Page 38 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Delilah

His mouth is still on me when I start to come down, my thighs trembling, his fingers still buried inside me. He eases off with the slow reverence of a man who wants to taste every last breath I take for him.

I can’t even speak.

I’m boneless and wrecked and starving for more. My body is still pulsing from his mouth, but I need him inside me.

Now.

Deep.

Raw.

“Cass,” I whisper, fingers carding through his hair, tugging just enough to make him lift his head.

His eyes—dark, wild, glittering with pride and hunger—lock onto mine as he rises to his knees between my legs. He looks huge like this. Towering and flushed and beautiful, the thick outline of his cock straining against his jeans.

“I want you,” I say. “Now.”

He leans in, kissing the inside of my thigh like he needs to map me with his mouth. Then higher—my hip, the dip of my waist, then up my belly with reverence that feels like worship and want all tangled together. Like he can’t stand the idea of leaving any inch of me untouched.

“I don’t want to stop,” he murmurs, voice thick and unraveling. “I want to fuck you so slow you feel me for days. But first . . .”

He lifts his gaze, eyes dark and focused, searching mine. “Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yes,” I breathe, nodding. “Tested, like we agreed. All clear. And I’m on the pill.”

His voice softens. “Me too. Full panel. Clean bill.” He hesitates. Eyes still locked on mine. “So I don’t need to pull out? Are you sure?”

My whole-body pulses at that—at the intimacy of it, the way he says it not with arrogance but raw fucking want. I bob my head slowly, lips parted.

“I want to feel all of you, all of it.”

Something flickers in his expression—desperation tinged with reverence—and then he moves.

Cassian rises and peels his shirt off over his head, slow and unhurried like he knows I’m watching every inch. His chest is defined and dusted with just enough hair to tempt. Defined abs, ridged and taut. A trail leads down, disappearing into his waistband.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, keeping his eyes on mine as he pushes them down. No underwear.

My mouth parts.

He steps out of them, fully naked, and, fuck—he’s gorgeous. All golden skin and sinew, muscles coiled with restraint, his thighs thick and powerful. And then there’s him.

He’s thick, long, and flushed dark at the head. Veins run the length of him, pulsing like they know where they’re meant to go. A bead of precum glistens at the tip.

I lick my lips without meaning to.

He notices.

“Want a taste before I fuck you, baby?”

I nod— quickly, breathless, aching—and sit up on my knees, hands bracing on his hips as I bring my mouth to him.

He groans when I wrap my lips around the head, tongue circling the tip and lapping up the salt-sweet wetness. Precum coats my tongue, and I moan around him. He’s hot. Smooth. Thick enough that my jaw stretches wide.

“Fuck, Lilah,” he breathes, hand sliding into my hair, guiding but not forcing. “You look so pretty like this.”

I take more of him in, inch by inch, my hand stroking what I can’t reach. My tongue moves beneath the shaft, teasing the underside, and his abs flex under my palm.

He’s barely holding on.

I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, swallowing around him as my eyes lift to his.

Cassian’s jaw clenches. His hand tightens in my hair, his fingers curling like he’s trying to ground himself.

“God, you’re gonna wreck me,” he rasps, voice thick and dark.

“I’d love to watch you suck off our Mal while I fuck him.

Perhaps soon I’ll have you do it—we’ll find a place, a time.

You on your knees, both of us watching you take him in. ”

My body pulses at the idea—at the way his voice drips with possession and promise.

I hum around him, slow and sinful, like I’m already imagining it too.

Then I pull back with a soft pop, licking my lips as my fingers trail along his cock, stroking him wet and slow.

My tongue follows, tracing the thick vein down his shaft, kissing the curve at the base.

Cassian groans, his head falling back for a second before snapping down again to watch me.

I shift lower, licking over the base of him before drawing one of his balls into my mouth. Gently, slowly. I suck, rolling my tongue around him while my hand strokes his cock. Then I do the same to the other, teasing, savoring, addicted to the way he hisses my name through his teeth.

“Fuck, Lilah . . .” His voice breaks, raw. “That mouth. You’re gonna kill me.”

I look up at him, smug and aching, licking a long stripe back up the length of his cock. “But this might be the only time we have for the next few days . . . or weeks. Let me enjoy it.”

“Sure,” he growls. “But this is torture.”

I laugh softly, breathless and filthy and drunk on the power of making him unravel. I stroke him again, my thumb gliding over the slick tip, spreading the need he’s dripping for me while my mouth hovers just close enough to tease.

“Come here,” he growls, voice rough, hunger bleeding through. “I need to be inside you.”

Before I can blink, his hands are on my waist—firm, possessive—lifting me like I weigh nothing and settling me against the couch cushions. The room smells like sex and skin, the air thick with everything we haven’t said but are about to feel.

