Page 36 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

“Why not go back to California if your father isn’t here?” I ask, frowning. “Wouldn’t that have made more sense?”

“I always asked her that, but she said she liked small towns better.” Delilah shrugs, taking a long sip of water.

But something doesn’t sit right. If Rosalinda’s so attached to family, wouldn’t going back to her roots have been smarter? Why transplant your mother instead of returning to her?

It doesn’t add up.

And maybe it’s none of my business.

Maybe I’ve seen too much—been twisted by too many secrets. Still, part of me wants to dig a little. Not for answers. Just . . . understanding.

But wouldn’t it be weird? Investigating the mother of the woman I’m trying to date?

Probably.

Definitely.

Or maybe I’m just jaded as fuck and not thinking clearly. It’s time to divert the conversation.

“I wish my mother had a family,” I say quietly, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed.

My gaze tracks Lilah’s every move—the way her hips sway in those jeans, the way her fingers tighten slightly around the bottle as if she’s gripping more than just plastic.

“Maybe they would’ve claimed me. Instead of letting me rot in foster care. ”

She stills.

Then slowly, without hesitation, she closes the fridge and turns to me.

“She had nobody?” Her voice is softer now.

I shake my head. “Just her dad. He died when she was in college. She married, had a family and . . . life happened.”

Silence falls again, thick and charged, but this time, it doesn’t feel empty.

She walks over and stops in front of me. Her eyes search mine, and whatever she finds there softens her entire expression. Her hands reach up, tentative at first, then surer. One presses against my chest. The other curves behind my neck as she leans in and pulls me close.

Her arms wrap around me, and I fucking melt into her.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” she whispers, her breath brushing my skin. “You didn’t deserve that kind of loneliness.”

I close my eyes for half a second. Just enough to let it hit.

She doesn’t pull away.

“You have Mal now,” she says softly. “And you have me.”

My hand lifts, almost on instinct, sliding around her waist, pulling her against me—closer than before. Her body fits into mine like she was made for this space, like she’s meant to be the one who says that and means it.

Her sweater feels soft beneath my hand, but what captivates me is the way her heartbeat kicks against my chest. Fast. Uncertain. Real.

“Lilah . . .” I murmur into her hair.

She tilts her face up to look at me.

The air pulls taut, strung between her parted lips and the way her eyes lock on mine.

And I know.

If I kiss her right now, I won’t let her go.

There’s no walking this back. No pretending we’re just toeing the line, hoping things will work out between us.

I’ll fucking make it work because I’ll want to keep her.

Every inch. Every breath. Every impossible piece of her that still doesn’t know how much she’s worth.

So, I do. I kiss her.

Not like the last time, when it was need pressed between restraint. Not like before, when it was fueled by confusion and all the things we hadn’t dared to say yet.

This kiss is different. It’s surrender.

It’s branding—heat and memory etched into skin.

It’s the beginning of something we no longer have to fear.

I press my mouth to hers and she gives in without hesitation—soft, hungry, aching with all the moments we’ve had to hold back.

Her lips part, and I deepen the kiss, my hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck, while the other is locked at her waist like I’m terrified she’ll vanish if I don’t keep her right here.

And maybe I am. Perhaps I’ve never wanted something this badly.

Not just her body. Not just the way she tastes like cinnamon and tension and fucking hope.

I want to love her in all the ways she always wanted.

In the ways she deserves. In the ways that leave no trace of doubt in her beautiful, overthinking mind and guarded heart that this—us—is real.

That this is home.

And I want it forever.

She moans into my mouth, soft and broken, and it devastates me in the most beautiful way. Her nails skim the base of my skull, pulling me deeper, closer, like she wants to crawl inside me and live there. And, fuck, if I could let her—I would. I’d build a place inside myself made only for her.

When we finally break apart, we don’t move far. Our foreheads press together, breath shared, and hearts thudding between us.

But it’s not enough.

Not when her hands are still in my hair.

Not when her mouth is right there, pink and kiss swollen.

Not when every part of me is screaming to feel more of her. All of her.

She shifts slightly, chest brushing mine, and it’s over. My restraint snaps like it was never really there.

I kiss her again—deeper this time. Rougher. A low sound escapes me when her fingers grip my hoodie and pull me into her like she’s been waiting just as long to come undone.

Her back hits the wall, and she gasps, but it’s not surprise. It’s permission.

I lift her, hands under her ass, and she wraps around me without hesitation. We’ve kissed before, but this . . . this is different. This is a beginning and a reckoning.

I want to love her in all the ways no one has ever dared to touch her. I want to leave no trace of doubt in her mind or her heart that I want her—all of her. Forever.

She gasps as I shift my grip, pressing her harder against the wall, her legs still locked around me, her hips tilting with instinct that wrecks whatever control I had left.

Our foreheads touch again. Her breath stutters against my lips.

“I need you,” she whispers. “Don’t—don’t hold back.”

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. They’re blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, jaw slack with want. And fuck if I don’t feel that need crawling through my bloodstream, wrapping around my ribs like it’s always belonged there.

“I’m not going to rush this,” I murmur. “Not with you.”

Her hands thread through my hair, tugging until our mouths meet again—deeper, wetter, a kiss that drags everything out of me. It’s not just want. It’s something fucking holy.

I lay her down on the couch like I already know I’ll never love another woman in this lifetime. Not after her.

I vow right now I’ll make her feel it.

Every inch.

Every promise.

Every broken part of me I’m giving only to her.

Because this—this isn’t just about sex.

It’s about claiming the one thing I didn’t think I’d be allowed to have.

Just skin and truth and everything we’ve both been too afraid to reach for—until now.