Page 87 of King of Pain
Yeah, I need a distraction before my dick takes over my brain.
“You got any ideas for dinner?” I ask, steering my brain to safer territory.
Ant glances at me, stretching his arms over his head. “Yeah. I was thinking The Old Spaghetti Factory.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to let me eat someone else’s pasta?”
Ant grins. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not the best Italian food. Not even close. But some dishes are decent, and the atmosphere is fun. It’s more of an experience. Plus, it’s walking distance to the pier.”
I smirk. “Well, get your cute ass in gear and get cleaned up so we can go. I’m starved for some Italian.” I wink, proud of my inuendo.
Ant fires back with a playful grin and decides to play dirty.
He slowly and seductively unbuttons his jeans.
Right in front of me.
Anddrops them.
I freeze. My mouthfalls open. Becauseholy hell.
Black boxer briefs.Painted on.The huge bulge stretching against the fabric is…
What the fuck.
He doesn’t seem to care that my soul isleaving my bodyas he casually wraps a towel around his waist. Then the fucker shimmieshis boxer briefs down, stepping out of them, the towel still on and slung dangerouslylow on his hips.
I am not breathing.
Ant turns toward the bathroom, and just before he steps inside, hepauses.
Heglances at me over his shoulder.
And drops the towel.
Just lets it go.
A perfect, tight, bubble butt in all itsglory left in its wake.
Then, with the most innocent fucking voice, he says—
“Oops.”
My jaw drops.
“Did you mean this cute ass?”
Then he steps into the bathroom andshuts the door.
“Oh myGod!” I scream, and fall back onto the bed, hands covering my face.
“Fucking Italians,” I mutter to no one. “They need a warning label.”
After a torturous hour of watching Ant get ready, we’re walking into The Old Spaghetti Factory. The restaurant is exactly what I expected: charmingly outdated with an eclectic mix of colorful décor. Oversized wine bottles cradled in wicker sit on high shelves, the lighting is dim and golden, and each table is covered with crisp white butcher paper. It’s big, but cozy, and reminds me of the small Italian restaurants in Boston’s North End.
The hostess leads us to our table, and I slide into my seat across from Ant. My gaze flicks to the pile of crayons in the middle of the table, and it clicks—that’s why the paper is here.
Ant notices what’s got my attention. “Oh yeah, they let people draw on the tables,” he says, grabbing a crayon and twirling it between his fingers. “Classy, huh?”
