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

He does it with that goddamn half-smile.

The one I used to feel against the back of my neck while he fucked the truth out of me.

The one I saw in the mirror, hovering over my shoulder just before I shattered—knees giving out, voice gone, my body no longer felt like my own.

And just like that—fuck—it all slams back into me.

His hand in my hair, yanking my head back.

His mouth on my throat, teeth dragging.

That low, guttural groan in my ear when he sank in deep and didn’t stop until I forgot my name.

My cock twitches, thick and aching, like it remembers everything I’ve spent years trying to forget.

He turns on his heel and walks away as if he just claimed the place—like he owns me—every step leisurely, hips rolling with lazy arrogance. Sin wrapped in skin and smug certainty.

He fucking knows he’s already in my head again. Already in my blood.

And that’s what terrifies me most.

Because I’ll break.

Eventually, I’ll beg him to fuck me.

Not because I’m weak—but because he’s the only one who’s ever known precisely how to take me apart and leave me wanting more.

Because I need it. Because I fucking miss it.

Because no one else has ever been able to touch me like that.

“Not interested,” I say. Louder now. Firmer.

Like volume could drown out my own traitorous body.

Like sound could rewrite the truth.

But my voice falters at the edges, thinned out by the heat crawling up my throat. I can’t even look at Delilah. I can’t hide the way my fingers curl, knuckles bone-white and trembling with restraint.

Cassian’s gaze drops.

Drags slowly—intimately—down my torso, unapologetically bold.

Then back up.

There’s a pause, followed by a smirk. The fucking bastard knows I’m shaking, how I’m about to beg him to make me feel. Does he care to make it better? Nope, he just walks away.

My dick is hard, straining against my jeans like it’s trying to embarrass me into submission. No loyalty. No shame. Just muscle memory and longing.

All it wants is Cassian’s mouth. His voice. The brutal way he whispers, stay still while he fucks you open like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

Cassian pauses at the door. Fingers graze the frame like he’s considering whether to push back in and finish what he started.

Then he glances over his shoulder. His expression shifts—less smug, more dangerous. Almost soft.

It’s the look that comes before he ruins you. When he’s still pretending you’ll survive him.

“After all these years,” he murmurs, voice dipped low enough to crawl down my spine and settle somewhere deep, “you’re still shit at lying.”

A beat.

One breath. Two.

“This time . . .” His gaze rakes down my body like he already knows the damage he’s done. “I might not let you get away with it—I might not leave just to save you from your demons, nor to keep the girl.”

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him like punctuation. Not a question. Not an ellipsis.

It seems like a period.

Final.

But it never is with him. Not really. It’s always a semicolon because it’s never over. It’s never fucking over until he says it is, and then he leaves you in ruins.

Right now, I’m one breath away from chasing after him—forgetting every boundary, every consequence, just to beg him to take care of me.

My body’s still flushed, trembling with the aftershock of him, my thoughts scattered like broken glass.

And my cock . . . it’s fucking throbbing, hard and desperate, like it remembers everything I swore I’d forget.

Every reason I had to stay away? Slipping fast. One more second, and I won’t just want him—I’ll need him. Again.

Delilah whistles low, slicing through the silence like she just watched a car detonate and walked away without flinching.

“So . . .” she says, head tilted, voice all casual breeze while her eyes gleam with dangerous curiosity. “Was that unresolved sexual tension or the opening move in a murder plot?”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Try again, but nothing comes out. There’s no explanation because what can I tell her about Cassian Harlan?

She grins, giving me a break or perhaps not understanding what just happened. “Either way, I’m gonna need snacks, a front-row seat, and possibly a helmet.”

I don’t laugh. I don’t even smile.

I just stare at the door as if it might open again. Like he might come back in here and finish what he started—with his mouth, with his hands, with that damn look that knows how to unravel me.

And I think—should I tell her?

Should I warn her that she just got pulled into something she doesn’t understand? That she’s been added to the board and Cassian’s already making moves around her?

But how the hell do I protect her from someone I still want like this?

How can I keep her out of his orbit when part of me wants her there—wants us there, tangled and breathless and wrecked?

I rake a hand through my hair, still staring at that door waiting to wake up from this dream. As if it should creak back open and give me a chance to get this right or just erase it.

“I need stronger coffee,” I mutter, voice raw. And maybe a fucking leash for my impulses.