Page 56 of Just This Once

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 fatheror 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?”

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