Page 24 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Twenty-One

Malerick

My fingers tighten into fists before I’ve even made the choice. I grab the front of his shirt, bunch the fabric in both hands, and shove him back—hard—until his spine hits the wall with a solid thud.

His hands are on my hips, yanking me close, grinding our bodies together until I can feel the full press of him. He’s hard. Hot. Everything I’ve tried not to want.

“You feel that?” he growls into my mouth. “You’ve been in my fucking head for years.”

I grab him by the jaw, rough, dragging his mouth back to mine before he can say more. He tastes like wine and fury and something I’ve been starving for. My other hand slides under his shirt—over solid abs, tense muscles, scars I remember too well—and then I shove the fabric up and off.

His shirt hits the floor.

I don’t wait.

I push him harder against the wall, drop to my knees, and start unbuckling his belt.

“You sure?” he pants, hands braced above him, trying to catch his breath.

I look up, breath ragged, fingers tugging open his jeans.

“You want me to stop?”

His breath stutters. “No.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

He barely gets another inhale before I work the buckle open, metal clinking like a countdown. I pop the button on his jeans, drag the zipper down slowly—just to watch him squirm—and slide my hand in.

He’s already hard.

Goddamn.

I grip him through his briefs—thick, hot, straining—and he jerks under my touch like he wasn’t ready to feel it. I drag the waistband down and let him spring free.

And, fuck, he’s gorgeous.

Long, flushed a deep red at the tip, veins thick and pulsing along the length. Precome beads at the head, slick and begging. My fingers curl around the base, slow, deliberate, and I stroke up once, watching him twitch in my palm.

His stomach tightens.

His jaw locks.

“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes clenching shut like it physically hurts to be touched after going this long without it.

“Keep your eyes open,” I murmur, voice low, dirty. I run my thumb over the head, smearing the wetness there, just to tease him. Just to show him who’s in control now. “You’re not gonna miss this.”

He obeys.

Barely.

His lashes flutter open—pupils blown wide, mouth parted, panting.

I pump him slowly, dragging my hand up the full length and back down, watching the way his thighs tighten, his chest rises, and his grip on the wall behind him turns white-knuckled. My name falls from his mouth like a threat.

“Malerick . . .”

I lean in, press my mouth against the head of his dick—tongue flicking once, then again—and feel him tremble.

“Still tastes like sin,” I whisper, then take him in. Inch by inch. Letting him feel every hot slide, every curl of the tongue, every guttural groan that rolls up from my chest.

His hips jerk forward, and I don’t stop him.

I dare him.

His breath breaks in my ear, ragged and unfiltered. One hand fists in my hair, not guiding—just holding on like he’s seconds from falling apart.

“You’re gonna make me come,” he warns.

“That’s the plan. Look at me, Cass,” I demand.

His eyes open.

And I take him back into my mouth.

There’s no hesitation, no teasing. Just heat and hunger and too much need packed into a moment I’ve fantasized about and hated myself for. I suck him down deep, one hand braced on his hip, the other working the base as I find a rhythm that makes him mutter curses and dig his nails into the wall.

He thrusts once.

Twice.

Barely controlled, hips jerking with restraint that’s hanging on by a fucking thread.

But I don’t want restraint.

I want him undone.

I need him wrecked.

His hand slides into my hair, not rough—yet—but trembling with it. His eyes lock on mine like he’s trying to anchor himself, as if he blinks, he’ll fall apart.

“Fuck, Mal,” he breathes, voice tight, unraveling. “You’re gonna make me?—”

“Yeah?” I murmur against the head of his dick, lips grazing, tongue dragging slow over the slit. “But you’re going to have to wait until I say so.”

I go back down, deeper this time—until the head hits the back of my throat, and I hum around him, slow and filthy. The sound makes him swear, chest heaving, knuckles digging into the wall like he’s holding on for dear life.

Then I add my hand again—stroking the base as I suck him hard and deep—and the other slides between his legs, cupping him with possessive pressure. I press my thumb behind his balls and feel the way he jerks. How his hips twitch like I’ve flipped a switch, he didn’t know he had.

His moan is ragged now.

Wordless.

Desperate.

So I push further.

My fingers trail back, teasing over his entrance. I feel the exact moment his breath catches—his whole body stills—but he doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t even flinch.

He wants this.

He wants me.

