MB Saucy Side: Revenge is Pretty (Featuring Grayson) (Patreon)

“It’s custom, of course,” Roland Black boasts, pointing proudly to the felted table that dominated his office (his desk having been shoved into the corner to make room for it). “Made by an Italian woodworker—Carozza, one of the artists whom Gray’s mother showcased at the gallery. Engravings are the same as Blaire Hatt’s, only his table is from the late Tudor era and too fragile to play on.” Roland guffaws loudly. “I offered to buy the thing off Hatt—God knows that drafty estate of his could use a cash influx—but the old fool refused. Got myself a newer, better model. This one is heated, y’know, to help the balls roll faster.”

You surreptitiously slide your hand into Gray’s so that he can hear your thoughts:  Your father sounds like the villain from a nineteenth-century Gothic novel.

Your boyfriend’s lips compress as he tries (and fails) to fend off a smile. “I was under the impression that Mum gifted you the table,” he tells his father. “Her personal request to Carozza since he doesn’t usually take such large commissions.”

“Well, yes,” Roland blusters, “but I personally selected all the details.” He runs a wrinkled hand lovingly over the red felt before grabbing a cue stick from the rack.

Gray squeezes your hand. “Mum only bought it so that he’d stop harassing poor Mr. Hatt,” he whispers as his father begins chalking a cue’s tip.

You examine the table before noticing something odd: the table is completely flat, without any holes for the balls to go into. “Why are there no pockets?” you ask.

Roland’s bushy brows fly upwards. “It’s not a snooker table,” he exclaims, aghast. “It’s a traditional billiards table, an almost exact recreation of a model from the early sixteen-hundreds.” He scoffs derisively. “Pockets.”

Your eyes eventually glaze over as Roland proceeds to bombard you with the history of billiards (the earliest recorded table belonged to King Louis XI) and how the game differs from pool and snooker. When you have the audacity to ask what ‘snooker’ is, his lecture evolves into a rant on American ignorance.

It makes for a very unpleasant afternoon, and you’re not saved until Gray’s mother comes to collect you all for dinner.

“Stop badgering them, Ro,” Helene fondly chides, which causes her husband to grunt in protest but reluctantly obey. Helene’s Bostonian accent is still prominent despite having moved to London over three decades ago (making you wonder how the two ever fell in love, given Roland’s evident distaste for all things American).

Helene smiles as if reading your train of thought (she’s not a Ment, however, which means her understanding is born out of natural insight). She hangs back to walk beside you.

“Ro’s still upset that Grayson moved away,” she explains in a quiet voice. “He hasn’t had a good thing to say about the States since.”

You smile at her. “I’m sure that we’ll find some common ground over dinner.”

* * * *

By the end of dinner, you’ve envisioned twenty-seven different ways to strangle Roland Black (your favorite being with his own bowtie). Gray, noticing how your agitation rises every time his father speaks, politely declines on both your behalf to remain for dessert under the excuse of “it’s been a long day, and we’re still dealing with jetlag.” This gives Roland an opportunity to complain that his son only suffers jetlag because he insisted on moving to that “filthy city” (Chicago).

Gray hastily escorts you to the rental car before you can act upon your increasingly violent urges.

“I apologize on my father’s behalf,” Gray says once back at your hotel. “He’s . . .”

Gray hesitates. No matter how horrible his father, your boyfriend usually tries to avoid complaining out of respect for his mother’s (historically futile) efforts to maintain peace between her husband and son.

“An asshole,” you bluntly fill-in. “Your dad is a huge asshole.”

Gray sighs, but a faint smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth. “My father can be difficult to get along with,” he concedes.

“Clarence from Aeon’s front desk is difficult,” you say. “Your dad is more of a Caligula.”

Gray’s smirk evolves into a reluctantly amused smile. “True. I’m sorry about his interrogation.”

“You tried to stop him.” You sit down on the hotel bed, patting the space beside you for Gray to sit. “But I now get why we’re not staying with your parents.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Gray says, “my mum is great.”

“She is great,” you agree. “Makes me wonder why she married your dad.”

“Yeah. He can be . . .”

“Difficult?”

“An arse,” Gray finally admits. “Mum promised that he’d be on his best behavior, otherwise I never would’ve exposed you.”

“We’ve been dating for two years. It was past time that I meet your parents.”

Gray groans. “I know. It’s just that I go in expecting the worst from my father, but then he somehow manages to surpass even those expectations. Complaining about the States is one thing, but those questions about kids? He all but implied—” Gray breaks off in a frustrated growl and sits next to you on the bed, burying his face in his hands.

“He implied that my mind blindness meant I wouldn’t be fit to parent.”

Roland hadn’t directly stated as much, but his belief had been clear: he didn’t consider you good enough for his son, let alone to be the parent of any future grandkids. How could you look after another human, he’d implied, when you need so much looking after yourself?

“You’d be a great parent,” Gray insists. He jolts upright, expression panicked. “I mean, in the future. If we want. Not now, obviously. We’re not even engaged yet.”

“Engaged yet?”

“Yet,” Gray repeats resolutely, despite the pinkening tips of his ears.

You lie down on the bed. Gray stretches beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist so that you can rest your head on his shoulder.

