The General

Chapter 16

​The air in the room was thick, charged with the scent of dried lavender and the sudden, sharp musk of desire. Briar’s fingers were trembling, but her intent was unwavering as she fumbled with the buttons of Victor’s charcoal shirt. Each one that slipped free revealed another inch of the man behind the rank- the hard, corded muscle of his abdomen, the golden-tan skin that spoke of harsh suns and endless days.

​Victor let out a low, rough growl, his patience fraying. He sat up just long enough to shrug the shirt off, tossing it into the shadows where it landed with a soft thud. In the moonlight, his chest was a map of his history. Intricate black ink swirled across his pectorals and down his ribs, thorns and ancient symbols that seemed to pulse with every ragged breath he took. He loomed over her again, his presence twice as large now that the fabric was gone, his heat radiating off him like a furnace.

​His hands, large and rough with the callouses of a soldier, slid beneath the hem of her pink silk dress. The sensation of his palms against her thighs made Briar’s toes curl into the quilt. He lifted the fabric slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers as he pulled the dress over her head. Briar raised her arms, helping him discard the silk until she was left in nothing but the silver light.

​Her hands didn't stay idle. They shot out to his waist, her fingers finding the heavy leather of his belt. She felt the frantic beat of her own heart against her ribs as she fiddled with the buckle, her coordination hindered by the lingering tequila and the sheer intensity of his gaze.

​Victor’s head dipped, his lips finding the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder. He didn't just kiss her; he nipped at the skin, his teeth grazing her in a way that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to her core. Goosebumps erupted across her skin, and a low, broken moan escaped her lips.

​"We need to be quiet," she whispered breathlessly against the crown of his head, her fingers finally winning the battle with the leather and snaking the belt out of its loops. "My mother... she’s right down the hall."

​"Okay," Victor murmured, his voice a vibration against her skin that made her ache.

​He moved with a sudden, fluid efficiency. His pants hit the floor, and when he returned to her, the sheer power of his naked frame made Briar’s breath catch. He was all hard edges and solid bone, a contrast to her softness that felt like a physical revelation. Briar reached for him, pulling him back down into the sanctuary of her arms, their lips meeting in a kiss that tasted of salt, sweat, and a eight years of suppressed longing.

​Briar parted her legs, the movement instinctive and eager, wrapping them tightly around Victor’s waist. She could feel the heavy, thrumming weight of him pressing against her, the anticipation so sharp it was almost painful.

​"I want you, Victor," she murmured against his mouth, her voice a velvet plea. "Now. Please."

​Victor didn't rush. He centered himself between her thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of her head. He moved slowly, pushing himself into her with a deliberate, agonizing slowness that forced Briar to feel every agonizing inch of the union. Her eyes rolled back, her spine arching off the mattress as she was filled by him.

​"Victor," she moaned, the sound muffled by the crook of her elbow as she tried to keep her voice down.

​Victor stilled, buried deep inside her. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, his body trembling with the effort of not losing control.

"Briar," he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. "I missed this. You feel like heaven. Like something I don't deserve."

​The vulnerability in his voice pierced through the fog of her pleasure. Briar tightened her hold on him, her fingers tracing the ink on his back.

"When was the last time you touched a woman?" she whispered, the question sudden and sharp in the quiet room.

​"Eight years," he murmured into her skin.

​Briar’s heart broke and soared all at once. Eight years of cold beds and iron discipline. Eight years of being the General and never the man. She pulled his head up, forcing him to look at her.

"Well, get your fill for the next eight," she whispered, her eyes fierce.

​He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and then he began to move. He was careful, his movements methodical and slow, mindful of the old wooden bed frame and the thin walls of the Smith house. But the rhythm was relentless. Every time he withdrew, Briar felt the loss; every time he returned, she felt a soul-deep completion.

​Victor’s hand traveled up her body, his palm hot against the curve of her hip before gliding over her waist and ribs. He reached the crook of her neck, his thumb coming up to trace the trembling line of her jaw. His eyes were dark, the blue of them eclipsed by pupils blown wide with lust, but underneath the heat, Briar saw a emotion she couldn't quite name.

