Page 7 of The Last Call Home
If she had any fucking clue what Cassian Harlan can do with his mouth—what he could do with his cock—she wouldn’t be so quick to toss out that sass.Or maybe she would.Perhaps she’d beg for it with her lips still mouthing no.
But what she doesn’t know—what she hasn’t learned yet—is that the high comes with a crash.You don’t just get touched by Cassian.
You get ruined.
And once he’s done, you’re left chasing.
“Pity,” he says, voice low and lazy, dripping with intent, sliding in our ears like honey.It curls down your spine before you know you’re on fire.“Because I believe in reciprocity, sweetheart.Very hands-on hospitality.You give.I give.Tit for tat, babe.”
He leans in—not just toward her, but toward both of us—his body heat kissing the space between, making the air thrum with something reckless.Electricity hovers just beneath the surface, buzzing under the skin.
“Drinks on the house,” he murmurs, his gaze dragging from her mouth to mine.He’s tasting the idea of us.Licking at the edges of temptation, shrinking the space until his breath teases along my jaw.Almost a kiss.Almost a touch.But not enough.Never enough.
“Or anything else you’re thirsty for.”
Then that tongue of his—slow, intentional—slides over his bottom lip like he’s already unwrapping us in his mind.
Pure sin.
Fuck, he knows it too.
“And trust me—when I pour, I don’t stop at half-full.I make sure everyone leaves satisfied.”
Delilah doesn’t say anything.Can’t.Her lips are parted just slightly—eyes dialed in, pupils blown wide like she’s trying not to fall into the gravity of him.
I try to save us both.
“She’s not interested,” I say.But my voice betrays me.It splinters down the middle, raw and wrong, a lie no one believes—not even me.
Because honestly, I want to beg him to ...to—fuck, why the fuck is he here?Why do I still react like this after all these years?
Cassian’s snort is low and brutal, dragging across my nerves.“Of course,” he says, a voice dipped in smug satisfaction.“Just like you aren’t either.”
Then his gaze drops.
Bold.Brazen.Right to the telltale bulge pressing against the front of my jeans.His smirk widens, filthy and triumphant.And, fuck, he’s right—I’m hard.Painfully, desperately hard.One more breath from him, and I’ll forget where we are.One more word, and I’ll break.
I’m already so fucking close to begging him—almost.
“I’m not,” I bite out.My voice is low, a scrape of denial wrapped in need.
I won’t do this again, I don’t say out loud.I just promise myself that I won’t.Because I know how it ends.
I know what happens when you let Cassian Harlan under your skin.
When you let him in, even a little.
He doesn’t just fuck you.
He fucking wrecks you.
And worse—he makes you crave the destruction.
Every kiss, every thrust, every low, filthy moan against your skin becomes something you need.Something you’d beg for with your spine bowed and your hands gripping the sheets like absolution.
“Somehow,” he drawls, stepping back—but not before his fingers ghost the side of my neck, light as a breath and twice as lethal, “I think this round’s going to be a lot more fun, Timberbridge.”
His touch burns a trail I feel long after it’s gone.A brand hidden in plain sight.
