
A gasp caught in her throat, her stomach flipping. Her skin burned where he touched her, her thighs softening, every nerve drawn to that single point of contact.
Hawk groaned. A deep, guttural sound, vibrating through his chest into her own. His hands tightened as if he would drag her closer—then he wrenched her away, holding her at arm’s length.
Her lips were wet, burning. Heat blasted through her face, her belly, everywhere. She must be overheating—or overawed. Or both.
His grip pressed into her flesh in a way that should have been cautionary, but sent delicious flutters cascading through her. “This is not acceptable behavior.”
If Hawk believed a kiss was unacceptable, what would he do if he discovered that Prue had taken a suicidal leap out the window after an entire library of…questionable reading material?
She swallowed. “I—I know.”
Their faces were still close. She drew in a shaky breath, her mind whirling. “It’s just—I—The lips cannot lie. If I had a fever,” she said, and her words came in a breathy rush. “My lips would be hot. Dry.”
With a curious courage she hadn’t known she possessed, she slipped her hand into his.
