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It’s not a romantic setting. There are zero candles, and the crappy ceiling light is going full force over the espresso-hued table. My place looks like a real bachelor pad since that’s what we decided on for my cover. The furniture is very uninspired, there is almost no art anywhere, and the condo is very cheaply made on the inside. It’s not my taste, but then, when I think about what and where I came from, I want to laugh at myself. This would have been a palace to the pre-Granny version of me.
Art. That’s what it needs. Artwork. Preferably my own. But damn, that just makes me think about tattooing, and I miss it so much that it burns like acid in my stomach and rockets up my throat. It doesn’t stop there, either. It burns in my sinuses. That’s right. Tonight, I’m firing up my machine that’s down in my crappy, unfinished basement, and I’m giving myself some new ink. It’s either that or one of my brothers gets his butt over here and volunteers.
As I pull out Ayana’s chair for her because I’m a gentleman and my granny would tan me for not having proper manners at all times, I imagine prepping a very different chair—well, it’s more like a massage-style bed—for Ayana. I imagine her baring her skin to me, letting me ink her, and leaving a permanent mark there. She already has tattoos, but she doesn’t have any by me. My mouth goes dry, my heart speeds up, and my blood reaches a dangerous level of warmth. I have to shake that notion right out of my head before things start happening. Pants things. Boner-style things. Um, okay, just…fuck.
I circle around the table and drop down in my chair so hard that the thing screeches. As I said, it’s not an expensive, quality set. I hold still for a moment, hoping I didn’t just break the chair with the force of my own phallic exasperation. Nope. Apparently, it’s all good.
I lift the lid on the steaming dish of carbonara, and Ayana’s eyes flutter shut. She inhales deeply, and—fuck me all the ways—my dick is not behaving. All it takes is one deep inhale and an eye flutter, and I’m in serious trouble over here.
Granny. Think about Granny. Ask about Granny. All grannies are always guaranteed boner deflators. If they’re not, you have serious problems, my friend. Serious. Problems. Unless you’re over seventy. Then maybe it’s okay. Ugh, god. Granny, sexy? God, no. Just no. Or maybe yes. It’s working. My boner is deflating. Perfect. But just…ewwww.
I need to get out of my own head because things are getting weird up there. “So? How was it? Dare I ask?”
Ayana isn’t shy about grabbing the serving spoon and scooping a massive amount of pasta onto her plate. I feel like she’d tell anyone who told her carbs weren’t okay that they could fuck right the fucking fuck off. “Oh, you know. It was okay.”
Okay? Is that good or not good? “Please tell me Granny didn’t do the double Glock thing at the range, take you to that weird coffee shop with the gross name that’s close by, and then give you a lecture on authenticity flavored liberally with threats about never hurting me, followed by laughable but mortifying anecdotes about me as a younger, not always so smart lad.”
“Ummmm, yes, to about eighty-six point eight percent of that.”
“Do I want to know which eighty-six point eight percent?”
“She actually didn’t tell me anything embarrassing about you.”
I want to headbutt the table. Or maybe it would be more like a facepalm in the form of my forehead meeting the thick table’s surface. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. I can’t believe she did the Glocks of glory routine for you.”
“That’s what you call it? Holy bologna, that’s too good!”
I need a subject change, pronto. “Is the pasta agreeable?”
Ayana takes a bite, closes her eyes, and makes a soft moaning noise of pleasure that no amount of granny panties is going to cure as she chews. Yup, I’m as hard as a bloody baseball bat under the table. “It’s the best. Seriously. How could anything with bacon not be the best?”
Gah. I think I’ve literally just met my soulmate. I mean, Ayana can fire a gun, she’s not afraid of Granny, she has a whole lot of other skills that are utterly mesmerizing besides the ones I know about already—and I don’t mean the bedroom, btw, jeez Louise—she’s enchanting, lovely, smart, kind, she’s the whole package. And she likes bacon. Why, just why, does she have to come attached to a daddy of death? Though, I suppose, she was probably asking herself the same thing about Granny this morning. The granny of gore? Granny of Glocks? Grouchy Granny of gargantuan proportions?
“Since you’re here tonight, I hope it means that Granny wasn’t too terrible.”
