Page 62 of The Last Call Home
Malerick
My fingers tighteninto fists before I’ve even made the choice.I grab the front of his shirt, bunch the fabric in both hands, and shove him back—hard—until his spine hits the wall with a solid thud.
His hands are on my hips, yanking me close, grinding our bodies together until I can feel the full press of him.He’s hard.Hot.Everything I’ve tried not to want.
“You feel that?”he growls into my mouth.“You’ve been in my fucking head for years.”
I grab him by the jaw, rough, dragging his mouth back to mine before he can say more.He tastes like wine and fury and something I’ve been starving for.My other hand slides under his shirt—over solid abs, tense muscles, scars I remember too well—and then I shove the fabric up and off.
His shirt hits the floor.
I don’t wait.
I push him harder against the wall, drop to my knees, and start unbuckling his belt.
“You sure?”he pants, hands braced above him, trying to catch his breath.
I look up, breath ragged, fingers tugging open his jeans.
“You want me to stop?”
His breath stutters.“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up.”
He barely gets another inhale before I work the buckle open, metal clinking like a countdown.I pop the button on his jeans, drag the zipper down slowly—just to watch him squirm—and slide my hand in.
He’s already hard.
Goddamn.
I grip him through his briefs—thick, hot, straining—and he jerks under my touch like he wasn’t ready to feel it.I drag the waistband down and let him spring free.
And, fuck, he’s gorgeous.
Long, flushed a deep red at the tip, veins thick and pulsing along the length.Precome beads at the head, slick and begging.My fingers curl around the base, slow, deliberate, and I stroke up once, watching him twitch in my palm.
His stomach tightens.
His jaw locks.
“Fuck,” he grits out, eyes clenching shut like it physically hurts to be touched after going this long without it.
“Keep your eyes open,” I murmur, voice low, dirty.I run my thumb over the head, smearing the wetness there, just to tease him.Just to show him who’s in control now.“You’re not gonna miss this.”
He obeys.
Barely.
His lashes flutter open—pupils blown wide, mouth parted, panting.
I pump him slowly, dragging my hand up the full length and back down, watching the way his thighs tighten, his chest rises, and his grip on the wall behind him turns white-knuckled.My name falls from his mouth like a threat.
“Malerick ...”
I lean in, press my mouth against the head of his dick—tongue flicking once, then again—and feel him tremble.
“Still tastes like sin,” I whisper, then take him in.Inch by inch.Letting him feel every hot slide, every curl of the tongue, every guttural groan that rolls up from my chest.
