Mikalo's Grace (9 page)

He was unzipping his pants, his hardness
already visible through the expensive wool.

I weakened, kissing him yet again, my
hypocrisy battling my deep need to have him.

And failing miserably.

Grabbing my hand, he guided it, my fist
gripping his heat, his width. The shaft beating like a heart in my
hand, the tip of my thumb discovering his own wetness.

My skirt was pushed up, the fabric bunching
above my waist, his fingers already stoking the heat of my
lust.

Moving closer, he sighed, his breath hot on
my skin.

Quickly, he turned me, bent me over the sink,
our reflections facing us.

And he was inside.

I groaned.

Loud.

He covered my mouth, quieting me.

Moving slowly, he allowed me time to adjust,
to relax, to accept him and let him move deep, and then deeper
still.

I closed my eyes, my hands steadying myself
as they rested on the mirror.

He picked up the pace, his head resting on my
shoulders as he hunched his back, holding me close.

Moving quicker, I could feel the juices run,
my wetness staining my thighs, running down my legs, dripping to
the floor beneath.

I was going to cum. And cum hard.

"Ronan?"

We stopped.

Blazen. Outside the door. In my office.

Shit.

Chapter Twenty

I waited, holding my breath.

Mikalo didn't.

His eyes watching us in the mirror, he moved
in me. Slowly. Teasing. His hand now clutching my breast through my
jacket, his fingers finding the nipple and pinching, hard and
slow.

"Ronan? Are you okay?" Bill asked again.

He and I had traveled together, gone to
conferences. Commiserated over our love lives and seen each other
at our lowest. He was like family, so for him to talk to me through
the bathroom door wasn't a big deal.

Usually.

But goddamn, Mikalo was working his magic,
moving to the side to hit one spot and then to the other to find
yet one more, my wetness paving the way for him to slip his way
deeper and deeper.

But if I didn't respond to Blazen, say
something, anything, he'd get worried. Or suspicious.

And I could barely breathe let alone
speak.

"I'm fine," I finally managed. "Thank
you."

I watched Mikalo's reflection in the mirror.
The slow smile of satisfaction spreading across his face as he
moved quicker, one hand holding my hips, the other still torturing
the tender flesh of my breast.

"Good, good," Blazen was saying. "I just
wanted to touch base, you know. Check in and say hello before
..."

Shit. He couldn't continue. Couldn't mention
the meeting. Or what they had decided. Mikalo couldn't hear this.
Not yet. And not here, like this.

Blazen had to shut up.

"It's no, no problem, Bill," I interrupted,
my voice catching as Mikalo plunged deep.

Another small smile of satisfaction as, with
a flash of innocent cruelty in his eyes, he watched me watching him
in the mirror.

"Are you sure you're good?"

"I'm good," I panted. "Very good."

"Okay, but, hey, I want you to know that
everything is going to be okay. It's tough, but, you know, whatever
you need, I'm there for you."

"Sounds good, Bill."

Oh god, just go away.

Mikalo was moving faster, his eyes narrowing,
the lids growing heavy with lust as he drove closer and closer to
filling me.

"Maybe we can do dinner one night this week,"
Blazen was saying.

I was going to cum. Mikalo's width, his
thickness, his throbbing hardness insistent and hungry, forcing me
closer, a great wave inching near as it reared back, growing in
strength.

"Bill, please, can I ... please ... oh god
--"

It happened. My body shaking, my legs
trembling, Mikalo catching me and holding me steady as my legs grew
weak, my knees buckling.

I gasped.

"Hey, I'm sorry," Bill said, his voice no
longer at the door. "This is rude of me. Again, I was just ..."

The rest was a blur as I gripped the sink,
Mikalo pushing himself deep, his head resting on my back while he
oh so quietly gasped and sighed, his body shivering and shaking as
one, two, three, and then four, five times he throbbed inside
me.

"I'll talk to you later," Bill was
saying.

And then I heard him leave.

I looked at us in the mirror.

