Page 95 of The General's Gift
“I love you, too, Little Tulle. So much.”
“Then lay down your arms, and love me fully.”
His breath faltered. His fingers flexed on her thighs, the old instinct rising to hold the line, hold the ground, don’t give an inch.
He pushed them away. He had promised her tonight. Tonight, he was hers.
He eased her down onto her side, keeping her wrapped in his arms, never leaving her body. He curled behind her, spooning her close, his face buried in her hair as he began to move again, each thrust a slow vow.
He hooked her leg over his, drawing deeper. The slide of her body against his was heat and silk and pulse. Each shift pressed her hips more firmly to his, and he felt the catch of her breath with every stroke. Her hair clung damply to his face. He rolled his hips, feeling her tighten and flutter around him, the rhythm a tide they rode together. There was no edge between them now,only the glide of skin and the soft sounds she made, fragile and devastating.
She guided his hand to her breast, arching into his touch. The curve filled his palm, and when he brushed his thumb across her nipple, she made a small sound that vibrated straight into his bones. Her back arched, pressing her closer, her heartbeat fluttering against his fingers like a trapped bird desperate for release. Murmuring praises, he kissed the salt at her throat and nipped her shoulder.
Pleasure coiled low in his spine until every thrust felt like it might tear him apart. The world narrowed to the slick heat around him, the rhythm they made together.
He held her tighter, rocked deeper, letting his release build with hers. Not conquering but joined. Not command but communion.
Her climax rippled through her, clutching him in pulses. Her spasms carried him with her, shouting her name as he thrust deep once more and pulled free with a shudder, spilling on the sheets.
Hawk collapsed against her, chest heaving, his face buried in the curve of her neck. He had conquered cities. Breached fortresses. Led cavalry through blood and ruin. But this—her love—was the only conquest that had ever brought him peace instead of shame, the only one that did not hollow him, but filled every broken place, until at last he felt complete.
Celeste stirred against the steady rise of his chest, her cheek pressed to warmth, her body tangled in his. For one panicked instant, she feared she had overslept, that dawn had already stolen him away. His arm weighed heavily on her waist, pinning her close, and his scent wrapped around her like a blanket.
It was the nightingale, not the lark, that tweeted softly. Relief broke over her in a tide so fierce she almost wept.
The room was quiet but for the guttering of candle stubs and the faint rasp of their breaths mingling. Time felt fragile, balanced on the edge of silence.
Hawk was watching her with his gray eyes dark.
“Love me again.”
His hand slid between them and found her entrance. She flinched at the sting.
He drew back, voice rough. “You’ll be sore.”
“I don’t care. If you are inside me, dawn won’t break. Please.”
They lay side by side, the fire crackling low, shadows gilding the planes of his chest. Hawk caught her thigh and guided it overhis hip, easing her open. His erection nudged her belly as he shifted, then he reached down to angle himself at her entrance.
She dared a glance—and nearly forgot to breathe. He looked impossibly thick, impossibly long. How had he fit inside her?
Then he drove forward, the broad crown pushing at her folds. She felt the blunt intrusion, the catch of resistance, her body clenching tight around the first inch. A startled sound escaped her throat.
“Is it too much?” He rasped, his brow resting against hers.
She shook her head, gasping, and spread her knees wider, welcoming him. He groaned, pushing deeper. The stretch was fierce, filling every tender place inside until she thought she would burst. But beneath the ache came heat, a molten pull that made her arch into him, craving more.
When he was finally sheathed fully, she reveled in the rough cadence of his breath in her ear, the magnificence of a man who could have crushed her yet reined himself in for her alone. Then he moved. A long glide, retreating only to roll back into her with devastating patience. Her mouth fell open with a whimper. Every slow thrust pulled her tighter, wetter, the ache spreading until she felt full to the edge of breaking.
Her hands skimmed down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed and released. Daring lower, she cupped the taut swell of his buttocks. He clenched beneath her fingers, each thrust a rhythm that drove him deeper, wringing gasps from her lips.
It was only flesh and bone, muscle and breath. No different, in truth, from the movements she had studied all her life. A pas de deux of straining.
How could it be transcendent? This was the scene Shakespeare never set down—the breathless interval between kiss and curtain call, the secret act that turned comedies into miracles.
It was love.
The magic that turned thrust into poetry, straining limbs into music. Love was the midsummer enchantment that made flesh feel like flight and turned a cry into a sonnet.
