Mikalo's Grace (3 page)

Oh shit.

"I'm so sorry, Mikalo," I said, my eyes
growing wet with tears.

"My mother, she joins my father one month.
And then three months after, my Claudia joins my mother and
father."

"Your father passed as well?"

"Many years ago. Before I came to America.
Before Princeton and before Harvard."

He paused.

"You know my father was good at business,
yes?" he then said.

I nodded.

"It came up," I said.

"And my mother's father? Her family?"

"That came up, too."

"Came up," he repeated. "Funny phrase. It is
surprising what can come up."

He took another bite of his roll, his eyes
quickly glancing around the room as he chewed and then
swallowed.

"Is this a problem?" he asked, his voice a
whisper.

"Now that I know I can ask you anything, I
don't think --"

"No," he interrupted.

"Money. My money. Is it a problem?" he asked
again, his eyes still on the room.

"What's yours is yours, Mikalo. I've done
very well and I'm very proud of that. I've worked hard and am
strong, financially. I'm strong.

"So, honestly, I have no interest in what you
may or may not have from your family. I really don't.

"What I'm saying is it's not a problem with
me if it isn't a problem with you.

"Is it?"

He looked back at me.

"No," he said, his hands reaching across the
table to take mine. "And now we forget and eat, yes?"

"Yes," I said as the waiter approached with
the menus. "And I'm paying for dinner."

He laughed, long and loud.

"And dessert will be me, no?"

I couldn't help but laugh.

"I think you mean 'on me,' don't you?" I
asked.

Taking the menu, he opened it and, his eyes
on me, smiled.

"Perhaps."

Chapter Five

He held my hand as we walked the broad
stretch of Central Park West.

We had dinner. We laughed, we joked, we drank
wine, too much wine, and we talked.

And he flirted. With me, with the sommelier,
with the pretty girl who took our coats, and even with the
waiter.

"Maybe he is sad," he had said when I had
teased him, "And maybe a smile from me will make him happy, no? It
is fleeting and maybe he will take my smile and give it to someone
else who is sad someday."

Goddamn, I adored him.

And now we were walking hand in hand, the
night crisp with Fall in the air, my heart light and my steps quick
and my tongue thick with Bordeaux.

"It's promising your interview went well" I
said.

His broad shoulders shrugged, the dark
cashmere of his coat lifting and then falling with the subtle
gesture.

"It was good," he finally said.

"But good is good, isn't it?"

"So many interviews."

"Oh, there's only been one so far. Don't be
so dramatic."

He smiled.

"I meet with other Firms, too."

"Really."

"Really," he said. "Levin, Gross. Nettles,
Hayley, Viner. Some others."

"Really?"

He laughed.

"Really!" he said again, mimicking me.

"How long have you been interviewing? I mean,
are there offers? Other offers?"

"Of course. But I do not take them. Levin,
Gross, they offer me a lot of money, but it's not a very happy
place to work, I think. So I said No, thank you, and moved on. They
were not pleased."

"I can imagine."

"They come back. Offer more. I say No, again.
Again, they are not happy.

"So, you see," he said, turning to me. "It is
not a happy place to be."

And then, taking his other hand from mine, he
placed his arm around my shoulders, gathering me close.

"It is life," he said gently, "And life is to
be enjoyed, no? It is to be drank and eaten and savored and loved
and filled with laughter and love and laughter."

I hesitated, my mind suddenly cloudy with
wine.

"I'm sorry, what?" I finally asked.

"I do not know," he said. "I am perhaps
drunk."

And then we laughed.

And walked.

"You're very handsome," I said.

"Yes?"

"Yes! You could be a model."

"No," he said, "I do not think so."

"I think you could," I answered.

"Me? You would like to see me model?"

"Why not?"

He stopped, striking a silly pose, his hand
cupping his chin, his face suddenly serious and pensive.

"Like this?" he asked.

And then he moved, quickly choosing another
position, his face held open in a goofy grin, his eyes wide, as he
pointed at something in the air, like those old Sears catalogue
poses.