“Getting married sounds nice.” You yawn and snuggle closer to Gray. Your plane from Chicago landed this morning, and dealing with your future father-in-law has made an already long day of traveling feel positively tortuous.

“It sounds really nice,” Gray agrees. His yawn is even wider than yours, which causes you to yawn again.

Just need to make sure of one thing first. You think the words at Gray, too tired to continue talking aloud.

“Hmm?” Gray mumbles, already half-asleep.

Do we need to invite your father to the wedding?

“Hells, no.” Gray’s arm around you tightens. “He’d probably refuse to attend a wedding in the States, anyway.”

* * * *

The next morning, you and Gray stop by his parents’ house for breakfast only to find a note taped to the front door: “Art Emergency – Gone to Gallery. Breakfast in Fridge.”

“What exactly qualifies as an ‘art emergency’?” you ask.

Gray shrugs. “Probably some problem involving framing at the gallery that Mum runs.” He glances over at you with a sly expression. “It’s hard to keep children from touching the paintings.”

You groan. “I was eight.” The worst part about having a boyfriend capable of reading your mind was that he knows all your embarrassing childhood stories.

“Old enough to know better,” Gray says.

“Just don’t tell your mom about my art vandal past,” you reply. “I want her to like me.”

Gray kisses the top of your head. “She loves you.”

You step into the house, headed towards the kitchen. “Your father isn’t here, either,” you note in relief.

“He always tags along for Mum’s emergencies,” Gray says. “Growls at people when she points, threatens to call contacts that blocked his number years ago. That sort of thing.”

You snicker. “It’s surprising. When it comes to Helene, Roland acts so . . .”

“Biddable?” Gray suggests.

You nod, and he chuckles.

“Believe it or not, retirement has turned my father into a veritable kitten,” he says. A shadow falls over Gray’s eyes. “Comparatively, at least. He was a controlling tyrant back when I was in school; I never understood what my mother saw in him.”

“You’re saying that Roland used to be worse?”

“Infinitely,” Gray confirms. “He’s better now, but even so . . .” He heaves a sigh. “Even so, I feel guilty for exposing you to him.”

You place your hand on Gray’s shoulder, letting him hear your inner thoughts and feelings: your understanding that Gray wants to remain close with his mother, along with your hurt over Roland casting doubt upon both your suitability as Gray’s partner and your potential future as a parent. When Gray had angrily called out his father during last night’s dinner, Roland had simply proclaimed that he was only asking “innocent questions.”

Gray flattens his hand atop of yours. “I’m sorry. Say the word, and we won’t see him again this trip.”

“I’ll tolerate your dad for Helene’s sake,” you reply, “but I want revenge.”

“What did you have in mind?” Gray asks.

Your lips curve into a devilish smile as you imagine the scene for his benefit. Seeing what you intend, Gray’s entire body goes still as if electrified. Without another word, he grabs your hand and leads the way into his father’s study.

* * * *

It’s not easy to balance two adult bodies atop a billiards table, even one as sturdy and expensive as Roland’s. Neither you nor Gray are too concerned about stability, however, nor comfort for that matter. Your only concern is getting as close to Grayson as possible, kissing him so deeply until you both forget how to breathe—or snogging so deeply, to use the dialect of Gray’s people.

Despite your initial proposal of “let’s have sex on your dad’s pool table in order to get back at the bastard,” all thoughts of Roland immediately flee your mind the moment that Gray pulls off his shirt. Golden hair dusts across his firm chest, its pattern narrowing at his naval and leading intriguingly down below the hem of his jeans. You push him onto his back, then straddle his chest, admiring the way that the table’s eight-foot length frames your boyfriend’s body.

Splayed across the red felt, gazing adoringly up at you, Grayson Black is the prettiest picture ever.

The corner of Gray’s mouth quirks upward in amusement. “I’m not sure how I feel about being called pretty,” he says, wrapping his large hands around your waist and adjusting your position.

“Don’t worry, you’re still ruggedly handsome and oh-so manly,” you tease, pressing yourself against his chest. His breath hitches as your head falls to his shoulder and you whisper, lips caressing his ear, “But you’re also very, very pretty.”

Gray lets out a low, pained groan at your declaration. He grabs the back of your head, his kiss is fevered and desperate, and his tongue insistently finding yours as if to steal the word ‘pretty’ right off it . . . but you don’t need your tongue to talk.

You’re pretty, you think as Gray deepens the kiss. Gorgeous, beautiful, stunning.

Gray’s chest rumbles with laughter beneath you. “It’s unfair that you get to compliment me while we’re kissing,” he gasps against your lips, “whereas I have to stop kissing you to—”

You silence him with another kiss. Keep trying, you encourage. Someday, maybe I’ll be able to hear you back.

Gray murmurs something against your lips—probably something along the lines of “I hope so” or “I’ll keep trying.” You don’t particularly care what he’s attempting to say, because you already know his heart: Grayson thinks that you’re pretty, too. More than pretty. The unequal footing between you two still frustrates him at times, however, which is why his long-term goal has been to learn to project his thoughts to you (not an easy feat for a non-telepath).

Grayson’s short-term goal? That would just be you.

The billiard table creaks in protest as Grayson flips positions so that you're flush against the felt and he’s balanced over you. Soon, it doesn’t matter who can read whose mind; neither you nor Gray are capable of cohesive thought.