Page 14 of The Last Call Home
Confession time: while doing my job—neck-deep in angles, blind spots, and social patterns—I foundhim.
Malerick Timberbridge.
Respected sheriff.Local legend.Walking ghost of my past.The town calls him Sheriff Timberbridge like he’s carved out of granite and justice, but I know better.I know who he is underneath the badge and buttoned-up reputation.I tasted what’s underneath.
Or at least, I used to.
When he walked into The Honey Drop less than twenty minutes ago, I should’ve stayed away.I should’ve stayed rational.
Instead ...fuck, I became irrational and lost my grip on reality.
I dressed like the goddamn building was on fire and ran like a dog chasing his favorite bone.And, no—I didn’t get the bone.
I got hard.
Stupid, throbbing, uncomfortably-hard.
Standing across from Malerick again, my pulse in my cock, and then—Delilah Mora.
And that’s when it really spiraled.
She’s sex and honey and eyes that don’t just see you—they read you.They strip you bare without lifting a finger.The way she moves, the way she holds her space—confident, warm, just a little untouchable.
My brain split in two—one half drowning in the memory of Malerick on his knees, mouth stretched around my cock, eyes locked on mine while he wrecked me in silence.The other half already imagining Delilah with her back to the wall, dress bunched around her hips, lips parted, gasping that soft little whimper I bet she makes when someone slides two fingers deep and keeps her right there—desperate, wet, and aching for more.
I pushed them too far.I know that.
Too soon.Too much.
But I wanted it.
I wanted them—both of them.
At once.Alternating.Together.
I craved his mouth, her hands, and the sound of their breaths mixing with mine, our bodies tangling until we forgot which limb belonged to who.
And now?
I’m fucking hard.
Still.
And no amount of cold wind or self-control is fixing that anytime soon.
Fuck, the cold hits harder once I’m outside again.Like Birchwood Springs itself wants me gone.It stings—skin, bone, ego.Snow crunches beneath my boots as I start to make my way back to the bar—the one I’m pretending to own, the front I’m using to dig into the Hollow Syndicate.But right now?It all feels like bullshit.A second-chance story I wouldn’t buy even if it came with free whiskey.
This place—it’s pretty, postcard-worthy even.But I’ve been around long enough to know pretty towns rot, too.Sometimes the poison’s just wrapped in gingham and cinnamon rolls.
I wasn’t supposed to make an entrance.
The plan was simple: slide in, blend like wallpaper, gather intel, wait for orders.Low profile.No drama.Definitely no fucking complications.
I snort and mutter, “No entanglements, remember?”
Like that was ever a real option with Mal around.
The second the boss said, “Birchwood Springs,” something inside me twisted.I didn’t know for sure if Malerick was here, but, fuck, I felt it in my bones.This is his town.There was always a chance he’d be visiting.Of course, we’d cross paths again.