"Or this?"

I laughed.

"Yes, yes, yes," I finally said. "I love
it.

"You could model underwear," I then said, the
words rushing out before I could stop them. I held my breath,
hoping he didn't hear me.

"Ah, no, that would not work."

"Oh, I was just --"

"It does not work, underwear."

"It doesn't work. What doesn't work?"

He shook his head.

"The underwear. For me, it's no good."

He continued,

"It does not cover what it should cover."

"I see," I said, clearing my throat.

"Perhaps you need to wear boxers and not
briefs," I then suggested.

"The tight ones? No, no, no, no, no," he
said, shaking his head, "that would kill me."

"Oh, so you're talking about boxers -- " I
began.

"The loose ones -- " he interrupted.

"Yes --"

"Like old man swim trunks," he said.

"Yes, boxers."

"Yes," he replied, nodding.

"You wear boxers."

"No. I tried. But it was a joke. I, how you
say, I was lower than the boxers, than the bottom of the boxers,
the material, and it was not a comfort."

Jesus Christ.

"The boxers did not do their job," he was
saying, "so I had them fired."

"So, no underwear," I finally said, my voice
quavering.

He nodded.

"No. I am happy. And below, I am happy. And
it is easier, yes? To get undressed. You just open the zip and they
fall and there. It is done Easy."

We walked a few moments in silence.

"Still, you could model," I managed to say,
my mouth watering as my mind wandered, the warmth, the wetness,
below growing, the thump-thump-thump quiet, insistent, hungry
...

I needed to focus.

He spoke.

"You have no husband."

Ah, back to reality.

I shook my head.

"And no boyfriend."

Another shake of the head.

"Then you have lonely nights."

I walked, his arm around me, the dark expanse
of Central Park across the street. And then I nodded. Shrugged.

He was right.

"Why no husband?" he suddenly asked.

It was my turn to raise my hand, stopping the
conversation midstream. The quiet gesture a definite end to a road
I had no wish to walk right now.

He grew silent.

And then,

"I have lonely nights, too," he
whispered.

Another shrug.

"But not now," I said, my hand reaching up to
squeeze his. "Right now we have this. Right now, this moment, we
have this walk, this night, you and your arm around me."

He glanced at me, a small smile on his
lips.

"And it is good?" he asked.

"It's good. Very good."

He stopped, turning to me, watching me, the
light from the nearby streetlight shimmering in his dark eyes, the
thick, black brows low.

And then he touched me, his large finger
surprisingly gentle and soft as he stroked my cheek, his fingertip
rising to my temple and then down past my ear, pausing as it rose,
his hand cupping my chin, lifting my face to his.

He held me like this, his eyes on mine, his
hand holding my chin, my heart in my throat.

And then he spoke, his voice soft and
low.

"You are too beautiful for lonely nights, my
Grace."

Chapter Six

I could taste him on my tongue.

The supple flesh smooth and salty. Tasting of
wine. Tasting of lust. Of small smiles and fleeting looks. Of
beauty. Of perfection.

I could feel him on me, his hands stroking
me, the palms large and soft and warm, the fingers long.

Oh, those long fingers.

I shifted position, kicking the sheets from
my legs, and, arching my back, spread my legs further.

His lips were now on mine as I rubbed
quicker, my fingers shining and wet.

I slapped, hard, and then gripped. Hard. Held
tight, my hips rising to meet my hand as my other hand mauled my
tits, the finger oh so cruelly pinching the nipples.

I arched my back again, the thought of his
body, that gorgeous body, those amazing abs, those strong thighs,
those incredible eyes, that square chin ...

I could gnaw on that square chin. Rake my
teeth across the dark stubble, my fingers buried in his thick,
curly locks, gripping him close.

I could eat him up.

Damn.

My hand got back to work, furiously rubbing,
down then up, down then up, fingers pushing deep. Rough. Impatient.
Relentless. Cruel.

His ass.

I wanted to bite his ass.

Those firm, round cheeks begged for my
attention.

