Mikalo's Grace (12 page)

"Of course," I said.

"I'd love ..." I continued, another small
belch swallowed. "I'd love to."

And I smiled, looking forward to spending yet
another night with my Mikalo.

If only I had heard dance.

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

It was high school all over again.

Me hiding in a corner, my two left feet
tucked under my chair, my eyes down. Willing myself invisible,
dreading the possibility of being noticed. Or, God forbid, of being
asked to dance.

Mikalo sat next to me, his arm draped around
my shoulder as he talked and laughed and drank and ate.

We were surrounded by his friends. In fact,
in this restaurant out in Queens, in Astoria, I believe, we were
surrounded period, the room filled with people, bodies snaking
between tables and chairs, the aisles full. Even brave souls
sitting on tables, their butts bracketed by a plate of food on one
side, a jug of delicious wine on the other.

Old women with bent backs and dancing eyes.
Young men with hard bodies and easy smiles. Old men sitting quietly
with canes and small children running about, their mothers, wide
hips seated on sturdy wooden chairs, watching and laughing and
eating.

And the men.

My goodness.

Thick dark hair, dark eyes, square jaws and
brilliant white teeth. Broad shoulders and barrel chests, their
biceps thick and muscled, their legs sturdy, their asses rounded
and tight as they swaggered by.

Or blond and lanky, the skin burnished bronze
and long arms toned, surprisingly blue eyes and gentle faces with
kind smiles. Effortlessly seductive as they bent low to kiss your
hand, their eyes watching you from beneath infuriatingly long
lashes.

Christos, Jaysen, Piero, Alexandros, Darion,
Stavros.

The names tripped of Mikalo's tongue as they
approached and gave him a hug before turning to me and either
gathering me into their arms to give me an affectionate squeeze or
quietly taking my hand in theirs as their lips grazed my flesh.

Yes, this was nothing like Deni's party.

One heaping plate after another of food.
Glass after endless glass of ouzo and wine and then more ouzo and
still more wine. A constant, almost deafening buzz of conversation,
in Greek or English or a combination of both, people slipping in a
Greek word when they couldn't think of the English and vice
versa.

And then laughing.

And always Mikalo, sitting by my side, his
arm around me or his hand in mine, his presence, his warmth, the
scent of him, all of it a comfort in the midst of all these
boisterous strangers.

One of his many friends, this one with
beautiful brown eyes and thick low brows and luscious skin the
color of soft, buttery caramel, handed me a small shot of ouzo.

I politely declined.

"But it is Mytilini," he said, offering the
small glass again.

"Mytilini?" I asked, turning to Mikalo.

"It is the only ouzo to drink," he explained.
"Very difficult to find outside of Greece.

"Please," he continued, "It is a wonderful
gift. A rare treasure here, so far from home. And it is only
polite, yes?

"And Christos, he is such a good friend. We
only want that you have a good time."

For a third time I was faced with the stout
shot of clear liquid. Sighing, I took it from this Christos,
smiled, glanced over at Mikalo who indicated I was to knock it back
in one clear gulp, and brought it to my lips.

I swear a hush fell over the room, all his
friends waiting for my reaction as I drank the licorice flavored
drink and then swallowed the slightly thick liquid in one big
gulp.

I winced, my eyes burning, my throat burning,
my nose burning, my face, I was certain, turning red.

A cheer came from the room.

Laughing, I held the empty glass in the
air.

"Ouzo!" I yelled.

They all laughed, another round of applause
erupting from the crowd.

I turned to Mikalo.

"No more," I quietly said. "I'm still
recovering from last night, so, please, no more."

"But my Grace," he responded, moving close,
his breath warm against my lips, "This taste, it is something I
love."

And then he kissed me, his tongue lightly
licking the anise from my lips as he sighed, his arm pulling me
close.

He pulled free, his nose grazing mine as he
smiled.

I turned to Christo.

"Another ouzo, please."

