Page 82 of The General's Gift
“You did nothing wrong.”
He turned her hand, nosed her palm. Then, without warning, he took her forefinger into his mouth.
The suction was slow. Deep. Wicked. Her breath hitched.
“I just desire you too much.”
And in that bare, unsentimental declaration, she heard more poetry than in all the verses she had read.
Cradling her face, he kissed her until she was weightless. Until her spine met the mattress and he hovered above her, bracing his arms on either side.
Then he spread her knees apart until her legs bent wide around his hips. When his erection pressed against her sex, she cried out. The barrier frustrated and inflamed—she could feel his heat, his shape. But she wanted more.
Her breath hitched. “Alexander, I—”
“Shhh, Little Tulle. I will take care of you.”
He began to move—rolling his hips, thrusting against the slick ache between her thighs. It was midsummer chaos, sense turned into dream, and she never wanted to wake.
Panting, he pressed forward, and the sheer fabric shifted with him, dragging upward over her skin, pulling at her nipples. Itwas unbearable, uncanny, as if her whole body had been stitched into the veil and every stroke tugged her everywhere at once.
When she lifted her neck, her back arching on a silent sob, he pulled her up into a kiss. His tongue was hot inside her mouth, yet quenched a thirst she had no awareness of before.
With a groan, he pushed his full weight against her, his chest crushing her breasts. Sparks shot through her with every stroke, the barrier making her frantic, as if her body might tear itself apart for want of more.
She tore her mouth from his, a gasp ripping free, her head tipping back. "Please—I need you. Come inside me—"
He reared up suddenly, bracing on his knees, shifting closer. Celeste could not take her eyes from his thighs. Thick, powerful, corded from years astride a warhorse, they caged her in.
His brow was furrowed, his chest glistening as he gripped the hem of her camisole. Celeste held her breath, waiting. Cool air licked her legs as he tugged the cloth up.
"God, look at you," he ground out, his voice ragged, half a groan.
His expression was fierce, but his touch was reverent as he touched the curls atop her mound and then trailed lower, opening her to him. She tilted her hips, wanting more.
She watched how he moved, the veins straining in his neck, his steel-dark eyes locked on her. Hawk's lovemaking was intense—nothing like the tender idylls she had once imagined. She might bear the marks of it come morning, her skin chafed in places, but the thought thrilled her.
Then his finger slid through her folds, penetrating her. Her lashes fluttered, and she clutched the sheets, surrendering to the relentless rhythm of his hand.
He moved closer to her. She felt the brush of his erection sliding against her core. He circled her, the broad head draggingover her clit, then lower, gliding over the place where his finger still worked inside her. The contact tore a cry from her throat.
His fingers drove deep, filling her, while his erection pressed down from above, stroking in counterpoint. She writhed, pinned between the two, every nerve stretched to breaking, every breath fractured in her throat.
It was too soon. She wanted to wait until he joined her completely. But he whispered her name and moved with the slow insistence of tide against shore. Too much. Pleasure burst through her in a rush that felt like flight—wild, blinding, uncontained. Her body arched, thighs trembling in his hold. He steadied her, guiding her through the tremors, the swollen head of him tracing slow circles over her, spreading the wet heat of her release. It was almost enough to forget he was not inside her.
He stroked himself, fingers gripping the root of his erection—once, twice, and then he spilled, hot surges pouring against her sex. The shocking intimacy made her cry out. So this was Hawk's pleasure. Oh, he was magnificent. And she was the one who made him feel like this.
Panting, he stared at the pearly drops on her mound and belly. What was he thinking? He stroked his palm over his seed, smudging it on her swollen flesh. She was not sure if he meant to cleanse her or to rub his essence into her as proof she was his. She hoped it was the latter. She so wanted to feel his.
"Alexander?"
He didn't answer. His chest was rigid as he caressed her mound, trading blistering pleasure for comfort. Her muscles slowly unwound, her tremors easing. His palm came to rest fully against her sex, warm and heavy. She closed her eyes, shuddering with the last echoes of bliss.
Then he tugged her atop him, and they lay in silence, his breath still harsh, her skin damp and tingling under the clinging tulle.
His heartbeat was strong beneath her ear. Thousands of brides must have listened to their grooms' heartbeats before falling asleep. Did Juliet? After her secret marriage to Romeo? But this was not a wedding night, was it?
Celeste stared at the darkened beams above, her mind whirling. She was still clothed, her maidenhead unbroken. And yet… her body felt undone, as though she had been split wide open.
