Page 61 of The Last Call Home
But my hand—this traitorous fucking hand—twitches.
Just slightly.Just enough.
His pinky brushes mine.On purpose.
And I feel his touch.Not just on my skin, but everywhere.
It feels as if my body has been waiting for this single point of contact to remember what it’s like to want.
He doesn’t ask.Doesn’t hesitate.
His hand slides into mine, fingers threading through like they’ve been there before, as if they’re returning home to something they never should’ve left.And I don’t stop him.I grip back.Harder than I should.Like I need something to hold me together before I fall apart.
Then he steps in.
Chest nearly flush to mine.Close enough that the air shifts—close enough that I feel the sound of his breath, warm and ragged, as it ghosts over my lips.
My eyes meet his.
There’s no question in them.
Only hunger.And regret.And something that looks a hell of a lot like love, scraped raw by time and distance and everything we never said.His hand comes up, rough fingers skimming the side of my jaw.He drags his thumb down, slow, until it presses lightly against my lower lip.
“Fuck,” he whispers.“You’re still?—”
He doesn’t finish.
Because I tilt my head forward just enough to answer for him.
His mouth crashes into mine—not desperate, but decisive.This is what he’s been trying not to do for years and he finally gave up resisting.
His lips are warm, parted, tasting like wine and punishment.The kiss is unhurried but hungry.A slow grind of mouths that saysI missed youandI still want every inch of youall in the same breath.
I kiss him back.
I give in.
Fingers in his shirt.Chest against chest.My mouth opening for him without thinking.Without pausing.There’s nothing polite about it now.There’s grit and heat and knowing—the kind of knowing that only comes from loving someone long enough to also resent them.
His hand is on my hip, pulling me closer, grounding me in a way that makes me feel like I might come apart.Our bodies press together, and it’s not careful—it’s urgent.Not rushed, but necessary.The slow kind of desperation simmers before it burns down the room.
He groans into my mouth like the taste of me is doing damage.
Good.
Because he’s been doing damage for years.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathless.Mouths red.Chests rising like we’ve just surfaced from underwater.
He presses his forehead to mine, his thumb still on my lips.
“You still taste like everything I tried to forget.”
And I can’t tell if I want to kiss him again or punch him.
Perhaps both, and we should stop, but am I capable of doing so?
ChapterTwenty-One