I was a mess. My hair sweaty, my jacket open,
my shirt unbuttoned and stretched. My skirt a wrinkled disaster as
it lay bunched above my waist.

The floor beneath me wet

And my underwear ripped and useless.

He tucked himself in and zipped up.

Perfect as always, his face glistening with a
slight sheen of sweat. Not a hair out of place.

And on his watch, I could see it was five
minutes to three.

"Interview now, I think," he said, planting a
tender kiss on my cheek.

He opened the door and stepped outside as I
frantically pulled my skirt down, fixed my jacket, my blouse, and
ran my fingers through my hair.

The make-up was a complete do-over.

I was angry. Exhausted and blissful, yes. But
angry.

"You ripped these," I said, my torn underwear
in hand.

"Yes," he said, running his through his
hair.

I don't know why, but I was furious. They
weren't priceless or anything. And certainly easily replaceable,
yes. But, I don't know, it just pissed me off.

"You can't do that. You just can't come in
here, do that, and then ... and then ... You just can't do
that!"

He leaned forward, lifted the small bag from
Henri Bendel, and handed it to me.

"Ah, but this I can do," he said.

God, he was just annoying the hell out of me
right now. I don't know if it was because of the quickie or the
arrogance in coming here or the fact that I fell for it. That I was
weak. Had, in the space of fifteen minutes or something, gone from
super-successful attorney to Midtown Manhattan booty call.

But whatever it was, I was seeing red.

And that, in itself, was annoying.

I shoved my hand into the bag.

And felt silk.

I looked down and discovered an exquisite
pair of panties. White lace. Stunning and beautiful and delicate
and gorgeous. Tied with a silk bow.

"Mikalo ..." I began.

"Trust, Ronan. I say I hurt something of
yours ..."

Taking them from me, he lifted the torn
fabric.

"I get you a new one. Here, I keep my word.
It is trust."

He shoved them in his pocket as he walked to
the door, opened it, and stepped out.

Janey stood breathless, two coffees in
hand.

"Ah, it is coffee time," he said with a smile
as he took a cup from her.

I shoved the white silk back in the bag, my
hand self-consciously running through my hair again.

Sipping the coffee, he sighed.

"You know how to make it perfect, Ronan's
angel," he said to a beaming Janey. "Thank you.

"And now," he said, turning back to me,
"Meeting, yes?"

Chapter
Twenty-One

The Byzan documents glared at me from my
desk.

You're ignoring us, they silently screamed.
Millions on the line for the firm and you can't even focus on us
for five minutes, you bitch, they then hissed.

I shoved them in the drawer and looked at my
watch.

An hour had passed and no word from
Mikalo.

Thoughts of him wandering the city, hurt and
in shock, wondering what to do and where to go filled my mind.

Of him in a bar, a woman on his arm, the
eager stranger feeling his biceps, his shoulders, the smooth skin
of his cheek, as he knocked back one shot after another, finding
comfort in her sad eyes and desperate smile.

Thoughts of him banging her in a cheap motel.
Or her six-floor walkup in Hell's Kitchen. Dirty dishes crowding
the sink, a baby screaming somewhere down the hall, the sounds of
traffic below as she writhed and gasped. Mikalo cruelly fucking
away the heartbreak of losing a job, losing what could have been a
good life, with an anonymous bar skank.

I'm being stupid.

He's a friggin' billionaire, for God's sake.
He didn't need this job. Probably didn't even want this job.

I needed him to need this job. I needed him
to want this job.

And I was the one nursing a wounded heart.
Not him.

I'm an idiot. With a six-figure salary and a
wall of diplomas and more uber-expensive handbags than any human
could possibly need. An idiot.

I stood, looking out over the city.

Still, an hour had passed.

I'd ask Janey to call down and see what the
gossip was, but she already knew too much, having met and OMGed
over him. And I was more comfortable with a clear Partner/Secretary
line. This breach, this blurring of that line, was getting too
fuzzy for my taste.

I could even call Blazen and check in. But,
oh my god, I'd cum, hard, only an hour or so ago with him right
outside the door.

