Page 25 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)

Taryn

I remember the day I realized Dad wasn’t coming back. It had been a few weeks. Ian had been acting weird, grumpier. Mom had been acting the exact same as always. In control. Smiling. Cool as can be.

That day, I’d been riding bikes with Marianne for a while, but I was tired and felt like going home. As usual, Ian was playing with Roman outside, Griffin reading, so I went upstairs to my room.

And that was when I heard it.

Mom crying.

My mother never cried. Not when she was happy, and certainly not when she was sad. Although I didn’t know for sure because she never let us see her be sad.

She was strong, always knew the answers, and never let on that the world wasn’t exactly as she made it out to be.

Until I opened the door and saw her on her bed, head bent over, tissues scattered all over, hands covering her face. She didn’t even hear me enter the room.

I remember her shoulders shaking. The pale blue sweater she wore and the dark droplets on her jeans from her falling tears.

“Mom?” I said, and she shot up with a gasp. The sight of her red cheeks and the lines from her mascara are seared into my memory. But I didn’t even get to say anything else before she hugged me to her, apologizing.

She apologized to me .

As if she had anything to be sorry for.

Her husband, my father, was the one who didn’t appreciate what a good thing he had with her.

He didn’t value the life he had. He was the one who thought he could do better, blamed everyone else around him for his failures.

He was the one who chose to drink away the money my mother made then got mad because one of us kids dared ask him to act like our father.

The folklore is Clifford Stone had his eyes set on the NBA in college but needed tutoring for a class.

That tutor ended up being a pretty, dark-haired girl named Violet, daughter of an Iranian immigrant father and artist mother.

Clifford, the middle son of strict Irish Catholics, had never met anyone like her.

The NBA never worked out for old Cliff, but Violet was there at his side and they married right after college. Got pregnant almost immediately.

But poor Clifford couldn’t hack the simple life. He was meant for bigger and better things, and off he went, leaving Violet alone with her toddler. But she made it work on her teacher’s salary and the occasional check he’d send from whatever the hell he did in Atlantic City or New York.

Years later, he came crawling back with apologies and promises to be better. And for a while, I suppose it was, because Griffin was born. Then me. And then Roman.

And, wouldn’t you know? Cliff still couldn’t handle it. The life of husband and father or his liquor.

But when he left that second time, he left for good, and I let my mother comfort me, when I really should have comforted her.

She was the one who maintained our family unit. Who scrimped and saved and held us together with Band-Aids and kisses. She was everything to me and my brothers, but as a grown woman and mother now, I understand how she must have felt.

Like she was never enough.

Because that’s how I feel.

Like I was not enough for my father. I wasn’t enough for Craig. And I know I won’t be enough for Dante.

Which is why I reacted the way I did the other day with him in the closet. After he literally got on his knees for me, I told him it meant nothing.

It was a shitty thing to do, but I don’t have any other options.

He is far too good, and I am far too scared for us to become anything, let alone make it for the long haul. We’re not meant to be.

And that is why I’m out here, in the shed he built for me, working my stress out on the wheel. The spinning clay centers me, helps to calm my mind. I can lose myself in the repetitive motions, forming, lifting, smoothing. I can forget about everything else except what I’m creating.

Usually.

Today, though, I can’t get a pair of intensely dark eyes out of my head.

The scratch of work-roughened hands on my skin.

The familiar smell of wood and cotton. I can’t help but replay the scene in my head, the way he stared up at me and told me he’d take care of me, then buried his nose between my thighs and inhaled, his raw yearning palpable.

Never had a man ever orgasmed simply because I did .

That needy desperation we both share for each other sends a shiver down my spine, even with the small space heater wafting warm air through the shed.

Dante really did think of everything.

And it’s as if I conjured him from my thoughts, jumping slightly when his voice cuts through the white noise in my head. “Hey, duchess.”

I look up, my hands still molding the clay, and there he is, leaning against the doorway.

His dark hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, his gaze fixed on me, a small smile playing on his lips, and gray sweatpants hanging low.

As if I don’t have enough reasons for being out here, reminding myself why being with him is a terrible idea.

Add another to the list—those sweats don’t hide how he’s a shower, not a grower, and hangs slightly to the right.

Motherfucker.

“Hey.” My throat is sandpaper. “What are you doing here?”

“Kids are with Barrett this weekend, right?”

I don’t miss the slight sneer when he says Craig’s last name.

My kids’ last name too. I didn’t want to change my name.

Not because of my father but because of my mother.

Craig always hated that I never did. Even brought it up that she ditched her Persian last name for her married one. Why couldn’t I?

One more thing added to my list of transgressions.

“I figured you could use some company,” Dante says, and I raise an eyebrow.

“Company, huh? Or are you here to distract me?”

He grins, that charming, lopsided grin that never fails to make my stomach flip. “Can’t it be both?”

I roll my eyes, but a reluctant smile that tugs at my lips.

He steps into the shed. “You feel like teaching me how to do this? ”

“You want to learn how to throw?”

“That’s what you call it?” He is utterly delighted, rubbing his hands together. “Yeah, I want to throw pottery.”

I eye him, already knowing where this is headed. Nowhere I can hide.

It’s not safe.

Not for him. And definitely not for me.

But I know he won’t leave. Once this man gets an idea, that’s it.

“Okay.” I stop the wheel, mashing the clay into a lump—it wasn’t turning out the way I wanted it anyway—and tip my head back. “Come on. Sit down.”

He settles himself behind me, thighs outside of mine, his chest against my back, and it makes me think of that first night when I rode on his motorcycle.

The one he rides a few nights a week. The one he’s asked me to get on the back of no fewer than fourteen times in the last week. The answer is always the same. No .

But, this? I can do this. Feet on the ground, his big, warm body wrapped around mine.

