Page 106 of The Last Call Home
“She has two bodyguards—who she shouldn’t be feeding,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.There’s a flush creeping up his throat, and it’s almost endearing.
Almost.
He rolls his eyes.“Seriously, what’s with that woman and food?”
I let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.“Hosting and making people feel like family is her love language,” I tell him, leaning back against the car just enough to watch his reaction.“It’s part of our culture.Sure, we were both born in this country, but we still have our roots.You’ll get used to it—and learn to love it.”
Something shifts in his expression.That guarded tension melts a little.His lips tug into a slow, crooked smile that makes my stomach lurch and heat unfurl low and deep inside me.
“I had no idea,” he murmurs.“She’s always tried to feed me—and my brothers.Ever since we were kids.”
“She’s been feeding your hunger for years,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His smile falters, and the air changes.There’s something raw in the way he looks at me now.Not just heat—but hunger.For something deeper.Something buried.
“My mother never let us go hungry,” he says quietly, “so I don’t get it.”
“You needed extra love.”
The words fall out, soft and certain.I step toward him before I think better of it, drawn to him like I always am—like I hate myself for being.
His jaw ticks.That controlled restraint he always wears slips for a second, and then he reaches for me.
His hands are on my waist, pulling me into him like he’s starved, and I’m the only thing that’s ever tasted right.His grip tightens, and before I can breathe, his mouth crashes against mine.
The kiss isn’t sweet.It’s not tender.
It’s a fucking storm.
All tongue, teeth, and raw hunger.It devours.It demands.It tells me everything he’s been holding back and everything I’ve been aching to feel.
My fingers slide into his shirt, curling into his chest, dragging him closer until there’s no air, no space, just heat and skin and the desperate sound of our breaths tangling between us.
He groans into my mouth like he needs more, like kissing me isn’t enough, like he wants to take me apart right here, against the hood of his car, against the memories of fire and ruin.
But then he pulls back just enough to press his forehead to mine.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent.
I blink.“For what?”
“For being here.For being you.”His hands slide up to cup my face.“For not letting this break you.”
My lips part, and I want to tell him it’s breaking me in places I didn’t know existed—but his mouth is back on mine before I can speak.
One last kiss.Fierce.Fast.Final.
Then he pulls away with a grunt, as it costs him something to leave.Like walking away from me right now is the hardest part of his day.
“I’ll see you later,” he says, voice hoarse.
And then he’s gone.
And I’m still standing there with the taste of him on my lips and the ache of goodbye pressing into my skin.
ChapterForty-Five
Delilah