“You want more?” I rasp against the slick head of his cock, voice low and soaked with need. My lips drag across him. My breath is fire on his skin.

He nods, dazed, eyes wide open, mouth gape—but it’s not enough.

“Use your fucking voice.”

“Yes,” he gasps, almost choked on the word. “Yes. Fuck—Mal, please.”

I growl low and rough, lifting my hand from his body— to hold it in front of his face for a moment before bringing it to my mouth.

He watches.

Helpless.

Hungry.

I suck one finger into my mouth, slow and obscene, eyes locked on his while I coat it with spit—nice and slick—dragging my tongue along the length before pulling it out with a wet pop.

His cock twitches in front of me.

He’s panting now. Straining to stay upright. His thighs are tense, his arms braced above him like he might collapse without them.

“Good,” I murmur. “Because I want to hear you fall apart.”

Then I slide my hand back down, circling his rim with that slick finger—pressing in slowly.

His whole body clenches.

Hot. Tight. Fuck.

And when I breach him—just the tip of my finger at first—his moan strikes right through me. Raw. Deep. No shame.

I push in farther, curling as I go, working him open while I wrap my lips around the head of his cock again.

He whimpers—Cassian fucking Harlan—whimpering like he’s coming undone under the weight of it. The pressure. The stretch. The fucking need.

His hips rock forward, caught between my mouth and my hand. He doesn’t know which way to move or which part of him to give over, so he gives all of it.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes, shivering, one hand in my hair and the other clawing at the wall. “Malerick—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop?—”

I go deeper. Fingers curl. Tongue swirls. I own every inch of him now, and he knows it.

He’s going to break.

And I want to feel it when he does.

“Fuck, that’s it,” I rasp, voice shaking against his skin. I take him deep again—lips wrapped tight, tongue pressing under the head—while my finger keeps moving inside him, slow and slick and fucking precise.

He rocks between my mouth and my hand, breath catching, body twitching like a live wire. His hips grind down into me with that wild, helpless rhythm that only happens when there’s no control left—when it’s all instinct and heat and need.

I curl my finger.

Right there.

That spot I know will wreck him.

Cassian chokes on a moan. His head snaps back against the wall, eyes slamming shut, mouth dropping open as he shatters.

He grunts my name—“Mal—fuck.” Like it burns coming out of him, hips jerking violently as he comes.

Hard.

Hot.

Thick pulses shoot over my tongue, and I don’t stop.

I don’t flinch.

I swallow.

All of it.

Every last drop.

I keep sucking him through it, dragging it out, making him feel it—his whole body shaking apart as he spills into my mouth, every groan deeper than the last. He tastes like salt and sin and everything I’ve missed.

His other hand claws at my shoulder, grounding himself while wave after wave hits him, like his body doesn’t know how to come down.

I finally pull back, slowly, dragging my tongue along the underside as I let him slip from my mouth. My lips are slick. My jaw aches. My breath fogs against the sweat-damp skin of his stomach.

Cassian is trembling.

Legs loose.

Chest rising like he just survived a war.

His eyes flutter open—barely—and land on me like I’m a ghost he’s not sure he deserves to see.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Still tasting him. Still wanting.

And when I meet his gaze. “You’re mine.”

He looks down at me like he doesn’t know if he wants to cry or beg for more.

Good.

I wipe my mouth, lick the taste off my lower lip, and rise to my feet, towering over him.

He looks fucked.

Properly, perfectly ruined.

But he’s already grabbing me now, turning me, pinning me to the wall like it’s his turn to worship and destroy in equal measure.

“Your turn,” he growls.

He grunts, and before he can speak, I crush my mouth to his.

No tenderness.

No grace.

Just teeth and tongue and rage twisted up with relentless fucking need.

He bites down on my bottom lip, hard enough to make me groan, and I respond by grabbing his face, holding him still as I devour his mouth. He kisses me back like it’s a challenge. Like this is war, and I’m both the weapon and the battlefield.

We don’t slow down.

We can’t.

Hands fumble between us—grabbing, clawing, needing. My thigh slides between his legs, and he grinds down on it, cock already hard again, pressing into me through his jeans.

I break the kiss, panting, eyes locked on his.

“You want round two?”

He nods, pupils dark and wild. “Loved your mouth, but are you gonna let me fuck all of you this time?”

My lips curve into a dark, dangerous smile.

“I fucking dare you.”