Chapter Thirty

Her plump hands took mine and led me deeper
into the circle.

I had drunk too much ouzo, I think. Had eaten
way too much. That, I was sure of.

And now this kind woman with the happy face
and wide hips and generous stomach was leading me barefoot and
woozy onto the floor to dance.

They had moved the tables -- to where, I had
no idea --, creating a large circle in this sea of people. The ouzo
still flowed and the food kept coming, the conversation still
buzzed, and there was still laughter and shouts and cheers and
greetings and tears and joy and kisses and hugs.

And now there would be dancing.

The music started.

Where was Mikalo?

I glanced around, the woman's hands firmly
gripping mine.

He sat surrounded by Christos and all these
other men whose names I had forgotten looking happier than I had
ever seen him, his heart truly belonging with these people in this
culture with this food and drink and all this laughter.

Catching my eye, he winked, silently urging
me to go and dance and enjoy myself.

But I couldn't dance.

Or at least I don't think I could.

We stopped, this kind woman and I.

Patiently watching me, a teacher guiding a
new, clumsy student, she held me tight as she moved her bare feet,
first one way and then the other.

I followed, awkward and embarrassed and ill
at ease.

She laughed, grabbed my hips and shook
me.

"Too firm!" she joked.

"Like this," she then said.

And she moved her body, shaking her hips,
their width swaying to the right and then the left, her thick
fingers snapping as her pudgy feet danced, her lips curling into a
grin.

"Yes?" she asked, watching me, her smiling
eyes lost in the folds of her happy face.

I swayed my hips.

"Yes!" she said, her hands finding the rhythm
and clapping.

Lifting mine, I snapped my fingers, aping her
movements.

She joined me, laughing, following me as the
music pulsed, the bodies around us dancing and stamping their feet
and swaying their hips and snapping their fingers and clapping
their hands.

Little boys bouncing next to their mothers.
Little girls swaying with their fathers. Couples pressed close as
their lips touched, their feet moving in time, the rhythm between
them already established and familiar.

Young and old, fat and thin, they lost
themselves to the music, whatever inhibitions they had banished by
glasses of ouzo and endless bites of rich, hearty food and the
safety of friends and family they loved.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to drop my
worries.

Somewhere I could hear Mikalo cheer and
clap.

I smiled, my body finding the beat, my feet
moving, my fingers snapping, my skin feeling flushed and my tongue
thick as I danced, not caring what I looked like or who was
watching.

My hips swayed, my hands inching down my
stomach to my thighs as I gyrated, then traveling up to gather my
hair from my neck as I continued to move.

This felt good.

I turned this way and that, the old lady now
applauding, her laughter coming from a distance, her own steps
having taken her from a student who no longer needed guidance to
her own space, her rhythm now searching for its own pleasure, its
own joy.

My eyes opened, the bodies around me a whirl
of twisting and turning, of stomping and clapping and snapping
fingers. Of laughing faces and shining skin sweaty and flushed from
drink.

My hips moved again.

The crowd cheered.

I stamped my feet, my fingers snapping.

I heard applause.

The people had moved back, allowing me
room.

Soaked in ouzo and wine, I didn't care.

I danced.

Another cheer from the crowd, their clapping
rhythmic, urging me on as I gyrated and swayed, stomped and turned,
snapped my fingers and threw back my head.

More cheers, more clapping.

And then a huge, collective shout.

I opened my eyes.

From the edge of the room, he came near,
threading his way through the tables and chairs and people as he
stripped off his shirt, his muscled flesh gleaming with sweat.

Smiling, I held my hands out to him,
beckoning him near, the ouzo flowing through my veins making me
brave.

He came close.

The crowd was cheering louder now, the room
filled with the thunderous sound of stomping feet and hands
slapping tables and clapping.

He stood in front of me now, his nose close
to mine.

He took my hand, his arm around my waist.

A huge cry from the crowd, and then
laughter.

His hairy chest pressed close, the scruff of
his unshaven cheek and chin rough against my face, his unfamiliar
lips close to mine, he moved near.

