Page 66

Grace

Motherfuckin’, goddamn, fuckin’ shit.

Grace refused to holler all the curses ripping through him as Mirage pounded him into the mattress.

It was after two in the morning, they were on their fifth round, and his sex-crazed partner showed no signs of stopping.

Mirage had taken him across the bed, on the side of the bed, propped against the wall, and in the shower. Now, he had him back, face down, on the bed.

Sweat poured off him as Mirage yanked him to his knees, gripping his hips, and started slamming Grace onto his cock.

Mirage’s strength and determination to make him pay for all the years he’d craved him was outrageous. No one should have that kind of stamina unless they were taking metabolism enhancements.

Oh yeah. Shit.

Again, Mirage thrust inside and stayed his hips. Each time he did that, the hard throbbing of Mirage’s cock against his prostate made Grace shudder.

“Uggh, shit.”

Grace came again, his cock already so spent from the last orgasms he only released a few drops. But the intensity of the sensation never lessened.

“Do you understand what it felt like now, Grace? Or should I stay buried inside you until the sun rises?”

“Fuck you,” he answered with no resistance, his voice weak and raw from his guttural moans.

Mirage tsked. “Dawn it is, then.”

Mirage

Mirage did what he’d promised and fucked Grace all night until he’d passed out around five fifteen in the morning.

He should wake Grace’s ass up and fill him again, but his partner looked wrecked. Mirage would take pity on him for now and ease off the punishment for a few hours.

He leaned over and nestled into Grace’s neck, sucking on his salty throat.

“Mmm, fuck off, Mirage. I’m staying asleep this time,” Grace muttered, then turned over, giving Mirage a good view of the palm prints he’d left on Grace’s lightly tanned skin.

Too wired to sleep, Mirage got up and went into the bathroom to wash off a night’s worth of sex sweat in the biggest shower that could fit in an apartment.

With a long towel wrapped around his waist, he went into the living room, drew back the floor-to-ceiling drapes, and opened the doors to the terrace to feel the morning breeze on his wet skin.

“Damn. I need coffee. And food.”

He couldn’t go downstairs and eat because Grace had been adamant about him being there when he woke, so he went into the kitchen, flicking on all the light switches to see what he could find.

He believed he’d always be wowed by Grace’s kitchen. And it never failed to make him horny when he watched Grace navigate it as if he were doing a show for the Food Network.

He went to the coffee maker…at least, he thought it was a coffee maker.

Mirage sucked his teeth, throwing his arms up in the air.

“Why is there a goddamn touch screen?”

He touched it to wake it up, and it displayed multiple images of cup sizes and brew strengths to choose from.

Fuckin’ hell. Simplicity is lost, and I blame this generation.

“All I want is a cup of fuckin’ Folgers.”

He had to settle for a glass of orange juice and a piece of toast he burned in the many over-the-top settings on Grace’s toaster.

Neither was satisfying. He was still starving. After last night’s marathon, he needed a lot more sustenance.