​"You’re dangerous," he rumbled, his voice a low, hushed growl as his thrusts grew deeper, more insistent.

​"Am I?" Briar asked, her breath hitching as the tension in her lower belly began to coil into a tight, shimmering knot. "How so?"

​"You broke eight years of solitude that many have tried to breach," he said, his breath hot against her ear. "I built walls. I had a fortress. And you just... walked through the front door with a tray of fudge and a smile."

​The honesty of it made Briar’s eyes sting. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their hearts beat against each other. "I didn't walk in, Victor. You let me in."

​Victor’s pace shifted. The methodical rhythm became jagged, more desperate. He was no longer the General commanding a field; he was a man losing a battle he no longer wanted to win. He buried himself in her with a force that made the headboard groan, his hands gripping her hips to anchor them both as the world began to dissolve into white light.

​"Briar," he gasped, his voice breaking.

​"Stay with me," she urged, her voice a strained whisper as she felt her own climax rushing toward her like a freight train. "Don't go away in your head. Stay right here."

​"I'm here," he promised, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat. "I'm not going anywhere."

​The air in the room seemed to thin, oxygen replaced by the sheer, electric friction of their bodies. Every muscle in Victor’s back was corded like steel cables, his skin slick against her palms as the pace reached a fever pitch. Briar’s head thrashed against the pillow, her fingers digging into the ink on his shoulders, her world narrowing down to the rhythmic, powerful surge of the man above her.

​She felt it then- a sudden, violent tightening deep within her, a crescendo that made her breath hitch and her eyes fly open. The white light was blinding, a shattering of sense and sound that left her trembling.

​"Victor," she choked out, her voice a broken thread of sound.

​He heard the change in her. He felt the frantic, rhythmic pulse of her release, and it was the final blow to his iron-clad restraint. His jaw locked, a guttural, primal sound vibrating in his chest. With a sudden, explosive burst of movement, he gripped her hips, his knuckles white against her skin.

​True to the promise whispered in the dark, Victor wrenched himself back just as the dam finally broke.

​He collapsed beside her, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon through the desert. The silence of the room rushed back in, heavy and thick, broken only by the sound of their ragged, synchronized breathing. The moonlight continued its slow trek across the floorboards, indifferent to the storm that had just passed.

​Briar lay still for a long moment, her body buzzing with the aftershocks of the climax. She felt raw, exposed, and more alive than she had in years. Slowly, she turned her head toward him. Victor was staring at the ceiling, his arm flung over his eyes, his vast chest still rising and falling in deep, labored breaths.

​"Victor?" she whispered, her voice reaching out through the dark.

​He didn't move for a heartbeat. Then, he let his arm fall, turning his head to look at her. The predatory intensity was gone, replaced by a look of profound, quiet exhaustion. He reached out, his large hand finding hers on the quilt. He didn't just hold it; he squeezed it, his thumb grazing her knuckles.

​"I'm here," he rumbled, his voice gravelly and low.

​He shifted, pulling her into the curve of his side. Briar didn't hesitate, tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder, her hand resting over the frantic beat of his heart. The scent of him- sandalwood, salt, and something uniquely him; was a sanctuary.

​"Eight years," Briar whispered against his skin, the reality of it finally sinking in. "I can't believe you waited that long."

​"I told you," Victor said, his voice a low vibration in his chest. "I didn't wait. I just didn't see anything worth breaking the silence for. Until I came home."

​"I'm not 'home' yet," she reminded him gently, her fingers tracing the thorns tattooed on his ribs. "I'm just a baker in a small town."

​Victor turned his head, his lips pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to the top of her head. "In my world, Briar, home isn't a place. It's the person who makes the war stop."

​The weight of his words settled over her, more binding than any formal promise. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of him pull her toward a deep, dreamless sleep.

​Victor watched her until her breathing went shallow and even. He didn't sleep. He couldn't. He stayed awake, guarding the woman who had breached his walls, wondering how he was ever going to find the strength to walk out her front door when the six weeks were up. But for tonight, the General was silent, and the man was finally, for the first time in nearly a decade, at rest.