The couch is too small for what’s about to happen.

And just right.

The leather bites at my thighs as I spread wider, already bracing. My legs part without hesitation, wide and aching, every inch of me soaked and open for him.

Cassian kneels between my thighs, towering, his chest rising and falling like he’s barely hanging on. He strokes himself again, slow and hard, precum glistening at the tip of his cock.

But his eyes—God, his eyes never leave my center. Like I’m the only thing in the room. Like I’m not just someone he wants to fuck, but something holy he’s about to ruin.

“You see this?” he murmurs, gaze locked between my thighs. His voice is wrecked, hoarse with restraint. “You’re already soaking me . . . fuck. You want this so bad.”

I whimper as he drags the tip of his cock through my folds—slow, deliberate—coating himself in every bit of need I can’t hide.

“Cass,” I breathe, hips tipping up.

“Not yet,” he whispers, his voice a promise and a warning, brushing over my clit in slow, tormenting circles. “Let me take my time. Let me make you feel every second of this.”

His body shifts, the head of him pressing at my entrance. My muscles clench—anticipation, hunger, everything I’ve held back for too long.

I grip the couch cushion with one hand and his forearm with the other, grounding myself as he starts to push in.

Just the tip.

The stretch steals my breath.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice fraying. “You’re gripping me like you never want to let go.”

I nod, gasping. “Don’t stop.”

He slides in deeper, slow, and devastating. “Fuck, you feel unreal. Like you were made to take me.”

Another inch. Then another. He sinks into me slowly, the stretch intoxicating. My body opens for him, welcoming, greedy, slick, and ready. My hips lift to meet him, needing more.

He groans as he sinks all the way in, every inch claimed in a single, breath-stealing thrust.

His head drops, breath falling against my collarbone, and for a moment, we’re just there—connected, trembling, both ruined and whole.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice ragged against my skin. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

And then he starts to move.

A slow retreat, the thick drag of him teasing every nerve ending, making me feel every ridge, every inch. Then, a deep, rolling thrust that slams a moan out of me.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” I gasp, my nails biting into the muscles of his back as he fills me again.

He groans, low and primal, lips dragging across my jaw, then my mouth, kissing me like he’s trying to own my next breath.

His tongue strokes deep, echoing the rhythm of his hips.

He pulls back only to bite at my lower lip, then buries himself again, harder this time, grinding into me like he can’t get deep enough.

His thrusts pick up pace—slow enough to draw it out, hard enough to make my legs tremble.

I can barely breathe. I don’t want to.

His hand slides down between our bodies, fingers finding my clit. He rubs it in tight, filthy circles that make my body arch.

“You feel how soaked you are?” he groans, hips pumping into me. “You’re dripping around me, baby. You’re clenching like you’re already about to come.”

“Cassian—” My voice breaks. My hands claw at his back, hips rolling to meet every thrust.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice thick with lust. “Come for me. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart while I’m fucking you full.”

He presses his fingers harder, faster, stroking my clit in rhythm with his cock pounding into me. My body goes tight. Every nerve is screaming. My orgasm builds sharp and fast, spiraling up my spine.

“I’m—fuck—I’m?—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasps, kissing me through it. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you come.”

I break.

My climax slams through me like a tidal wave—violent, gorgeous, unstoppable. My walls clamp down around him, and I scream his name, writhing under him as he keeps moving. Thrusting deep, every stroke dragging more of me out, while his fingers work me until I’m sobbing from the intensity.

“Lilah,” he chokes, thrusts stuttering. “Fuck, I’m gonna come?—”

His hips jerk once, then again, as he spills into me, pulse by pulse—hot, thick, and claiming. The warmth hits deep, and the moment it does, my body tightens around him, a raw aftershock ripping through me like I’m breaking open all over again.

He collapses over me, breathing hard, lips pressing into my shoulder, my neck, my cheek.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice cracking with the force of it. “You feel too good. Too perfect.”

His nose grazes mine. Our breaths intertwine.

“Soon,” he whispers, still locked inside me, his voice low and wrecked. “You’ll be ours. We just have to show our Mal he’s worthy of this. Of love. Of us. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

His words wrap around something deep inside me—something tender and aching.

And I feel it—his promise.

In the way he holds me like I’m both breakable and indestructible all at once.

In the way his body curves over mine, keeping the world out, keeping us in.

Still joined. Still pulsing. Still ours.

Not claimed.

Not owned.

Chosen.

Desired.

Worshipped.

My body’s still trembling. My heart’s still climbing its way down from the stars.

Even now, as aftershocks ripple through me, I know one thing with devastating clarity.

I’m his—I’m theirs.