Fallen General's Omega (BL)

Chapter 270 – Thorne POV

Okay. I did not think this through.

Not even a little.

I may have overestimated my self-control. Severely.

The sight before me is... inhumane. Cruel. Designed by some divine entity intent on testing the very limits of my sanity.

Noelle sits in the chair across from me—bare, bound by my will, breathless. The soft lamplight catches on the sheen of sweat at his collarbone, dances along the open curve of his robe, and pools in the hollow of his throat like a temptation carved by the gods themselves.

He’s flushed and panting, trembling under the ghost of my touch, legs spread just enough to make me question every decision that brought us to this moment—including the one where I thought I could draw this out.

My beloved is beautiful.

No—he’s the most beautiful.

Not in the gentle, untouchable way poets describe. Noelle’s beauty is the kind that leaves bruises. It’s sharp and impossible and real in a way that makes you want to kneel, not because you’re weak, but because how else does one respond to something this divine?

And when he’s like this—lost in the thrall of pleasure, head thrown back, lips parted in the softest of moans—he changes. No longer the elegant, sharp-tongued fairy meant to live in Elaris’ garden among flowers and sunlight. No.

He becomes something darker. Something ruinous.

A creature made to destroy men like me with a look. An incubus draped in moonlight, his power not in weapons but in every sigh, every arch of his back, every quiet, gasping plea that tumbles past his swollen lips.

He could drain me dry and I would thank him for it.

Worship him for it.

Hell, I already do.

I glance downward, jaw clenched.

I’m leaking. Through my trousers. My control, already frayed, is unraveling by the second. My entire body pulses with need. My skin is too tight. My thoughts are reduced to instinct, to need, to him.

Still, I don’t move.

His skin glows under the warm lamplight, dewy from heat, from want. His thighs are parted, trembling slightly, slick with need—and all because of me. Because I wanted to test the limits of control, and now I’m the one coming undone.

His nipples are hard, begging for my mouth, for my teeth. I want to lean forward. I want to bite. I want to ruin.

But I stay exactly where I am.

Because watching him unravel is a torment I don’t want to end just yet.

Because this is him—my star in his truest form. Wild, wanton, bathed in moonlight and maddened by pleasure. And I could give in. I could let go and press him down, bury myself in the way I ache to—

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I wait for him to break first.

And gods, he’s close.

"Please," he chokes out again, more breath than sound, eyes locking onto mine like he’s trying to drag me into the fire with him.

He doesn’t need to.

I’ve been burning since the second that robe slipped off his shoulder.

I adjust my position slightly, trying to ignore the pulse between my legs. My trousers are unbearable. Every shift sends a fresh surge of pain-pleasure through me, and I know—I know—if I touch him now, this entire game ends.

And then there’s him.

Noelle.

His legs trembling, thighs parted wide by my will alone, his lips parted in the softest of gasps, and those eyes—stars and fire and everything I’ve ever wanted—locked onto mine with such raw desperation, it makes my heart ache.

He is art.

Messy, undone, trembling art.

"My beloved star," I murmur, watching the heat flicker in his gaze, "what are you looking at?"

He swallows, eyes dropping, then lifting again, defiant even as his cheeks flush.

"Don’t be such a tease, Thorne. You need me as much as I need you. Don’t do this to us."

I lean back slightly, letting the light from the lamp frame him, cast gold across the line of his throat, the sharp curve of his collarbone, the way his robe hangs open like a promise barely kept.

"I do need you," I say, and it’s true. My body sings for him. But this—this moment—I want it burned into memory. I want to see him like this forever.

"But I want more than your body. I want your surrender."

He blinks, surprised.

"I want you begging," I say lowly, "so desperate, you feel like you’re standing on the edge of madness—and the only thing that can pull you back is me."

A shiver runs through him. He looks wrecked. Beautifully, achingly wrecked. And yet his spine is straight, his jaw set. He hasn’t broken yet. Not fully.

"But since you’re so frustrated," I murmur, my voice low, indulgent, "let’s take the edge off."

And with a thought—just a flicker of intention—my power obeys.

The phantom touch brushes over his arousal, feather-light at first, then firmer, teasing, coaxing. His back arches immediately, his breath catching in his throat like he’s been struck by lightning and pleasure all at once.

He whimpers—sharp, high, helpless.

And then he breaks.

It crashes through him like a wave, his body trembling, fingers clutching the arms of the chair as he spills across his own chest, the release raw, uncontrollable.

I inhale sharply, watching every second.

The glow in his eyes flickers, dazed and unfocused, lips parted in the aftermath. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths, glistening with sweat and—well.

My jaw tightens.

He’s perfect like this. Flushed, messy, undone. And mine.

I move closer, slowly, hands curling around the arms of the chair, caging him in without touching.

"Wow," I say quietly, voice heavy with reverence, teasing just under the surface.

He can’t speak yet. He just stares at me, eyes still hazy, mouth working around words that haven’t found shape yet.

I lean in, brushing my nose against his cheek, my lips just beside his ear.

"And that," I whisper, "was just the beginning."