Page 20 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)
Taryn
O ver the last week, Dante has become a staple at my house.
Like we’re living some old-school sitcom, with the funny upstairs neighbor poking his head in the window to toss out some wisecrack.
Except, instead of the funny upstairs neighbor being a sarcastic old man, he’s an annoyingly handsome young man with a penchant for sexual innuendos and a bad habit of providing me candy.
Jake has developed a special affinity for Dante, who is unsurprisingly capable at teaching my son stereotypical paternal lessons that he misses out on with Craig. Between soccer practice and meals, Jake has been outside hammering away on Dante’s project even after the sun has set.
It is incredibly heartwarming. And even more disturbing.
Because I can’t deny how I turn all gooey inside when the two of them clasp hands, smiling and laughing. Or hear how excited Jake is to hang out with Dante, clearly missing that kind of relationship in his life.
Worse yet, Maddie is always included. She’s learned the difference between a flathead and Phillips screwdriver and has told me about the importance of girls knowing how to perform household maintenance.
“For their independence,” she said, according to Dante.
As if I’ve never told her that before. As if I haven’t always harped on her knowing how to do everything on her own so she didn’t have to rely on anyone else.
It’s impossible to pretend my children aren’t falling as fast and hard for Dante as I am.
Even for his stupid turtle.
That he’s brought down to show us how the thing gets around on his stupid adorable skateboard, lying on his belly and pedaling with his hands and feet… Or whatever you call a turtle’s feet. Paws? Claws? Stumps?
I don’t know, but those are questions Dante is making me consider. Going to the grocery store and buying extra carrots so Maddie can take them up to Dante’s apartment to feed Tortellini and discuss the latest episode of Gossip Girl since they’re doing a rewatch together.
Honestly… I hate how much I like him.
Every single day, I look forward to seeing him, acting like I’m not actually hanging on his every word.
It’s pathetic how I’ve started dressing for his compliments and finding moments I can be alone with him, which are much too far and few between.
Because everyone wants his attention—the crew at work and my kids at home.
He’s everyone’s favorite, but I want to be his favorite.
And it makes me feel out of control.
I never expected nor wanted to be attracted to anyone after my divorce.
My life is a series of spinning plates, and one misstep could send them crashing to the floor.
I put these plates in motion years ago, but lately, they seem to be moving faster and faster, and I fear Dante’s unrestrained force will send them all careening away.
Yet I can’t stop it. The inevitable spill.
Which is why I spend a few hours downtown.
After meeting with Ian and Griffin for coffee, I waste another hour at Lux others, she smells weird.
My periods are out of whack, and I’ve had so many blood tests done, I’m on a first-name basis with all the phlebotomists at the testing center.
But what I really detest is how I sometimes pee when I cough or sneeze or land a roundhouse kick to a pretend attacker.
Which is why I purchased a “pelvic floor strengthening course.”
I have no idea if I’m actually doing anything as I complete these exercises, but the perky blond lady leading them certainly thinks it’ll help, so I’ve been faithfully doing them every week.
I grab the two yoga blocks I need and position myself on top of them before hitting play on the video, and I close my eyes, as instructed, imagining an elevator shaft in the middle of my body, inhaling and exhaling to send that elevator up and down.
I hear the back door open and assume it’s one of the kids, so I don’t press pause on my exercises. They’ve heard and seen this all before.
“Now, take those breaths further. Zip up those transverse abdominals with every exhale and suck up a blueberry with your lady parts. That’s it. Big inhale and exhale, let it go. Drop the blueberry, set the elevator shaft down, unzip the abs.”
I hear a big exhale next to me, and since I know Frankie is outside, it can’t be him. I open my eyes and shoot my arm out in reflex at the intruder.
Dante catches my wrist, grinning. “Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to scare you and your blueberry-picking lady bits.”
I growl and lean over to grab one of the yoga blocks I’m sitting on, whacking his shoulder with it. “You asshole.”
