Chapter 51
The fire crackled low, casting a restless glow over the chamber.
Hawk paced between the hearth and the bed.
He could marshal an army with less mental preparation.
She was so young. What if his experience swallowed hers whole before she had the chance to explore her own?
On the eve of his departure, he had been too rough.
He had demanded too much of her, driven by the ache of leaving her, but now, he had to go slow.
A discreet clearing of the throat cut through his thoughts.
“Sir,” Graves began, tone clipped and formal, “with respect, it is my duty to inform you that wedding nights are… not unlike a reconnaissance mission. You will encounter unfamiliar terrain. Best to proceed slowly, observe your surroundings, and avoid… overwhelming the objective. Also, your… um… saber, sir—best not to brandish it too early.”
Hawk swung toward him, aghast. “Do you believe I am a green lad needing bedside instructions?”
Graves lifted his hands as if warding off artillery fire.
“I would never presume to instruct you, sir. Only Mrs. Graves insisted—well, ordered—me to pass on her thoughts. She said, and I quote, ‘Tell him not to be all brass and bluster—ease her into it, warm her up.’ I have no idea what that means in this context, sir.”
Hawk’s growl rumbled low in his chest. He strode to the door and yanked it open. “Out.”
“Sir, the key is communication. And, ah… hand placement. And breathing. And, er… tempo. It’s rather like dancing, I’m told. Not that I… dance,” he said, a fiery blush rising up to his temples.
Before Hawk could herd him out, the connecting door to Celeste’s chamber creaked open.
Miss Templeton appeared, hands clasped as if she were delivering a condemned soul to the gallows. “The bride is ready for the sacrifice.” She coughed delicately into her gloved hand. “I mean—the groom.”
Hawk closed his eyes, asking for deliverance.
She stepped further in, eyes shining with the zeal of the sanctified.
“Before you commit the final act, my lord, I feel compelled to warn you—do not allow the siren’s allure to tempt you into undue…
enthusiasm. Many a man has fallen to ruin by forgetting to pace himself in the raptures of the flesh.
Think of your… stamina. Think of her eternal soul. ”
“I will… bear it in mind,” Hawk managed.
The maid lowered her voice to a scandalous whisper that carried all the same. “And should the moment overcome you, do remember, gentleness is a mercy, but firmness is a blessing. And always… always keep your hips aligned. The Holy Spirit appreciates symmetry.”
Graves coughed into his fist. “Sound tactical advice, that.”
Hawk pointed to the hallway without opening his eyes. “Out. Both of you.”
They retreated, muttering in agreement about “tempo” and “hip alignment,” leaving Hawk alone with the crackling fire, the echo of their counsel, and the certainty that nothing—not even Military School—had prepared him for the overzealous bunch.
Hawk knew how to handle his bride, damn them all. He would touch her as though she were spun from the thinnest silk. Let her set the pace. Let her explore. The thought steadied him, softening the coil in his chest.
Enough waiting.
He strode to the connecting door, hand firm on the latch, anticipation humming in his veins.
The second he stepped into her chamber, Othello shot from the shadows, teeth bared. Hawk staggered back a pace before the beast latched onto his boot.
“Othello—off!” Hawk barked.
The poodle only redoubled his assault, shaking his jaws as if dislodging a Frenchman from a trench.
A silvery laugh, impossibly dear to him, spilled into the air.
Hawk twisted, trying to free his leg, but Othello abandoned the boot in favor of his calf. Hawk swore under his breath. He was at the point of throwing the beast out of the window when the dog released him at last and dove under the bed in triumph.
Hawk stood in the sudden quiet, breathing hard, his dignity listing like the French fleet after Trafalgar.
Her voice floated from the shadows by the fire, warm with mischief. “I told you Othello was jealous.”
Hawk glared at the dog, then at her. “Does this mean I’ll have to fight your poodle every night just to get into bed with my wife?”
She tilted her head, lips curving. “Well… yes. Unless you want to fight your wife to get into bed with my poodle.”
It was so absurd, so utterly Celeste, that laughter broke out of him before he could stop it. The sound startled even him. It was a new thing, these frequent laughs. But he dared say he would enjoy it.
“Are you terribly hurt?” She asked, eyes dancing. “If you limp to the bed, I promise to be gentle.”
He straightened and then—God help him—he really saw her. The tulle illusion of her camisole clung to her like a whisper.
Tulle. Once, he had called it folly. But now, seeing her skirts billow like a cloud of light, he knew better. The tulle was her—laughter spun to fabric, defiance stitched in threads, dreams given form.
If his life had been iron and smoke, then hers was tulle, and he wanted to live wrapped in it.
Over the camisole, she wore his coat from the 13th.
He touched a brass button. “Why are you wearing the uniform now?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Because love is a battle, my lord… and I am armed for the sweetest war.”
