Page 47 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Forty-Three

Delilah

I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again. Not after everything that happened yesterday. Not after the explosion, the fire, and the taste of smoke lingering in the back of my throat.

Yet here I am. Waking up from what might’ve been the first peaceful dream I’ve had in months.

Anyone else in my shoes would probably be freaking the fuck out. I mean, maybe it just hasn’t sunk in yet—that I lost my livelihood. That I nearly died. It hadn’t been more than ten fucking minutes since I stepped out of that place.

When will it hit?

My bakery. My future—the routine. The rhythm that kept my life sane. All of it incinerated. The heartbeat of my every day, gone in a plume of black smoke. And somehow, I still managed to fall asleep as none of it had carved through me.

Maybe it’s adrenaline. Maybe denial. Or perhaps it was the warmth between two men who feel more like home than any place ever has.

Sleeping between Mal and Cass was different. Different in the way silk feels on bare skin after years of coarse linens—and we weren’t even naked. My body didn’t just rest—it gave in. Melted. Breathed.

I stir, slow and reluctant. A sigh slips past my lips as the morning light pushes through the crack in the curtain. The room smells like cedar and faint smoke, underscored with clean cotton . . . and the deep, addictive scent of them.

Only one of them is still in bed.

Malerick.

His arm is slung around my waist, possessive even in sleep.

His palm is splayed across my stomach like he’s staking his claim, his chest snug against my back.

Every inhale brushes against my spine, a subtle rhythm that threads through my bones and tells me I’m not alone.

His body is firm and solid behind me, grounding.

His skin is warm, his scent—musk and sweat and something that makes me want to crawl deeper into him.

Cass must’ve left early. He’s always moving. I bet he kissed my shoulder before he left, probably whispered something rough and soft at the same time. And I slept right through all of it as if it were normal.

But Mal’s still here.

I shift just a little—not to pull away, but to sink closer, to feel more. His body answers mine instinctively. A soft pull, a subtle curve of muscle that draws me tighter against him. His nose grazes the back of my neck, and his lips move—murmuring something into my skin I can’t quite catch.

My breath hitches.

I shouldn’t love this. Shouldn’t let it wrap around my ribs like a drug.

I should be getting up. I should be checking on Mom.

Cass said he talked to her—told her I was safe, that they needed to keep me overnight.

He never said where. For all she knows, I’m at the hospital .

. . or somewhere worse. Did she ask questions? Did she panic?

A hand smooths over my stomach, slow and warm.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Mal murmurs, voice thick with sleep. His lips graze the curve of my neck, his breath sending a shiver down my spine.

“I lost everything,” I whisper. “My bakery . . . my life.”

“I know.” His voice is rougher now. Awake. A little pained. “I should’ve been there.”

“No,” I turn slightly, catching his eyes. “You showing up afterward? That saved me. Cass was there.”

“I’m glad he was with you.” He cups my jaw, thumb brushing beneath my cheekbone. “You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

Neither of us speaks for a beat.

The silence stretches, thick with everything we’re both too raw to say.

Then Malerick leans in and kisses me—slow but not soft. There’s possession in the way his mouth finds mine, his lips pressing with the kind of hunger that doesn’t just ask—it takes. The kind that lingers and bruises.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth like he needs to memorize me from the inside out. As if he’s apologizing with every breath for every second, he wasn’t here to stop the fire, to hold me through it.

When he pulls back, just enough to whisper against my lips, his voice is low and frayed at the edges.

“I want you,” he murmurs. “I want to be inside you. I want to fuck you so good you forget everything but my name.”

The words slam into me like a match to dry timber.

“Yes,” I breathe, my voice catching in my throat. “Please. Yes.”

The shirt I’m wearing is gone before the next beat of silence.

One second, it’s on his shoulders. The next it’s hitting the floor in a forgotten heap.

I barely register the sound because he’s already under the blanket, his hands trailing over me—rough palms, warm fingers skimming my hips, grazing over the curve of my waist, up along my ribs. Possessive. Intent.

He finds the boxers I stole from his drawer. His fingers hook in the waistband.

“You wore these like you belong to me,” he says, eyes locked on mine.

“I do,” I whisper.

He peels them down, slow and unhurried. My breath hitches as the air hits my thighs, and he pulls back the blanket just enough to look at me—naked, flushed, already wet.

“Mal . . .”

He doesn’t answer.

He just slides lower, eyes locked on mine until his mouth reaches my skin.

Then he kisses down my body with a hunger that thrums between us—fierce, consuming, impossible to ignore.

Each kiss is slow but searing, his lips dragging over sensitive skin like he’s tasting memory and promise in every inch.

My breath stumbles. My back arches. I can’t stop the soft, desperate sounds that spill from my lips. I don’t want to.

My legs fall open for him without hesitation, wide and willing, because my body understands who it’s opening for.

It’s not just need—it’s an ache. An ache. A craving that pulses low and deep, radiating outward until I’m raw with it.

And then he touches me.

Not with hands. Not with fingers. With his fucking mouth.

His tongue licks a slow, agonizing stripe up my cunt—deliberate, filthy, reverent. I gasp, hips jerking, thighs trembling around his head. It’s not just pleasure—it’s violent, all-consuming hunger surging through my veins, curling my toes, stealing my breath.