“What are we making?” he asks, reaching for the clay, overeager.

I slap his hands away. “A flowerpot. You need to be gentle.”

“I can be gentle.” Though the way he rubs his five-o’clock shadow along my neck is not at all gentle.

“First things first. We have to make sure the clay’s wet,” I say, and his chest expands against my chest for a comeback that I cut off because it is surely filthy. “Scoop some of that water onto it.”

He dips his hand into the bowl next to the wheel and douses the clay. “This good?”

“A little more. Yeah, that’s good. Now we mold it.”

His arms come around me, caging me in as his large hands cover mine, our fingers intertwining as I guide them up and down, shifting the shape of the clay.

His breath feathers over my ear, making me aware of every point our bodies connect.

Hip to hip, his chest to my back. It feels dangerously intimate.

Together, we form a dome, and I try not to think about his strong hands roaming my body instead of clay.

“Okay, now we open it up,” I say, and I feel more than hear the rumble of his chuckle against my back, the amused puff of air against my neck. “You’re such a child.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

I move our hands to the top, crooking my thumbs, and he copies the action. Together, we press down and out, hollowing out the middle.

“Perfect. Just like that.”

His lips ghost over my neck. “I like the sound of that praise, duchess.”

I swallow hard, determined not to let him fluster me. But it’s so hard.

He is so hard behind me. From his pectoral muscles to what I know is his dick against my ass. His sweatpants don’t hide anything.

“Don’t get smug. We’ve still got work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I walk him through the next steps, lifting the side, shaping the rim, smoothing out imperfections. His fingers follow mine the whole time, his easy inhales and exhales keeping rhythm with the spinning wheel.

As we continue, his touch grows from tentative to more confident until he’s doing most of the work. I wet the sponge, squeezing water over his hands and the clay, and he hums behind me. “This is like that movie.”

“ Ghost ?” I guess .

“They do it on the pottery table,” he says, and I sputter a laugh.

“That is not at all what happens.”

“Then what does happen, smartass?”

“He dies.”

His fingers reflexively squeeze a little too hard, and our flowerpot becomes a candy dish. I snort, my head flopping back to his shoulder. “That’s why it’s called Ghost . He’s a ghost.”

“But… They don’t do it?”

I stifle a laugh with my forearm, and he heaves a sigh. “I really thought they did it.” When my snickers subside, he slants his head back, smiling at me. “Can we still do it?”

He’s impossible, and it’s impossible to say no to him. “Not here.”

He kisses me, dragging his hands up to my wrists and forearms, painting me with wet clay. I scowl at him. “Now we’re definitely not going to do it.”

“Famous last words,” he murmurs into the slope of my neck, and he’s right.

I’ll give in. I probably always would.

Which is exactly the problem.

“You ever make a sculpture?” he asks as I stop the wheel to clean up.

“I’ve tried. I’m not very good at it.”

He makes a curious sound. “Okay, but what if you, like, make a copy of something?”

I put the clay away and wipe off my hands. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“You know how famous people put their hands and feet in the sidewalk at that theater in LA?”

“Yeah.” I smile. That was on an episode of I Love Lucy . One of my favorites.

“Can you do that? ”

“I guess.” I shrug, standing, and he follows me.

“You should make one of your tits for me.”

I slug him in the shoulder, and he chuckles, rubbing at it.

“It was just a suggestion.”

“I’m not making a mold of my tits.”

“But they’re so nice. They should be immortalized.”

“I can’t stand you.”

He snakes his arm around my waist, towing me into him, his grin doing more to soothe my weary soul than hours at the wheel. “You love me.”

“I don’t,” I say, even as my heart clangs around in my rib cage.

He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “You got a bit of clay on you.”

I lean into his touch, my breath hitching slightly. “Because you made me a mess.”

He smiles, his thumb tracing a path down to my lips. “I like messy.”

Before I can respond, he leans in, capturing my lips in a soft, slow kiss. I melt into him, reaching my hands up to tangle in his hair as he glides his down my sides to my thighs, squeezing, urging me up. I wrap my legs around his waist so he can carry me to the house. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He doesn’t even sound strained when he says it either. I’m a solid woman, in height and weight, but he might as well be lifting a feather.

I hate that I’m impressed by a gym bro.

But it doesn’t stop me from sucking on his throat, nibbling on his earlobe, earning a smack to my ass cheek before he sets me down on the sink in the bathroom upstairs and proceeds to turn on the water in the bath. He aims a stern pointer finger at me. “Do not move.”

Curiosity wins out, and I don’t. He disappears for a few minutes as the tub slowly fills up, steam rising. Right when I start to get up to turn off the water, he returns. “I told you not to move.”

“I—”

He points at me again. “Only good girls get rewards.”

My brows shoot up, a mixture of irritation and…

excitement flooding my veins. But he doesn’t notice how my cheeks turn pink and hot because he’s too busy filling the tub with bubbles and lighting candles.

He even produces a bag of candy, places it on top of a long piece of wood that he sets across the width of the tub, along with my favorite flavor of sparkling water and a headband that matches a new fluffy robe.

“Dante.”

He turns to me like he puts together professional baths every day.

“You… Did you buy all this?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He waves his hand like it should be obvious.

“For the off chance I’d take a bath?”

He nods. “For the off chance I could provide you with a nice, relaxing bath, yes. I bought this stuff. It’s not that big of a deal.”

My throat clogs and my eyes sting. “I wish you’d stop saying that. This all… Everything has been a big deal. A big fucking deal.”

He frowns. “Why do you sound mad about it?”

“Because! Because you don’t need to do it.”

“I know.” He closes in on me. “I want to do it.”

I close my eyes to the tears threatening to spill out, and he kisses my temple, murmuring, “Get in the tub. Relax. I’ll be back in a bit.”