Bury my nose in the crack, my tongue
discovering his tight hole, my fingers rubbing the base of his
hardening cock as he gasped, pushing back toward me. Desperate for
it. Needing it. This young man discovering a hidden pleasure, the
muscles in his back shining with sweat as he gyrated, his eyes
closed as he lost himself in this unexpected bliss.

God, I needed him.

I rubbed harder, buried my fingers deeper,
the sheet beneath me now stained and sodden with my desire, my
gasps and groans and sighs and whimpers filling the room as I
pulled and pinched first one nipple and then the other before my
hand traveled down my body, my skin deliciously sensitive.

He was over me now, his fist clutching his
hardness. Thick, long. Huge. Hanging too low for boxers.

Jesus Christ.

In my mind's eye, he gripped it, his fingers
not quite wrapped around this battering ram now poised to brutally
assault me.

He looked up, his eyes clouded with lust, the
lids low, his lips moist as he fought to catch his breath, his
muscular shoulders round and shining with sweat.

Yes. Do it. Now. Please.

I slapped again, the sting rippling through
my body as I groaned. And then I dug first two, then three, fingers
deep. And then deeper still, quickening the pace, not caring my
nails were scratching my tender flesh or I was being too rough or
that tomorrow I would feel the scars of this urgency when I woke
and stretched and stood.

No, all I cared about right now was Mikalo.
This Greek God. This musclebound stud with his broad shoulders and
strong legs and abs like fucking rocks.

All I cared about now was that he fuck me and
fuck me hard.

"Please, Mikalo" I whimpered.

In my mind's eye, he slid into me in one
quick harsh movement, his length quickly filling me, invading me,
his girth stretching me to the point of panic.

He paused, hovering over me. And then his
lips were on mine, his eyes on mine, his chest pressed to mine, the
battering ram pushing further, inching deeper still, the weight of
him resting on top of me.

It began.

In one great, unapologetic thrust he drove
deep, pulled out, drove in again, out again. In and then out, his
hardness using me, the sheer size of him taking my breath away as I
felt myself stretch and pull and quiver and ache, my hands holding
his ass forcing him to continue, to plunge deeper.

He grabbed my hair then, as he continued to
pummel me. His great fist gathering my dark locks and gripping
them, holding me steady, holding me captive, as he moved in me.

I went weak. Couldn't feel my arms, my legs.
Could feel my body burning, yes. The skin flushed and hot. Could
feel him holding me by my hair, his head buried in my neck as his
weight trapped me and he thrust and then thrust again, his hips
pausing, grinding relentlessly.

And that glow began. The wet heat spreading
to my hips, my stomach. That quiet rumble, almost an unbearable
itch, a thump-thump-thump, building, growing in size, the wave
receding, and receding still, as it pulled away, almost out of
reach, so close yet so far, gathering strength.

I slapped again, the brief, violent sting now
addictive.

I groaned, desperate.

I dug deeper while, in my mind's eye, Mikalo
continued his assault, a great beast claiming his prey with growls
and groans and gasps, his teeth on my neck, the sweat from his brow
staining my forehead, my cheeks, my chin. My lips. My tongue
darting forward to taste him. Taste his salt. His youth. His energy
and spirit and cruelty.

Yes.

The wave built as I rubbed and dug, slapped
and pulled, my nipples now red and wounded and extended, my throat
dry as I continued to gasp and pant.

And then it crested and crashed as, with a
groan, I came, my legs quivering as I rubbed and slapped and
gripped. My back arched and then I lifted my hips, pushing my
fingers deeper as I grimaced and moaned, the sheet twisted in my
other hand.

The wave slapped the shore and then pulled
away, receding, the brief moment gone.

I fell back, my thighs still tightening as
the echoes reverberated. Rolled through me again and then one last
time.

Moving my hand away, I breathed deep,
steadying myself. Relaxed. Shifted position, the sheet beneath me
stained with desire and fantasy. With thoughts of a Greek God
sipping coffee in grey wool and then caressing my cheek on Central
Park West before cupping my chin and telling me I was
beautiful.