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I slap his shoulder. “There you go, ruining the moment again.”

He pulls me into him, pressing my naked chest against his, and I don’t fight him when he kisses me, rolling me to my back. Instinctually, I wrap my arms and legs around him as he roams his hands up and down my sides. He grows hard against me, but there’s no urgency in his touch. It’s lazy, both of us caught somewhere between awake and sleep. I let out a soft sigh, pressing back against him, inviting more.

He cups my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple until it hardens, as his tongue finds mine in a deep kiss that lulls me into a stupor. So much so that I tell him, “You don’t need to pull out. I told you I can’t get pregnant, and I trust you aren’t sleeping with anyone else.”

“Never,” he swears into the skin of my chin. “Are you sure?”

I snake my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his shaft, notching the head at my opening. “Positive.”

He freezes, gazing down at me in the dark. “Wait, you didn’t even come yet. Are you wet enough?”

“Make me.”

I hear more than see him spit on his fingers before he swipes them up and down the length of my pussy, pressing and rubbing my clit, making sure I’m ready to take him. Then he slides in slowly, inch by inch. He’s right, of course, I am not as wet as I need to be, but he doesn’t stop getting me there, kissingmy neck, licking my nipple. Eventually, my body gives way, allowing him to seat himself completely, and we both moan into a kiss.

His pace is languid, each thrust deliberate and controlled. It’s a different kind of pleasure, a slow burn rather than a raging inferno. His tongue slides against mine in time with the glide of his cock, this slow and sweet sex more intimate than anything we’ve done before with only our breaths as our soundtrack and the wounds of our past hovering over us. But each one of our shared heartbeats closes them. Each soft sigh is a promise to be tender. Each kiss takes away the sting.

My orgasm is a steady climb, and soon, I’m gone, dissolving under the pleasure like sinking into a warm bath. There are no stars in my vision, but my heart is not where it used to be. Instead, it’s floating above me, straight up to Dante’s chest as he rocks his hips one last time.

“Taryn,” he whispers, voice hoarse with emotion. It’s not a question, not a demand. It’s a statement, a declaration. My name on his lips is a secret of devotion in the early morning.

“Yes,” I reply, my voice barely audible. It’s all I can manage, all I need to say.

Yes, I’m here.

Yes, I’m with you.

Yes, I feel this too.

He rests his weight on top of me, our bodies still connected, pressed together, entwined.

I let him hold me. I let myself feel this, whatever it is. I let myself be in this moment, in this place, with this man. And for now, that’s enough.

For now, that’s everything.

Chapter 21

Dante

My mother is a phenomenal cook, but only if it’s Italian. For the fifth year in a row, she’s ordered Thanksgiving dinner, picture-perfect browned turkey, piled high mashed potatoes, and green beans that are so shiny and angular, they look fake.

It’s almost a shame to dig into it.

I did a double workout this morning so I could eat double tonight, and I plan on stuffing as much sweet potato pie as possible down my throat.

So, it’s another goddamn shame when we’re barely a few minutes in, and my father opens his mouth to tell me, “Rumor has it this apartment you’re living in is owned by the same broad that runs The Nest.”

Broad? As if he’s Frank Sinatra in some Atlantic City nightclub.

Across from me, Johnny snickers like an asshole. I’m sure he’s the rumor.

I set down my fork and wipe my mouth. “Yeah. She does own it, and her name is Taryn Stone.”

Dad raises his hands up like he meant no offense when I know he did. He lives to humiliate me in any way he can. I’m not sure why… Is the disappointment of his middle son so great he has to prove it to everyone? Is it some contest he plays with himself, seeing which kid he can pit against the other and who will come out on top? I don’t understand, and I’m getting tired of it.

“Just don’t shit where you eat,” Johnny warns me, and I roll my eyes.

“Next time I want advice from my little brother, I’ll ask for it.”