Page 62

Mirage

Mirage walked into Grace’s home, not bothering to knock.

He was more relaxed after a thirty-minute shower and fifteen minutes of jerking off.

He’d come twice, hoping that was enough to make him last more than five minutes when he sank inside Grace. He wanted to give him all he could take.

And just like the last time he’d entered Grace’s home, he smelled food.

“Why in God’s name are you cooking, Grace?”

Mirage dropped his overnight bag on the couch and went toward the kitchen.

“I was gonna go down to the cafeteria and grab us a couple of plates. It’s meatloaf night.”

“You call that shit-brick meatloaf?” Grace grumbled with his back to him while flipping some kind of seafood in a gleaming silver pan.

Mirage walked up behind Grace and loosely wrapped his arms around him.

The black silk pajama set he had on felt cool against his cheek.

“You didn’t have to make me a fancy dinner. I was gonna give it up anyway.”

Grace hummed in a way that sounded half-turned-on and half-humored.

“Cooking relaxes me, Mirage.”

Mirage’s dick began to harden at the sound of Grace’s voice, at the way he was speaking to him more and more. Only him…no one else.

“And it’s far from fancy. It’s a salmon salad.”

“That does sound better than meatloaf.”

He watched Grace add some butter and then twist off some sprouts of whatever herb was on a side plate.

“Can I help?”

Grace glanced over his shoulder, scowling down at him with one raised brow.

Mirage sucked his teeth.

“Don’t give me that fuckin’ look. I told you I know a few tricks in the kitchen.”

Grace grunted, then moved a cutting board to the other side of the stove and placed two cucumbers and an avocado on it with a small, slender knife.

“Peel and cut the cucumbers in quarters, then slice ’em thin.”

Mirage nodded.

How hard can it be to peel a cucumber? I peel apples all the time.

“Then slice the avocados into half-thick slices.”

Mirage nodded again.

“No problem.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I open my big mouth?

Grace

If Grace was a laughing kinda guy, he’d be cracking up right now.

Mirage looked like Grace had just asked him to butcher a whole hog.

“Don’t I need an apron?”

Grace scanned Mirage’s basic gray sweatshirt and well-worn jeans with faded knees.

“I love this sweatshirt,” he argued.

Bullshit .

He was sure Mirage could read that sentiment on his face, but Grace went to his closet to fulfill the request anyway.

After picking one he no longer used, he peeked around the corner to find Mirage hurriedly scrolling on his phone.

Grace harrumphed to hold in the chuckle rising from his gut. He couldn’t deny that Mirage’s pretending was fucking hilarious.

Grace cleared his throat when he walked back into the kitchen, and Mirage jumped so hard his phone slipped from his hand and hit the flagstone floor.

“I was just, um, checking the weather for tomorrow in case we decide to do some outside training.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Grace tossed Mirage the apron and ignored the way he slowly put it on, then hefted the cucumber and knife, staring for a long moment before he began peeling.

Trying to peel it.

Grace busied himself with mixing the ingredients for his Asian sesame dressing, tasting as he went along. When he was pleased with the balance, he added the mixture to the dressing shaker.

While he was shaking, he snuck a look at Mirage’s process and saw the cutting board was a complete mess. Peels and several thick cuts of cucumber littered the floor.

What in the actual…?

Mirage forgot about the small bowls beside him and slid the few pieces of cucumbers he’d salvaged onto the counter.

But it was the avocado that made Grace’s mouth fall open.

Mirage was slicing the pieces about an inch and a half thick, with the goddamn tree bark-like skin still on.

The confusion Grace was feeling was a vast understatement.

Mirage was a master with knives and slicing through flesh with exact precision, so Grace didn’t know how he’d botched this task so badly.

When finished, Mirage grabbed a wad of napkins and scooped up the inedible avocado slices, along with the ten or twelve cubes of cucumbers.

“Finished.” Mirage winked as if he’d performed his duty with the accuracy of an Iron Chef. “Anything else you need cut?”

Grace shook his head.

“Okay.” Mirage removed his apron. “I’ll set the table.”

At the sound of a plate—his porcelain Sonoma dinner plate—hitting the floor with a loud crash, Grace gritted his teeth, not bothering to turn around.

“Dammit, I’ll sweep that up. I’m not used to such heavy plates. I prefer paper. Dixie Ultra makes heavy-duty ones, y’know.”

Grace was shocked at the slight curve of his lips.

“Where’s the broom, Grace?” Mirage sucked his teeth. “It’s probably in a specially made white-oak broom closet located in a hidden compartment in the southeast corner of your fancy-ass kitchen.”

Grace barked a long-held laugh that felt as good to him as Mirage’s touch.