Page 10 of The Last Call Home
I blink.Twice.
Nope, still there.Still that face.That body.That don’t-fuck-with-me energy that made every woman and maybe man in the room suck in their breath—and maybe their gut too, depending on how much they want him.
Me?I’d do him.Obviously.What warm-blooded, sex-loving human wouldn’t?
I’d let him wreck me and thank him for it.
Especially since Malerick Timberbridge—resident brooder, jaw-clenching, an emotionally unavailable slice of temptation—seems entirely uninterested in my very clear and generous “please climb me like a tree” proposition.
It’s infuriating.
I’m thirty-six years old and nine months into knowing exactly what I want.My skincare routine is working overtime, and I’ve earned the right to skip the middle school bullshit.I don’t have time for smirks that say “maybe” and ghosted text threads.
I don’t want promises.I want orgasms.
Consistency.Chemistry.
A little post-coital cuddling wouldn’t kill him, either.
I just want a no-strings-attached arrangement with someone who has more game than my goddamn vibrator.Is that so unreasonable?
Apparently, yes.
Because Malerick—who smells like pine and penance and looks like sin carved in shadows—won’t take the fucking hint.Not even when I practically pitch him a slideshow: Ways We Could Mutually Benefit from Casual Sex Without Wrecking Our Lives.
He just looks at me like I’m something between a temptation and a disaster.
Maybe I am.But aren’t we all, in some form or another?
Still, I’m not asking for forever.Just a night or two.Maybe five.Definitely one in the shower.One against the door.Maybe one of those mornings where I wear nothing but his shirt and ...shit.
I need to get a grip.A literal grip.Preferably on him.But I’ll settle for my vibrator and a tub of cookie dough ice cream until the universe stops playing hard to get.Or ...and this is an innovative idea, I’ll go and see what kind of thirst this Cassian character will quench.I’m all for exchanging espresso and liquor if we’re also going to be using mouths and hands during the exchange.
Obviously, it’ll be a very delicate balance between the guy I want to fuck and the one who I just met but seems like really wants to fuck me and ...
Honestly, I think Cassian wanted to fuck Malerick too.
Or fight him—or both.
It was hard to tell with all that jaw clenching and not-blinking and that weird moment of ...was that longing?
Maybe I’m projecting.Perhaps it was just two emotionally constipated men staring each other down like cowboys in a showdown.
But if that showdown ended with ripped shirts and accidental moaning—I wouldn’t be shocked.I would just hope they’d include me.
Frankly, I’m not sure which fantasy is more plausible.
This entire situation feels like one long, drawn-out “what the hell are we doing?”scenes without a script.Were they ever together?Are we heading there?Is this some angsty three-way standoff where I’m the accidental prize?
I’m game as long as orgasms are involved.
Too soon to ask?
Definitely.Especially when Malerick’s got that homicidal calm that makes me wonder if I should bolt for the fire exit.
The second he mutters, “I’m gonna need a stronger coffee,” I look up from the cake display and study him like he’s a crime scene I’ve been assigned to solve.
“Okay, seriously.What the fuck was that?”
