Page 92 of After All This Time

Tobias hesitates, and then his hand finds mine, his fingers brushing across my skin like an apology before he has to let go. His touch is gone too soon, and the ache in my chest sharpens as he closes the door behind him, leaving me alone in the silence. I collapse onto his bed, running my fingers over the dark-gray comforter like I'm fifteen again. But I'm not fifteen, and this isn't just some teenage fantasy anymore. His touch is branded into my skin, and that kiss—that earth-shattering, life-ruining kiss—keeps playing on repeat in my head.

Chapter 37

Tobias

Idon't remember the last time I wanted to take my time getting inside someone.

But that moment with Amelia? I wanted to stretch it out forever—make it last so long that time itself would stop for us. That kiss didn't just confirm what I was feeling—it fucking branded me.

Usually, I'd already be halfway to tearing off some girl's clothes, chasing the high of getting to the best part. But with Mills? I became a version of myself I barely recognized, desperate to slow down, to soak in every second like it might be the last.

Kissing her was unlike anything else, and that was before I even had the pleasure of feasting on the most beautiful pink nipples I'd ever seen.

Perfectly shaped. Perfect for my mouth. Hard as fucking diamonds before I'd even touched her. And when I finally did? The way her body arched into my hands, the way her breathcaught when my lips brushed her skin, and those little whimpers she tried to hold back, it was all there.Every reaction showed me she was feeling this just as intensely as I was.

Now I'm stuck with Kayla, hard as fucking steel, with the taste of Amelia on my lips and the knowledge that nothing else will ever compare to how perfect she felt against me.

Is she upstairs regretting what happened?

No. No fucking way. Her body didn't lie, and every inch screamed for more.

"Where is she?" Kayla snaps, her impatience cutting through the small talk filling the room.

In my bedroom, probably still tasting like me.

I look around at the crowd of people I've spent half my life avoiding, doing a fake scan of the room, pretending not to know exactly where she is.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her, and it's like the entire room falls away.

Her dark eyes lock onto mine as she leans against the bar like some kind of siren. She looks too put together—nothing like the woman who was seconds away from giving herself to me just minutes ago.

"She's at the bar, Kayla," I manage, jerking my chin toward Amelia.

Kayla makes her way over, but I stay rooted to the spot, dropping my eyes to the floor just to catch my breath. When I look up again, I can't help but study her—the way she interacts with her mom, the practiced smile that doesn't touch her eyes. I know that smile. That smile is her shield, her fuck-you-all facade when she'd rather be anywhere else. God, I want to grab her hand and run. Take her back to my room and finish what we started.

But I don't move.

We crossed a line tonight that we can't uncross, and now we're both out here pretending we don't know how the other tastes, acting like my shirt isn't still warm from her hands and her lipstick isn't smudged from my mouth.

"Smile, would you?"

I lift my eyes to meet my father's icy stare and stretch my lips into the most exaggerated grin I can manage—one that's all teeth and zero warmth.

"Happy?" I ask, my tone laced with sarcasm as he shoves a crystal tumbler of whiskey into my hand.

"Tobias, I don't want to do this with you every time you come home to visit." That authoritative edge creeps into his voice—the one that used to make me snap to attention as a kid but now just makes me want to introduce his face to my fist.

"Then stop trying to control my life."

"You don't understand the pressure I'm under." Something in his tone shifts, and it almost sounds human. "I won't be here forever, and I have employees to consider. I can't just let anyone take over."

"There's a simple solution."

"And that is?"

"Give control to Malcolm. He's been your right hand for years." The ice in my glass clinks as I take another sip, watching his reaction over the rim.

"It has to stay in the Sinclair name," he counters, his words as rigid as ever.

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