Okay, for real, this will be the last book in the series. I honestly wasn’t planning to write book 2 and I didn’t think I was going to write book 3 but here we are, LOL.
This book, just like the first, will be available everywhere.
“I’m just like…” I sigh. This is going to be the start of a forever argument between us and I just hope the Lord grants me the serenity to accept stupid. “…why must you people always come into black culture, take what you like, and then put your own spin on it? Like why must you Elvis Presley-Pat Boone-New Kids On the Block-Justin Timberlake-Miley Cyrus it up?”
Ian curiously blinks at me and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused. I especially hate how his blue eyes are staring into my soul, silently asking me to remove my panties so he could lick me otherwise. Is he actually thinking that? Probably not. But I’ll think it for him.
“So, you don’t want me to serve the oxtail in a canapé?” He softly blinks.
We both know I have no idea what a canapé is but mama didn’t raise no punk. “I’m just saying if you’re going to serve soul food at Sentiment, the patrons need to know it’s soul food. Emphasis on the soul.”
Ian scoops a little of the oxtail onto the canapé and puts it on a small dish. “Try it,” he dares.
I’m hungry. I’m always hungry but I’m starving right now and that oxtail smells hella good. They smell like an 850 credit score and clean mountain air. My stomach rumbles with anger, wondering what in the blue hell is taking me so damn long, and my legs are about to give up and walk over to Ian their damn selves if I don’t move.
Reluctantly, I walk over and grab the plate. Damn, my knees buckle and my mouth waters. My stomach is about to jump out of my body and start force-feeding me if I don’t do something quick.
Before I take a bite, I examine the plate closely. I’m doing this just to be dramatical but I have to pretend I’m serious, even though I’m about to start licking the plate. The gravy looks like perfection. The garlic, onions, and chile pepper are tickling my nose. And that beef? Father God! I’m about to go HAM on this shit.
Ian can’t know that, however. With a calm and collected demeanor on the outside, I give him a polite grin and take the canopy or whatever the hell it’s called, and take a bite out of it.
I done died and went to heaven.
Mouth-watering, praise-break dancing, ten thousand orgasming, flavor in my freakin’ mouth and I’m about to stop eating so I can blow my man in the middle of our kitchen. He got it perfect and I feel my ancestors actually standing up and clapping.
Instead, I just slightly nod. “It’s good, baby.” Don’t lick the plate, Domi. I repeat: you will not lick the plate. “You did a good job.”
Ian slightly grins at me, though I think it’s a smirk. He got my black ass. “Did you want another? I made plenty.”
My stomach is about to knock me the hell out if I don’t accept. “Um, sure.”
“Just one thing,” Ian puts the craps on bigger plate and holds it. “Repeat after me, okay?”
“Um, okay?” I shrug.
“I’m sorry, baby, that I accused you of cultural appropriation but I promise you I’ll give you the best blow job ever to make up for it.” Now Ian’s soft grin is now a full-blown smirk and he’s dead serious. Big dick bastard.
I sigh and fold my arms. “Can I just give you the blow job later and avoid saying all of that? I’m hungry.”
It’ll be out sometime this summer. I’ll announce a release date as the book nears completion.