Page 81 of The General's Gift
“I know there are more,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I want to see them all. All of you.”
“I’d rather you remember my strength than my wounds,” he said hoarsely. His gaze burned into hers, more piercing than the candlelight. “Tonight, let me be whole for you.”
He extinguished the flame with his fingers. Acrid smoke curled upward, and the scars vanished. Only the hearth-fire remained, painting him not in harsh truth but in a golden glow—like a hero lit for the stage.
A play. He had drawn the curtain, chosen the role he wished her to see. Whole, unbroken, untouchable. And though her heart longed for the man beneath, she yielded to the illusion, because she would rather have the fiction than nothing at all.
Her fingers rose to the bows of her camisole. If he would not bare his wounds, then she would bare herself to him.
He caught her wrist. “The tulle stays on. A barrier to remind me of the line I must not cross.”
He wanted a veil between them. This was just a play.
Still, it didn’t feel like a play when he kissed her lips, entwined his hands in her hair, or lowered her slowly back on the pillows, as if she were made of something breakable.
The sheer cloth skimmed her breasts, her belly, her thighs. She felt more naked for it. His gaze darkened, and her nipples pebbled beneath the cloth.
Then he bent, and his mouth found her breast. His breath dampened the gauze, making it cling to her skin, and when his tongue pressed, the wet heat seeped through until she gasped, clutching his shoulders.
He dragged his lips across her stomach. She trembled, a moan slipping free. He lingered at her navel, his growl vibrating into her flesh.
And then lower still.
Her thighs quaked as he pressed his mouth over her sex, his tongue pressing, stroking. Her hips lifted off the bed, and a strange sound escaped her throat. The fabric was a veil and a promise, a denial and an invitation.
And she simmered beneath it.
“Alexander,” she gasped, her voice breaking on his name.
He rose above her in the dim light and unfastened his trousers.
Celeste held her breath. After Papillon, that part had been the object of her fears—something beastly, mysterious, a man’s ultimate weapon.
When he stepped free of the garment, his erection curved up against his abdomen.
Despite every vow to be brave, her insides fluttered. That was a prop, she told herself, desperate for steadiness. Just another object meant to dazzle an audience.
His eyes softened. “I would sooner face the firing squad than hurt you.”
Her lip trembled, and she nodded, throat too tight to speak.
He took her hand and wrapped her fingers around him. “Like this. Slow. Firm. That’s it.”
Tentatively, she traced the subtle ridge, the velvet crown. It pulsed with life. She moved hesitantly at first, then bolder as he groaned, his hips flexing. That she could make this fierce man shudder… She, who had once feared her own shadow.
He twitched in her palm, and she realized with a rush of wonder that she was holding the general’s most dangerous weapon—and she was doing it right. Who knew she had it in her?
Her hand glided with a reverence that surprised her—awe not only for the general laid bare before her, but for the womanshe became by reaching for him. His breath deepened, and she glanced at his face—his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched, every muscle drawn taut as if he braced against a storm. A groan ripped out of him, and the sound cut through her.
Oh God. She had hurt him.
Guilt spiked in her chest, and she bent, lips trembling as she pressed them gently to the flushed crown, to kiss away the ache.
He shuddered violently, his entire body jerking beneath her.
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. “Celeste—don’t. Your pretend wedding night will be cut short.”
Her mouth parted. “Oh, forgive me, I—I felt that I—”
