Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 247: My shirt

Noelle’s POV

The crisp sweetness of the watermelon melts on my tongue as I sit comfortably on the plush cushions of our room. The scent of salt lingers in the air, mixing with the faint fragrance of the oils(thanks to me, I’m not having him look 70 at 50) Thorne uses after his bath.

The door creaks open, and in he walks.

Naked.

I take another slow bite of the watermelon, chewing thoughtfully as my gaze drags over him.

He’s so handsome. Strong. Tall. Every muscle on his body carved by battle, honed by war. His skin glistens slightly, droplets of water still trailing down his chest as he dries himself with a cloth.

The scar on his leg—the only visible remnant of a wound from long ago—doesn’t take anything away from him. If anything, it adds to him, a mark of survival, of strength.

And he’s mine.

So, let me stare. Let me ogle. Let me appreciate every inch of my husband in all his unbothered, half-dressed glory.

But something is missing.

He hasn’t touched me in a while.

It’s getting to me.

I try to ignore it, but I can’t. I still have my needs, and right now, they are very much not being met.

I watch as he reaches for a pair of loose slacks—something he never used to wear in our room.

A new thing.

All because one memorable night, Mirelle had burst in unexpectedly, her little feet pattering against the wooden floor before we had even realized what was happening.

I had barely managed to shield her eyes, pretending it was a fun game while Thorne scrambled to throw on pants. He, in turn, had tossed a blanket over me, both of us exchanging silent oh shit looks while trying not to panic.

It was...mortifying.

And since then?

No more sleeping naked. No more skin-to-skin warmth that lasted all night. No more waking up tangled together, with his hands heavy on my waist and his lips on my shoulder.

I miss it.

I miss him.

Thorne, seemingly unaware of the battle happening inside me, finishes tying the drawstring of his slacks and glances at me.

He pauses.

.

His sharp blue eyes narrow slightly, studying me, like I’ve done something suspicious. I simply sit there, relaxed, cross-legged on the plush cushions, enjoying my watermelon in one of his oversized shirts—the only thing that still fits me comfortably these days.

What’s so suspicious about that?

His gaze lingers, assessing, before he finally speaks.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, voice laced with curiosity, but also... wariness.

I blink at him innocently. "What?"

His expression doesn’t change.

"Your pheromones have been gradually increasing."

Oh.

Have they?

I hadn’t noticed, but now that he says it...

There’s a faint hum in the air, a subtle pull, something that makes the space between us feel charged in a way it hasn’t in a while.

I take another bite of watermelon, letting the cool sweetness linger on my tongue.

Slowly, I place the rind aside, wiping my fingers clean before meeting his gaze again.

He’s still watching me.

I hum thoughtfully.

"Well," I say, tilting my head slightly, pretending to consider his words.

"I don’t know... maybe I’m just in a good mood."

His eyes flicker with something unreadable.

"A good mood?" he repeats, tone skeptical.

I nod, shifting slightly on the cushions, letting the oversized fabric of his shirt fall just a little off my shoulder.

Thorne’s jaw tightens.

Interesting.

I stretch my arms above my head, feigning nonchalance. "Or maybe... it’s because I’ve been neglected lately."

His brows lift, but the way his throat bobs slightly gives him away.

I smirk.

He knows exactly what I mean.

Thorne’s gaze darkens, something flickering behind his blue eyes—a shift, a realization.

"Neglected?" he murmurs, his voice low, almost dangerous.

He turns slowly, walking to the door, locking it with deliberate ease.

The air changes.

It thickens, charged with something unspoken, something heavy. My heartbeat picks up, anticipation curling through my veins like slow-burning fire.

I meet his gaze, holding it, refusing to look away.

He’s already hunting.

"We can’t have that now, can we?" he says, his tone smooth, deceptively calm.

His strides toward me are slow, purposeful, like a predator closing in on its prey.

My body reacts before my mind can fully process it—heat pooling in my stomach, my breath catching just slightly as his presence overtakes every inch of the room.

"I made it my life’s goal to ensure my mate is always satisfied and happy," Thorne continues, his voice like velvet and steel, sinking into my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

"So let’s change that."

And then he’s in front of me.

One of his hands cups the back of my neck, his fingers pressing firmly into my skin—warm, grounding, possessive.

Then—

He kisses me.

Hard. Deep. Desperate.

I gasp against his lips, my fingers instinctively clutching at his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. As if he wasn’t already the only thing in my world.

Thorne’s hands move to unbutton the oversized shirt I’m wearing, his touch gentle but purposeful.

I stop him.

He pulls away immediately, confused, his blue eyes searching mine for an answer.

I feel ashamed for leading him on, for pulling him in, only to stop. But—

I don’t understand it either.

His fingers brush against my cheek, warm and reassuring, his expression softening as he speaks.

"It’s okay if you don’t want to do this anymore," he says.

No. That’s not it.

"I do," I whisper quickly. "I just... I don’t feel comfortable being naked."

The words come out awkwardly, uncertain—because why?

He bathes me, takes care of me, worships me—yet suddenly, the idea of being bare before him feels different, like something I can’t explain.

Thorne nods, understanding without question.

"Okay." His voice is firm, unwavering.

His lips twitch into a smirk, eyes flickering with something playful. "The shirt stays on, then. You won’t hear me complaining about my husband wearing my shirt. In fact, this is extremely sexy."

I blink. "Really?" I ask in a small voice.

"Yes, really," he assures me, a deep rumble of amusement in his tone. "Now allow me to satisfy you."

Without hesitation, he picks me up, carrying me to the bed with ease. My stomach flutters, heat rising up my neck as he lays me down, his fingers tugging off my underwear in one smooth motion.

He leans back, resting against the pillows, waiting.

I take it as a silent invitation.

So he wants head, then? I move toward his slacks, hands slipping to undo them—

"Nope. Up here."

Thorne’s deep voice stops me before I can go any further, his large hand motioning toward his face.

I pause, blinking.

"What?"

His smirk widens, eyes dark and intense as he pulls me forward.

"I want you to sit on my face."

Wait.

My breath catches, heat spiking through my entire body.

He motions to the headboard. "Hold onto the wall."

What?

"Uhm, Thorne..." I start, but my voice betrays me, shaky, unsure.

Thorne’s fingers curl around my waist, guiding me closer.

His voice drops, low and commanding, leaving no room for argument.

"Noelle," he says, his eyes locking onto mine, daring me to refuse.

"I’m telling you to sit on my fucking face and hold onto the wall."