Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64938 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
What the hell is happening right now?
It looked like his favorite, seafood pasta, and a colorful salad Grace was adding to two wooden bowls.
Mirage sat at one of the six stools on the other side of the island, his mouth beginning to water.
Is…is that…homemade dressing?
The realization that Grace, his rigid, complex partner, who he’d thought he knew inside and out, possessed such culinary skill left him speechless.
There was no way he could hide the surprise or newfound admiration.
Mirage shook his head in awe, and a hint of relief flashed across Grace’s eyes.
“How come you get this fancy-ass setup, and my kitchen looks like something you’d see in a college dorm room?” Mirage pointed at the sophisticated stove. “Look at that ventilation system and all those ovens.”
Grace didn’t look over his shoulder, continuing with his job.
“And is that a…what is that? A mini wine cellar.”
“Cooler,” Grace corrected in a dry tone.
“Fuck you. They gave me a microwave that sits on the counter, and my refrigerator will barely fit a bottle of wine.”
“If you want a better kitchen, Mirage, get yours remodeled.”
He hadn’t heard Grace speak this much at one time. Mirage didn’t want him to stop.
His rough voice had shifted from gritty to hot velvet—a romantic tenor of intimacy and passion Mirage wanted to wrap himself in.
He accepted the glass of wine Grace slid over to him and took a long sip.
“I guess this setup would be a waste in my condo since I don’t know how to use any of this stuff.”
Not wanting to seem completely inept, Mirage muttered, “I can cook a few things.”
“Mmmm,” Grace hummed, stimulating Mirage’s groin.
“Yeah, I can make um, meatloaf, Salisbury steak, and that, uh”—Mirage snapped his fingers—“oh yeah, beer-battered chicken. It comes out pretty good too.”
Grace stared at him with one brow raised.
“Yes, I’m being for real. I make the chicken potpie for lunch three to four times a week”—I bet all this food took him hours to cook—“and each meal only takes me about twenty minutes or less.”
Grace paused what he was doing, still not appearing convinced, so Mirage added, “It’s pretty tricky, too, because I have to remember to stir the side dishes midcook, or they’ll have those little chunks of ice in the middle.”
Mirage was being serious, but a bark of genuine laughter exploded from Grace’s mouth. Mirage had to grip the edge of the island to keep from falling off his stool.
The sound was alien and strange, and once Grace realized what he’d done, he snapped his mouth shut before a deep scowl marred his handsome face.
Mirage couldn’t move.
Grace’s hardcore exterior had shattered right before his eyes, revealing a glimpse of humanity still in his partner, buried beneath his steel armor.
“And here I was arrogantly thinking that nothing you did would catch me off guard again.” Mirage closed his eyes. “That’s how well I thought I knew you.”
Grace ducked his head and focused on drizzling the dressing over their salad.
“Your smile is bright enough to rival the stars, Grace,” Mirage whispered.
“Jesus.” Grace sighed, sounding embarrassed and mortified at the same time.
“All right, gorgeous, on a lighter note, tell me when you learned to cook like this?”
Grace’s Adam’s apple dipped almost down his throat as if he was relieved Mirage didn’t continue commenting on his slipup by literally laughing out loud.
“When we’d come home on break, I’d spend a lot of time in here bullshitting around with different recipes.” Grace looked at him with vulnerability in his eyes. “Besides your touch on my back, Mirage, cooking is the only thing that mutes the torture that was done to my mind.”
How the hell was Mirage supposed to respond to that?
Grace joined him at the island, the air charged with what was sure to come after dinner as they ate in comfortable silence.
Mirage
Dinner was five-star restaurant quality.
Mirage was so turned on he’d had to escape to the bathroom after Grace stood and began to clear the dishes.
The domestic shit had Mirage’s mind twisted.
Grace was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, no matter how many pieces he put together.
Mirage washed his hands, splashed water on his heated face, and then gargled some mouthwash to rid the taste of garlic and shrimp lingering on his tongue.
Nerves swam like minnows in the pit of his stomach, aggressive and erratic, but it didn’t overshadow the intense throbbing in his groin.
Mirage had fought his urges and needs for so damn long, and every day that he painfully craved his partner, he wished he’d never altered his serums.
Mirage was aroused to the point that he wanted to go out there, throw Grace on the couch, and rub against him until he was sated and no longer aching.
When he left the bathroom, everything was returned to its place in the kitchen, and the island was spotless, with a bowl of fruit sitting in the center.