His hands grip my thighs tight, spreading me wider, holding me open like a feast he’s about to devour.

His mouth is everywhere—tongue dragging through my slick folds, lips sucking my clit with unrelenting focus, teasing me with the kind of rhythm that destroys patience.

He drinks every sound I make, pushes two fingers inside me and curls them just right.

He groans against me like he’s drunk on the taste.

Like my pussy is the only thing that makes sense to him right now.

His tongue fucks me alongside his fingers, deep and slow, then fast and firm, and I swear I can feel his need in every movement—this primal, filthy obsession to make me come apart for him.

And I do.

I shatter.

Not with grace. Not quietly.

I come undone around him, crying out his name, thighs clamping around his head as my orgasm tears through me.

I’m shuddering so hard my vision blurs, legs trembling, body arching helplessly into his mouth.

But Malerick doesn’t fucking stop. He keeps licking—slow and relentless—tongue dragging through my slick like he owns it. Like he’s starving for it.

I’m gasping, twitching, grinding down on his face because I need more, need everything, and he gives it to me.

Let’s me fuck his face while he groans into me, tongue fucking me deeper, filthier.

His moan vibrates against my clit, and it makes me cry out again—louder this time, raw and ragged as another orgasm crashes over me.

It’s too much.

It’s fucking perfect.

He doesn’t stop until I’m soaked, breathless, shaking so hard that I can barely think. Wrecked. Ruined. His.

Only then does he slow. Licks me once more, slow and claiming, before dragging his mouth up my body. He’s panting, lips glistening, and when he reaches my neck, he kisses the spot just beneath my ear and growls?—

“Mine.”

His mouth is slick with me, his lips parted, breath shallow, and his eyes—fuck. They’re burning like he’s just seen something sacred, and he’s not ready to let it go.

“You taste better than any dream I’ve ever had,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, reverent, and ruined.

Something inside me shudders. A pulse that starts low and ripples outward until I can barely hold still. I reach for him, fingers sliding into his thick hair, tugging gently as I rise onto my knees, straddling his lap without a second thought.

“I’m okay,” I whisper, leaning in, foreheads brushing, heart pounding against his chest like it’s begging him to finish what he started. “You don’t need to get a condom. I’m on the pill. And I’ve only been with one other person—Cass—just like you. My panel was clear.”

His eyes search mine, lingering and unreadable for a moment that stretches between us like a breathless expanse.

“You sure?” he asks, and there’s something there—more than just lust. A thread of concern. Of care.

I nod. “Yeah. I want this. I want you.”

The moment those words leave my mouth, he grips my hips, pulling me down into him, his mouth catching mine in a kiss that’s no longer soft or sweet.

It’s feral. A promise and a claim all at once.

I slide my hands down his chest, feeling every taut inch of him, every hard line straining beneath skin and control.

He shifts under me, one arm curling behind my back, the other guiding himself between my thighs. And then?—

Fuck.

He pushes into me with one long, slow stroke, his mouth breaking away from mine with a gasp that sounds like he’s been holding it in for years. My nails dig into his shoulders as my breath catching as my body stretches to take him in.

We move together, not in frantic thrusts but in slow, grinding rolls of our hips—me straddling him, his back propped against the headboard, one hand gripping my waist while the other cradles the back of my neck.

My forehead drops to his. I kiss the corner of his mouth.

He bites the inside of his lip, trying not to lose control.

“Fuck,” I breathe, rocking against him. “You feel . . . you feel so good.”

His fingers flex, digging into my hips like he’s holding on by a thread.

“You were made for this,” he growls against my jaw, his voice wrecked. “For this. For me.”

And right now, I believe it. Every part of me believes it.

For once, I don’t feel like too much or not enough. I don’t feel broken or breakable. I feel wanted. Claimed. Worshipped in a way that makes my throat tighten and my chest ache.

I move faster, hips rolling with purpose now, riding him like I know how deep he is, how good it feels when he hits just the right spot. He meets me stroke for stroke, his mouth dragging along my collarbone, kissing, biting, licking, each touch sending sparks up my spine.

Then his voice goes low—filthy and possessive.

“Touch yourself.”

“What?” I gasp, my rhythm faltering.

His eyes lock on mine, dark and demanding. “Your clit. Right now. I want to feel you fall apart while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

Heat punches through me so fast it steals the breath from my lungs. I reach between us with trembling fingers, finding that swollen ache already begging for more. I circle it, slow at first, then faster, just like he likes. Just like I like.

“That’s it,” he groans, thrusting up into me harder now, deeper, rougher. “Fuck, look at you. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Every movement winds tighter. The wet slap of skin. The sting of his grip. My breath stuttering with every pass of my fingers. His cock, thick and deep inside me, pulsing as he fucks up into me like he’s chasing something.

Like he’s chasing me.

I cry out, jaw slack, body shaking as the pressure builds to the edge of ruin.

“I want you to come all over me, Delilah,” he pants, voice right against my lips. “Make a mess on my cock. I want to feel it. Every. Fucking. Drop.”

I shatter with his name on my tongue, coming hard and loud, my body clenched tight around him. And he keeps fucking me through it, holding me down, drawing out every aftershock until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything except hold on.

Because nothing else exists.

Just this—his voice, my pulse, and the raw, desperate way we break together.