Fallen General's Omega (BL)

Chapter 269 – Noelle POV

I feel heat pooling between my legs, thick and heavy, every nerve in my body burning with need. It’s overwhelming—this feeling of being bound by nothing, touched by everything. I’m trembling now, my breath shallow and unsteady, spine arched against the invisible pressure that pins me to the chair.

Thorne’s ability is cruel in the most delicious way.

I can’t move.

Can’t shift my hips, can’t press my thighs together, can’t reach for the places that are aching, soaked, begging.

And still—still—I feel him. His phantom touch.

Soft. Teasing.

Featherlight caresses that skim over my chest, never enough to satisfy, just enough to drive me out of my mind.

"Thorne, please," I gasp, my voice breaking with need.

He doesn’t respond with words.

He doesn’t have to.

He’s still seated a few paces away, the picture of smug composure, legs spread slightly apart, one elbow resting on the arm of his chair like a man watching art in motion.

His eyes burn.

The only part of him that betrays how much he wants this too.

And then I feel it again—that weightless, maddening touch gliding lower.

Sliding down the center of my chest, tracing each ridge of bone, brushing against already-peaked nipples with an infuriating gentleness that makes me bite my lip to hold back a whimper.

I can’t take it.

It’s not just the pleasure—it’s the anticipation. The knowledge that this man has complete control over my body, without laying a single hand on me. And Elaris’ please, I want his hands. I want all of him.

"Thorne," I pant, the plea sharper now, edged in desperation. "Do something."

He hums, amused, and leans forward just slightly. The air seems to hum around him with pressure.

"I am doing something," he says. "I’m watching."

That low, velvet voice sends another shiver down my spine, and my toes curl involuntarily.

Then, the invisible touch moves again—down, down—trailing over the slope of my stomach, slow as dripping honey, until it stops just above where I want it most.

And then it circles. Hovers.

My back arches without my permission, the robe completely fallen apart now, baring me entirely to his gaze. I’m exposed and restrained and wanton—and I don’t care.

His eyes darken as he watches me writhe, his lips parting just slightly.

I can see the tension in his hands now, where they grip the arms of his chair, knuckles white. He’s not unaffected.

Good.

Still, he doesn’t move.

Not a step.

But I see it. The twitch in his jaw. The subtle shift of his hips as he adjusts in his chair, trying—and failing—to find comfort. His arousal is unmistakable now, pressing hard against the front of his trousers.

He’s torturing us both, and for what?

The thrill of control? Of watching me fall apart?

I groan softly, breath hitching. "I’m going to die."

My legs twitch uselessly, the ghostlike pressure still holding me still. I try to grind down, even a little, to find some friction—but nothing gives. The chair refuses to budge under me, unmoving, unyielding, loyal to its master.

Thorne.

"No, you’re not," he says, voice far too composed for a man who looks like he’s seconds from snapping. His eyes trail down the length of me, darkening as they go.

Then—with a casual flick of two fingers—the chair jerks forward across the rug, until I’m directly in front of him, between his knees, so close I can smell the clean heat of him.

He leans in just enough to reach me, fingers curling into a few strands of my hair, lifting them to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to the ends. It’s stupidly tender, and it makes my chest tighten.

"I mean it," I breathe, voice low and sultry. "I’m aching. I need you."

He clenches his jaw.

Good.

I know that look. He’s about to snap.

"I need you to stop this and just shove—" I begin, but suddenly, mid-sentence, something invisible claps gently over my mouth.

Not hard—just firm enough to silence me.

My eyes flare with indignation, and I shoot him a glare.

Thorne, the bastard, only smirks.

"You won’t tempt me," he says, shaking his head like I’m a misbehaving pet.

His hand falls back to his thigh, fingers tapping once again.

But his knee is bouncing now.

His breathing’s off.

He’s unraveling too—just slower, deliberately. Because he’s in control. And he wants me to feel every maddening second of this.

And I do.

Every inch of my skin is lit with a low, thrumming heat—need pulsing like a second heartbeat between my legs. I can feel it now, that slick tension coiled at the base of my spine, demanding release.

But I can’t move.

I’m pinned there by his will alone, thighs parted, robe open, body exposed beneath the softest flickers of his power—his phantom touches dancing feather-light across my skin in the places I need him most, but never where I need him enough.

He watches me unravel like he’s watching a painting dry. Patient. Focused.

And still, he doesn’t touch me.

It’s maddening. Excruciating.

His power teases me—phantom strokes that skim down the line of my collarbone, trace along the arch of my hips, and dip low enough to make me gasp, only to vanish again before giving any relief.

He shifts in his seat, the leather groaning slightly beneath him. His legs are still spread wide, his knuckles resting on the arms of the chair, and his eyes...

Elaris’, his eyes.

They’re devouring me. Drinking in the sight of me undone, my robe fallen completely open, my chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

"I want to touch you," I say, hoarse with desperation.

"I know," he answers, calm and unhurried.

"Please," I beg.

"But I’m not done watching yet." He responds heartless.

I whimper. Actually whimper. And that only makes his smile grow.

It’s wicked.

And absolutely merciless.

His jaw tightens, just barely.

His fingers twitch against the armrest.

And I know he’s barely holding it together.

That knowledge doesn’t soothe me—it makes it worse. Because he wants me. I can see how badly he wants me. But he’s choosing not to move. Choosing to watch me squirm and beg like some twisted reward.