Page 37 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cassian
I sink to my knees in front of her, my hands already finding the hem of her sweater. She lifts her arms without hesitation, surrendering. The fabric glides up and off, revealing skin bathed in soft daylight. My breath catches.
Her skin is flushed—kiss-stained, and glowing with warmth. I lean in, press my lips to the center of her abdomen, and feel the way she sucks in air like I’ve stolen it from her lungs.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I murmur against her. Another kiss, this one just above her waistband. “So, fucking beautiful. And right now . . . you’re mine. You hear me? Mine.”
Her breath staggers. “Cass . . .”
Her voice—raw, trembling—sinks into my bloodstream.
I pop the button of her jeans and ease the zipper down with an exhale that brushes her skin.
My fingers dip just under the band of her panties, brushing the heat there, and I watch her reaction like it’s gospel.
Lips parted. Eyes wild. Her chest rises and falls like she’s on the verge of shattering.
And I haven’t even truly touched her yet.
“You don’t know what it does to me,” I say, my voice low, reverent. “Seeing you like this. Needing me like this.”
I peel her jeans down her legs—slow, teasing, savoring each inch of skin that’s revealed. Her panties are soft pink cotton, damp with desire. I don’t rush past it. I look. I stare.
The center is soaked, clinging to her like a secret she can’t hide.
I drag my nose along the inside of her thigh and kiss just above her knee. Then higher. A little higher. My lips graze her skin, then part to taste. I let my teeth scrape gently, tongue flicking just enough to make her squirm.
She trembles.
Her hips shift forward, restless.
She whispers my name like a confession. “Cassian . . .”
I hum, lips curving against her. “Patience.”
I mouth over the wet fabric, tongue pressing flat and slow along the seam of her panties. Her thighs tense against my shoulders, and her fingers dive into my hair, tugging.
“Fuck,” she gasps. “Cassian?—”
I grin into her. “Told you I wasn’t going to rush.”
And I don’t.
I peel her panties down, inch by inch, dragging them along her thighs like I’ve got all the time in the world. I want her to feel how much I worship this. Worship her.
She’s bare now. Glorious.
And I settle between her legs like a man kneeling at the altar, like she’s the only religion I’ve ever trusted to save me.
I let my breath hit her before my mouth does. A whisper of heat. A tease. Then I lick. Soft at first, tasting her. Flicking slow against her clit. Light. Tempting.
She arches.
Her moan breaks open the air between us. Her hips twitch upward, but I press one hand to her stomach, grounding her to the moment.
“Let me do this, Lilah.”
I slide two fingers through her folds, tracing her slick heat, brushing over her entrance, teasing. My mouth covers her again—more insistent this time. My tongue moves in slow, wet strokes, circling and tasting and devouring like I’m starving for her.
She’s drenched.
I press a finger inside. She gasps, tight and warm around me.
“There you are,” I whisper. Another finger joins the first. “So fucking wet. So ready for me.”
I curl my fingers and her whole-body jolts. Her nails bite into my scalp, thighs squeezing my head as her cries break into the silence. She comes, fierce and breathtaking.
But I don’t stop.
I keep licking. Keep fucking her with my mouth, fingers stroking that place inside that makes her tremble all over again. Her voice fractures, calling my name, pleading.
Her hips twist and lift, but I hold her in place. I bring her right to the edge. Once. Twice.
But I don’t let her fall again.
Not yet.
I lift my head just enough to meet her gaze. Her lips are swollen, her eyes wild with need. She’s panting, flushed, wrecked.
“Not done,” I say.
And then I drag my tongue back to her clit—slow, firm, claiming.
Not even close.
I shift slightly, my free hand sliding lower, stroking the sensitive skin just behind her folds. My fingers press in again—one at her core, one trailing to the tight ring of muscle lower down.
She freezes. Breath held. Eyes wide.
I glance up, meet her gaze. “You trust me?”
Her answer is instant. “Yes.”
“Then let me show you what’s coming, Lilah. Let me show you what it’ll feel like when it’s both of us—when Mal and I are inside you, touching you, loving you at the same time.”
She shudders.
It’s subtle at first, but I feel it in the way her hips twitch, the way her thighs tighten around me like her body already knows what I’m promising.
I lick up her center—slow and indulgent—then let the pad of my finger press against her ass, careful, teasing. Her breath stutters, her thighs quiver, and I feel her go still, her entire body tuned to the slow drag of my tongue and the suggestion of more.
“Think about it,” I whisper against her slick heat, lips brushing her clit between each word. “Me in your pussy. Mal in your ass. Both of us buried so deep you forget how to breathe.”
She whimpers. “Oh my God?—”
“We’d ruin you so sweetly. Stretch you open between us. One of us kissing you. The other making you scream.” I push my tongue down again, tasting how close she is. “You’d take it, wouldn’t you? All of it. All of us.”
“Yes,” she breathes. Desperate. Honest. Her hips rock into my mouth, frantic, helpless. “Cassian—please?—”
“Please what?” I ask, my voice low, rough, curved with a smile she can’t see but definitely feels.
She gasps as I push in deeper—two fingers sliding into her soaked pussy, while my thumb presses against her ass, circling, coaxing, filling her just enough to make her feel it. Not too much. Not yet.
Just enough to make her imagine it.
Just enough to make her crave it.
Her body jolts, her hips buck, and I don’t let up.
I suck her clit into my mouth, tongue working her over in firm, rhythmic strokes while my fingers curl inside her, pressing to that spot that makes her shatter.
She arches with a strangled cry, her nails clawing at the couch cushions, her breath torn apart as I fuck her with my mouth and fingers and the dirty promise of what’s coming.
And I hold her through it.
I stay with her as she trembles, as she unravels, licking, kissing, whispering against her soaked skin, grounding her in the fire.
“That’s it, baby,” I murmur. “That’s my girl. Let go.”
She moans like it’s been trapped inside her for years.
Like no one has ever touched her like this.
And maybe no one has.
Not like this.
Not with love and filth braided together like gospel.
Not with reverence and ruin carved into every breath, every stroke, every whispered word.
Not until now.
Not until me—until us.