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Then, after Frankie trots back inside for a treat, Dante puts the leftovers away in the fridge, save for the plate with pie, helps himself to adding an entire can of whipped cream to the pieces of pumpkin pie, and plucks two forks from the drawer. One for me, one for him.

Biting back a smile, I shake my head, enjoying the sight of him here way too much. This cozy little domesticity.

I scoop up a forkful of pie, the whipped cream piled high, and shove it into my mouth to keep from acting on the appeal. Dante does the same, and we eat in comfortable silence, even as my mind is anything but. I keep thinking about how he ended up here, with me, instead of with his family.

“Wanna talk about whatever happened today?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.

He swallows his mouthful of pie. “Same old shit.”

“Your dad?” I guess, and he nods.

“As soon as we sat down to eat, he started making comments, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I usually try to ignore it, but…” He turns to me, licking his lips like he’s lathering up the courage to admit whatever is on his tongue. “After talking to you, I guess I didn’t want to keep quiet anymore. I don’t want to keep taking his shit. So, I said something back.”

“Good. Good for you.”

“But then my brothers jumped in and…”

“And what?”

He sighs, leaning to set his elbows on the counter, and it takes him a minute to continue, his gaze down at where he scratches his fork’s tines along the crumbs on the plate. “In the moment, I was pissed. But now I feel shitty, you know? It’s not easy being the family fuckup.”

“You are not a fuckup. Is that what he said? Did he call you that?”

“Implied it.”

“That’s bullshit.” I toss my fork down and tug on Dante’s shoulder until he faces me. “You’re amazing, and it’s not your job to convince him of anything, but he’s an asshole for thinking you need to. You’re hardworking and kind, and if he can’t see that, that’s on him. Not you. He’s the asshole. He’s the fuckup.Not you.” I poke my index finger into his hard chest to prove my point, and he catches my wrist.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I huff, my anger growing. “I hate him. I hate him for making you feel like this. I hate him for not seeing what I see.”

Dante’s responding laugh is not one of amusement. “Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to get all riled up on my account.”

“No, I will.” I push away from him. “You deserve to have someone in your corner, and when the chance comes to tell your father off, I will. I promise you that.”

He tows me back to him again, his hands around my neck, fingers under my hair, thumbs bracketing my jaw. “I’d pay good money to see that.”

He thinks I’m kidding. I am not. One day, I’ll tell that man exactly what I think of him. But for now, I want to make Dante feel better. I want to show him that he’s worthy, that he’s desired.

I dip my index finger into the dollop of whipped cream on the pie and lift it between us. Dante watches me with a heated gaze as I suck it off, moaning quietly. His nostrils flare when he inhales audibly. “What are you doing, duchess?”

“Showing you what I think of you.” With one hand, I work on his belt buckle and zipper, gathering more whipped cream with the other before sinking to my knees.

“Oh Jesus,” Dante mutters, closing his eyes, and I grin. The way he goes from zero to one hundred never fails to delight me. I’m not sure if he’s always been like this—so easily pressed—but I like to think it’s me. I’m the one who turns him on so much, he literally cannot handle it.

When I finally pull out his already hard cock, I paint the tip with the whipped cream, rubbing it around the ridge of the head and over the weeping slit. He slowly dips his chin, his eyeson fire when they meet mine, and I offer my fingers up to him, sticky with the residue of the cream. He holds on to my wrist to lick each finger into his mouth, sucking on each tip, grazing the pads with his teeth, and I know that’s what he wants me to do to him.

When he releases me, I wrap my hands around his tense thighs and lean in to lick off the white cream, circling my tongue around and around before wrapping my lips around him. He’s thick, and I have trouble taking him to the back of my throat, so I use my right hand to help, encircling the base, squeezing and pulling while I suck on the wide head.

He heaves in a breath, hand slapping on the counter to hold himself up. “Taryn, oh Jesus, please, babe. I’m dying. That’s so good. Fuck.”

His senseless, slightly slurred words spur me on, and I concentrate on the things he likes, long pulls of my mouth, fingers prodding at the sensitive place behind his sac, and soon, his fingers are in my hair. More mumbling. More heavy breathing.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, fingers tight against my scalp. “You have ten more seconds before I come down your throat.”

I’m not sure if that’s a challenge or not, but I take it as one. I suck harder, stroking him in time with my mouth, then chance walking my other fingers back farther between the seam of his ass and press against the hole there. He coughs in surprise, heaving a low, “Oh fuck. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t have to tell me. I know the moment before he releases, his muscles trembling, and I relax my jaw, accepting his hot orgasm in my mouth. His cock jerks and spurts a few times, a mix of salt and sweet on my tongue, but before I can swallow, he grips my chin, sticking out his own tongue, a sign I should do the same.