I reached up, gathering his shoulder-length
dark curls in my fist as we took our first step, his thick, muscled
body moving with mine, his breath hot on my lips as we swayed first
one way and then the other.

And then this stranger and I danced.

Chapter
Thirty-One

I didn't know his name, this dark-haired stud
who grinded his hips into me as we moved across the floor, his
strong hand on the small of my back as he led me.

He was not a friend of Mikalo's. He had not
been introduced to me, his name not in the rambling list of Greek
accented vowels and consonants I had struggled to hear through the
constant buzz in the room, the Greek voices melding with the clink
of cutlery against plates and children laughing.

No, I don't remember meeting this man.

But I knew him.

Or, rather, my body did.

My hips knew his, my lips were familiar with
his, our breath already friends.

Although a stranger, we held no secrets, the
sweat from our bodies mingling as his heart spoke to mine, my
wetness responding to the improbably thick hardness pressing
against me.

He turned me, at once catching me and
bringing me close as he pulled me into him.

I looked into his eyes.

They were hooded with lust.

His face moved close, the stubble once again
gently rough against my smooth cheek and then my neck as he dipped
his head low.

I held him to me, my hands resting on his
massive shoulders as our hips ground into each other, the music
thumping and pumping, the clapping of the crowd still rhythmic and
loud.

My heart was in my mouth.

Briefly, I thought of Mikalo. Briefly, I
feared his jealousy. Briefly, I considered letting go of this
muscled mountain of a man.

Briefly.

We continued to dance.

When I walked backward, he walked forward,
our steps in perfect time.

When I turned, he turned.

When I breathed, I felt the heat of his lips
on my flesh.

When I pressed myself into him, I was
rewarded with his hardness. Thick and hot. Not as long as Mikalo,
no. But much thicker.

And hard. Very hard.

I felt my mouth water.

This was only a dance, I told myself. You
love Mikalo. He's your man, he's the one you came with, and he's
the one who's going to ravage you tonight.

Not this man. Not this stranger.

No, only Mikalo.

He quickly turned me again, catching me.

He paused, his eyes looking into mine as his
hand slowly traced down my back.

And then we were dancing again, the room
filling with others. More couples, more children, more strangers
stomping and clapping and snapping their fingers as this stranger
and I, this man, stepped and grinded and breathed our way closer to
cumming.

I glanced over his shoulder.

Mikalo.

He sat, ouzo in hand, watching us. His eyes
heavy with desire, his mouth slightly open, his breath ragged, his
hand resting in his lap, his palm laying flat to disguise the
hardness beneath his jeans.

I ran my hand up the stranger's neck and
nestled my fingers in his hair, grabbing the sweaty, curly locks in
my fist.

He smiled, this man, pulling me to him
tighter.

Mikalo gulped and breathed deep, his gaze
still locked on us.

The music sped up, the bodies around us
writhing and twisting and turning and dipping. A blur of dancing
strangers riding a wave of drink and very loud Greek music.

We turned again and then again, our hips
swaying, the sweat dripping off his chin onto his neck and then
running in rivers through the dark hair on his chest.

The scent of him was intoxicating.

I closed my eyes and breathed deep.

He was a worker, most definitely.
Construction, maybe. The clean scent of soap not quite covering the
dust, the gentleness of his touch not hiding the roughness of his
palms, the subtle grinding of his thickness into me not concealing
his brutal hunger to take me and take me hard.

I allowed myself the fantasy of tasting
him.

Fantasized about him tossing me onto the bed
and roughly taking me. No foreplay, no tenderness, no polite
whispers and sighs. Just forcing my legs apart as his tongue
assaulted my mouth, his stubble scratching my skin before he rammed
his improbable thickness deep and then rudely fucked me. The speed
of his thrusts giving vent to his need, the desperation of his
grunts and groans as he trapped me beneath him taking the place of
gentle moans and quiet groans.