The colorless world he’d carried since Spain dissolved under the blush in her cheeks, the glint of copper in her hair, the exact shade of her eyes—eyes that had always held a promise.
And that promise, at last, was his.
She touched his cheek. “Are you nervous, Alexander?”
His mouth curved. “Should I be?”
She went on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Afraid I won’t be gentle with you?”
The words sent a jolt through him, and he gripped her forearms. “Celeste, I vow to go slow—”
She smiled like she already knew he’d surrender. “And I vow that I have no intention of letting you breathe.”
Pressing her mouth hard against his, she nipped his lower lip. The sting jolted him, and his groan swallowed her laugh.
He tried to keep the kiss measured, but she twined her arms around his neck. He lost the rhythm he had planned. Heat surged as he crushed her to him.
Her tulle brushed against his trousers, reminding him of everything still between them. He wanted her stripped bare, with nothing but her skin and his.
She tugged at the shirt, laughing into the kiss.
He should have been the one undressing her, but she tore at him like she meant to unmake the general and keep only the man.
Brass buttons clinked to the floor as she peeled the coat from her shoulders, and the tulle beneath seemed to rise like smoke around her.
He steadied her with his hands at her waist. But she stood in nothing but that gauzy fabric, half chaos, half angel, daring him to look, daring him to touch.
He lowered her onto the bed, his mouth trailing fire from her collarbone to the hollow between her breasts. He lingered there, tongue circling, lips tugging until she arched up with a gasp. Her skin was salt and silk as he traced the curve of her waist.
She caught his wrist, guiding him past the softness of her belly to the heat waiting beneath the downy hair above her mound.
“I am your wife,” she said, voice breaking into a breathless laugh. “Not a crystal relic.”
The audacity scorched him.
He captured her wrists and pressed them into the pillows, lowering his weight until her laughter faltered into a gasp.
Her thighs parted for him, soft heat cradling his hips, and every nerve in his body screamed to drive forward.
He dragged his length along her slickness once, twice, torturing them both, then pushed inside with a slow, conquering thrust.
She squeezed her eyes shut, head tipping back into the pillows. Hawk froze. He hadn’t given her enough time. God, had he hurt her? Sweat burned down his temple as every muscle locked against the urge to move.
“Be brave for me, Celeste,” he rasped, lowering his mouth to hers.
He kissed her slowly and then pulled away.
Her eyes gleamed with mischief, her lips curving, though she trembled around him. “I have been reading,” she whispered, breath hitching as he began a careful pace, thrusting in and out of her. “There are some very interesting positions at The Merchant of Venus.”
His cock twitched inside her. “Yes?”
“Indeed,” she moaned, rolling her hips against him, drawing another groan. “I saw pictures. And in them… the woman does not always stay below.”
Before he could draw breath, she planted her palms on his chest and shoved. In a fluid motion, she rolled him onto the mattress and straddled him.
Pinned beneath her, he could only watch as she took him.
Her hair tumbled in wild ribbons around her face, her chest rising, swaying, as she sank onto him in one long, merciless glide. Her heat clutched him so tight he nearly shouted.
He cupped the soft weight of her breasts, thumbing the hard peaks, but when her body began to move in a circling grind, Hawk’s head dropped back into the pillows, his lungs dragging air like a man drowning.
He gripped her waist, meaning to slow her, to regain command, but she only pressed him deeper, the ballerina strength in her thighs holding him fast.
“Celeste,” he groaned, the word half prayer, half plea.
She leaned forward, the copper spill of her hair brushing his chest, tickling sweat-slick skin. He reached for her, but she caught his wrists, pressing them hard into the mattress above his head.
Her lips hovered just above his, her eyes blazing with triumph and hunger. “Be brave for me, Alexander.”
The words gutted him. A man who had commanded armies, who had never yielded, found himself helpless beneath her—undone by the strength in her body, the fierceness in her love. He groaned, thrusting upward, giving her all he had, all he was.
Her moan shuddered into his mouth as she kissed him fiercely, riding him with a rhythm that stole his breath. He bucked to meet her, every clash of their bodies a surrender disguised as battle.
Sighing, she clamped around him. He felt it surge through her—the quake starting in her thighs, rising like a charge up the length of her spine, seizing her whole. She flung her head back, hair snapping wild, and came with a cry that cut straight through him.
The force of her release pulled him under. He drove up into her, once, twice—then gave way with a roar. Heat tore from him in waves, unstoppable, burning through muscle and marrow until he thought he might not survive the rapture.
She collapsed onto his chest, laughter spilling into his mouth even as her body still gripped him. He locked his arms around her, buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her ear.
So this was bravery—laying down every weapon, every wall, and finding life in her victory.
Her voice came softly, drowsily against his ear. “And so the curtain falls on this play, but rises on our new life, my love, an act with no end.”
He kissed her temple, pulling her close, then pinning her cold feet between his calves. “No end,” he vowed.
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