Page 29 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)

Taryn

A fter packing up some leftovers, Dante followed me home on his bike, and I spent no less than three-quarters of the time checking my rearview mirror.

The idea of riding a motorcycle is super-hot.

The reality is that I’m terrified he’ll hurt himself.

By the time he parks it and removes his helmet, I’m a sweaty mess beneath my coat, ignoring all my good sense when I stomp right over to him.

“Do you know what the fatality rate of motorcycle accidents is?” I do because I looked it up a few nights ago. “One in about eight hundred.”

He combs his fingers through his messy hair. “Yeah? You’ve been doing research?”

“Don’t be so flippant! That’s almost eight times higher than car accidents.”

He steps up so close I have to tip my head back to hold his gaze. “Sounds like you’re worried about me.”

“Yes, of course I am, you big oaf.” I add a punch to his shoulder for good measure. He has to know how unsafe it is and how precious his life is. “I don’t like it. ”

“No?”

He’s so smug. His mouth quirking, head tilting to the side.

He likes me like this. Losing my mind about his safety.

But I don’t. I have enough to worry about without adding in the possibility of having his guts spilled on the side of the road.

“No, I don’t like it, Dante. I…” My breath fogs between us when I let out a rough exhale. “It scares me.”

He loses his arrogance and curls his hands around my face, pressing his cool lips to my forehead. “I’m sorry.”

My eyes sting, and I’m appalled at the level of fear I have about the mere possibility of losing this man.

I don’t love him.

I don’t.

I don’t care about what he does. He could move out tomorrow, and I wouldn’t care.

I wouldn’t.

“Look at me, duchess…”

I lift my eyes and try to convince myself again that he is nothing more than my renter, the renovation project manager, a good lay.

He’s…

Fuck .

He stares down at me with a tenderness that makes pretending all that much harder. I didn’t realize how impossible it would be to ignore these big feelings when the other person doesn’t.

He lets everything shine through his gaze, passion and honesty and a promise I’m not sure I have the strength to turn down.

“You that upset about my bike?” he asks, and I shrug, all nonchalant, and he rumbles an amused sound. “It’s okay to say so, you know. I won’t hold it against you. In fact, might make me think twice about it. ”

“You’re going to stop riding just because I threw a fit?”

“You didn’t throw a fit.” He sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders.

“What bothers me most is being the guy to come after the one who fucked you up so bad you think showing a little bit of emotion is throwing a fit .” He holds my chin in a hard grip, making a point.

“Sometimes I wish you would throw a fit. Everybody’s got to break at some point.

I like to know you’re actually human and not an android made to take my cock. ”

“Dante!” I slap at his chest, and he quickly sobers, smile fading.

“I’m serious, though. Barrett made you think speaking up was bad, but I want to know what’s in your head. I want to know what you’re feeling. Always. No hiding from me, all right?”

“All right,” I agree, and he kisses me on the mouth, his thumb pushing on my jaw, urging my mouth to open and accept his searching tongue, and with the swift rise of my body temperature, I’m reminded of how cold it is. I yank on Dante’s leather jacket to follow me inside.

Frankie dances in circles when I open the door, and Dante accepts a few kisses before heading to the kitchen, opening the back door to let the dog out, like he lives here. Like he does this routine every day.

Dante keeps his gaze out on the backyard as he removes his jacket and slings it over one of the kitchen table chairs without looking. As if he is so familiar with the placement of everything, he could walk around with his eyes closed.

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 eyes on 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.

And like our first night together, he stuns me with how much I enjoy his crude actions. He bends, kissing me, all tongue and teeth, sharing the taste of him between us. It’s intoxicating, and I barely realize how he pulls me up to standing, wrapping his arms around me tightly.

“Fuck, Taryn,” he rasps, voice raw. “That was… Fuck.”

I bury my face into the slope of his neck, where his wood and cotton scent is always strongest. And I know there is not much this man could ask of me that I would not give him.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving against my mouth. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but whatever it is, I’m glad I did it.”

“But that’s the thing,” I say, lifting my head. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you. Don’t you see? I’m the mean one. You’re the nice one.”

He wrenches his head back, a growing smirk aimed at me. “I’d say what you just did was very, very nice.” Without looking behind him, he grabs the can of whipped cream. “And it’s your turn now.”

He squats low and throws me over his shoulder, forcing a shriek out of me. “No whipped cream on the bed! I just changed the sheets this morning.”

“I’ll change them again.” He smacks my ass. “Small price to pay for eating my favorite meal with dessert.”