The chances of me not blushing when I heard
his voice or, god forbid, saw him were absolutely nil.

A little over an hour ago. There, in the
restroom, he had taken me. My skirt around my waist, my jacket and
blouse rudely shoved aside, his hand on my breast.

He had taken me.

And I had liked it. A lot.

Oh god, I hope he stays in New York.

Something told me he wouldn't.

I sat, surrounded by priceless art and
beautiful furniture, the lights of Manhattan glowing in the
approaching dark below.

The pinnacle of success with so much to be
grateful for.

And all I wanted was for him to stay.

Damn.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

I hadn't heard from him.

The day after the interview and not one word
from Mikalo.

He could have left New York and hightailed it
back to Greece for all I know.

My heart insisted he wouldn't do that without
saying goodbye. My head, though, reminded me that he was, by all
accounts, a stranger to me, someone I'd only known a very short
time, and a woman he owed little if anything to. I could be nothing
but that sad girl who fell for his lines, hopped into bed without a
second thought, and then was easily forgotten.

Yes, he could have left.

And not even the bar at Daniel, a lighted
jewel box of glass and mirrors and backlit bottles of the finest
liquor arranged in amber and peach and clear liquid rows, could
make me feel better.

Not even this drink, I thought, taking
another sip, was doing the trick.

"You still nursing that broken heart?"

I turned to find Deni, as gorgeous and
quietly luxurious as ever, half the men in the room staring at her,
the other half pretending not to.

"Can you blame me?" I asked.

"You don't know, Ronan," she said, sitting
next to me and politely waving the bartender away. "He may just be
busy."

"Doing what?" I asked, my voice a bit too
plaintive for comfort.

"Mikalo stuff," she answered. "Visiting
friends, interviewing at other places, wandering around the Park.
Who can say?

"But there's no use getting depressed and
weepy and drinkedy-drunk over something you don't know for a
fact."

"What other explanation could there be?" I
asked. "Obviously he took advantage of me, obviously he got his
rocks off, obviously he got sick of me, and obviously he's now gone
without even saying goodbye.

"And like a stupid idiot, I fell for it."

"You believe that?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said with a shrug before
taking another tiny sip of my drink.

"But that's what you believe, obviously."

"Oh, I don't know. I could be wrong. And, oh
my god, the things he did to me. That I let him to do me."

I stopped, my cheeks turning red with
shame.

What I wouldn't give to have him do those
things all over again.

She paused, not responding.

"Regardless, it's over," I continued. "It's
done. My heart broken, my dreams dashed, and me, destined to live
the rest of my life buried in documents, drowning in coffee."

"Oh, would you listen to you?" she said with
a light laugh. "Get over it. Chug-a-lug and let's get moving. I
have somewhere to take you."

"We have reservations --"

"Cancelled."

"So we're not eating --"

"Nope," she answered, cutting me off. "Now
drink."

I paused, confused, looked around the room,
and then at Deni, and finally into the soothing comfort of my
drink.

Something was up. I just had no idea
what.

"Oh Jesus," she said as she took the
heavy-bottomed glass from me, belted it back, placed it on the
polished black of the bar, and grabbed my arm.

"Now," she then said with a discreet hiccup,
"let's hit the road."

Chapter
Twenty-Three

We were downtown walking through Washington
Square Park, Deni and I. Darting beneath the famous arch, skirting
'round the large, circular fountain and, heading right, making our
way toward Sixth Avenue.

Inching our way down Fifth Avenue minutes
ago, the arch we just darted beneath anchoring the end of this
renowned avenue, I had peppered her with questions.

Where are we going? Who are we seeing? What
do you know?

And, most shockingly, just when did you start
going below 53rd Street?

Like most who live on the Upper East Side,
anything below 57th was as mysterious and strange as the wilds of
Russia.

For Deni, anything below that simply didn't
exist.

Driven by curiosity, I asked.

She had looked out the window, her driver
remaining professional and silent.