“Hey.” He laughs, stealing the block from me to put under his butt as he sits down. When I hit the pause button, he has the gall to act affronted. Like I interrupted him .
“We were just getting to the good part.” He moves to play it, but I nudge my shoulder into his, knocking him off-balance. He takes me with him, down to the floor, my breath stolen when he rolls us so I’m on my back, and he pins my hands above my head. “Mm. Now, this is the good part.”
“What are you doing in here? Besides annoying me?” I ask, though there is no actual ire in my voice. Only breathless anticipation.
“I came in for a drink but then heard some real interesting stuff happening in here. Seems like a really good workout. What else can you pick up with your lady bits? Grapes? Cherries?”
I attempt to wiggle away from him, but it only settles us more in place, his trim hips fitting snugly between mine.
His stomach against mine. Our chests so close that every one of my inhales sends chills across my skin at the way my hard nipples rub against him.
It’s torture, even through the multiple layers of fabric.
They’re so sensitive and needy. Ever since the night he ordered me to feed them to him.
I won’t ever forget that.
And from the way Dante stares down at me with heat in his eyes and filthy words I know are gathered on the tip of his tongue, I don’t think he will either.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, and my body responds of its own accord. My thighs bracketing his hips, back bowing to bring us even closer together. “All flushed and sweaty.”
His grip tightens, thumbs digging into my wrists, and I remember that too.
Those slight reminders of who is actually in charge, and the visceral memories are too much.
The scent of his skin then and having him so close to me now.
The feel of his tongue on me with his mouth so close to me now.
The full and throbbing echo of his cock inside me taunts me with his hardening length resting against the cleft of my sex now.
It’s all too much.
I can’t breathe.
“Please,” I gasp, “the kids are right outside. ”
The slow and wicked twist of his lips sends a shiver down my spine. “Then you better be quiet.”
I buck my hips, trying to dislodge him, but he’s too heavy, too strong. “Dante, I mean it. We can’t do this here, not now.”
He leans down, his breath hot on my ear. “You say that, but your body is telling me something different, duchess. I can feel how much you want this.”
I can’t deny it. My body is a traitor, my nipples hard, my core pulsating with need. An ache that only he can satisfy.
But I can’t give in. I shake my head. “We can’t do this here.”
He pulls back the tiniest bit, enough to allow me a deep breath that only fills my lungs with his now-familiar scent of freshly cut wood and clean cotton. “But you do want to do this.”
I do. I really fucking do, but I push against his chest, my voice firm. “No.”
He searches my face, his expression softening. Then, with a sigh, he rolls off me. I sit up, adjusting my clothes, trying to regain my composure. But it’s no use. The idea is in my head. My nipples are hard points through my sports bra and T-shirt. Heart racing.
“We can’t,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes to slits, hoping he’ll let it go. Leave me and my spinning plates be.
But of course, he doesn’t. He huffs a rough sound and rakes his hand through his hair before pointing at me. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re fooling me. You’re not. You certainly aren’t fooling yourself either.” He waves his hand up and down the length of me like it’s proof enough.
It is, and I hate him for pointing it out. Even more for continuing to tell the truth.
“You want to be thrown around. I know you do. I know you want me to fold you up like a pretzel and fuck your pussy until you can’t breathe. I know, so don’t look at me like it doesn’t turn you on when I talk like this. You forget I’ve already done it. Fucked you so good, you felt it the next day.”
With my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, I am unable to reply.
He simply nods to himself then stands, silently holding his hands out to me, helping me up as well.
He tucks the loose strands of hair that fell out of my ponytail back behind my ears then steps back.
“I’m ready.” His searing gaze marks my skin, leaves a scorching trail down my throat, over my chest, down my stomach, to settle between my thighs before it glazes over.
I don’t know what he’s imagining, but I can guess.
Then his eyes are back up on mine, honest and open, so I can see how much he wants me.
Even without his promise. “I’m ready when you are. ”