Mikalo's Grace Read online

  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.

  Sighing, I willed myself to relax, allowing exhaustion to take me. Eager now, despite the wet beneath me and the sheen of sweat covering me, to dive deep into sleep and then into dreams.

  Dreams of my Mikalo.

  Chapter Seven

  This day was never going to end.

  The papers on my desk endless, the wealthiest of these wealthy families waiting for me to work my magic. Hundreds of millions at stake while my mind tugged again and again toward Mikalo, the weekend looming with no idea whether I'd see him or if he'd want to see me or if he was even thinking about me or if I was being delusional and stupid and surprisingly, shockingly needy.

  I pushed the pile away and put the pen down, turning my chair to the window, the vast, impressive pile of buildings known as Manhattan waiting below.

  He hadn't called. I'd checked voicemail twice. Okay, three times. And I considered calling him, but ... I don't know. Was it too much too soon?

  I shifted in my chair, the ache from last night lingering as I knew it would.

  And yet there was something about him, this Mikalo. Something behind the eyes, hiding behind the smile. Something that said that perhaps he had to push through his own dark clouds. That perhaps sometimes he, like that waiter, needed the gift of a stranger's smile to feed his soul.

  The part of me that wanted to fuck him 'till we both begged for mercy and collapsed from exhaustion battled that part that wanted to hug him and hold him and dry his quiet, private tears.

  If I let myself, and if this moved further, I could love him. I think.

  I don't know.

  Besides, there were too many variables. The job, for one. Mikalo. What he wanted. But if my suspicions were correct, he wanted me.

  It was almost too much to hope for.

  I despised myself for wanting it so much.

  And somewhere in my mind, twisting his way between the thoughts of my Mikalo and his apparent perfection and his hoped for need for me, waited Benjamin. My first husband.

  His death haunted me. So young, so quick. Shocking, still.

  Sighing, I closed my eyes, the pain of his passing, although years had now passed, still too painful to contemplate.

  Open my heart again? I asked myself. It's too wounded, too raw. The pain is still too great for me to think of giving it to anyone again.

  But when?

  The question came, surprising me.

  And if not with someone as wonderful as Mikalo, then with who?

  I pushed the thought away. Ignored the questions, unsure of my answers, preferring to swivel back to face my desk, and, pen in hand, dive in and lose myself in my work.

  As always.

  "You know the drill. You don't return my calls, I ambush you."

  She stood in the door. Blonde. Impeccable as always. All the moxie and daring and patient impatience of Brooklyn wrapped in the drop-dead glamour of a Park Avenue wardrobe. And address.

  Deni. My best friend.

  "Lunch. Wine. Now," she then said, snapping her fingers.

  And I stood, grabbing my purse and gathering my coat.

  You didn't argue with Deni.

  Chapter Eight

  "You're mythologizing him," she said, wine glass in hand.

  "I know, I know," I answered between bites of pasta. "I can't help it."

  "Well, then, here," she said, putting the glass down and leaning forward, "Let me help.

  "He was not good to you. He left for days on end, didn't call, drank like a fish and fought like a bear --"

  "Okay, okay --"

  "And sex? You were lucky if you got five minutes twice a month --"

  "Alright!"

  "No, it's not alright," she said through gritted teeth. "Remember, Ronan. Remember the reality and not this dead husband fantasy you have. And don't you dare let this myth interrupt what could be something wonderful with this Greek of yours."

  "It's complicated."

  "No, it's not."

  She leaned forward, moving c
lose, her voice low.

  "A man who loves you won't be disgusted when you grow wet with desire."

  I cringed, the shame I felt at how moist I became when I got excited kicked awake by this forgotten memory. Of Benjamin's exasperation and thinly veiled revulsion when he'd dip below only to find his fingers glistening with my excitement.

  And how the mood would be wrecked, his movements from that point forward driven more by what he felt he should do instead of what his heart wanted to do, the experience shortened by his disgust.

  Even today, I felt embarrassed and ashamed, these two emotions still keeping me from enjoying the intimate company of someone or of letting go and enjoying it during the rare times I did.

  "That was, is, Benjamin, darling," Deni was saying, wine glass once again in hand. "Let him die and move on. Please."

  "But there's nothing to move on to," I said. "Mikalo and I had coffee, he said all the right things, we had dinner, and, I don't know, I'm beginning to think this is all in my head."

  "So, pick up the phone and call him."

  "No way."

  She stuck out her hand, but there was no way I was handing her my phone. I'd fallen for that before and regretted it.

  No way.

  "Ronan," she said, waiting.

  "No, I'm not screwing this up."

  She retreated, taking the fork and stabbing her pasta instead.

  "Go for him before someone else does."

  "And what if he's not mine to have?"

  "Then that's that."

  I grew silent, the thought breaking my heart. I took a healthy gulp of wine, drowning my disappointment with chardonnay.

  "You know," she was saying between bites, "I know a lot of guys I could --"

  "No, you don't and no, you can't."

  "How long are you and this career of yours going to keep fucking, Ronan? I mean, you've hit the top, right? You want to become Managing Partner or something?"

  "Oh hell no," I said, laughing. "I have no life as it is."

  "And yet here's a life sitting in front of you, looking handsome, flirting, obviously interested in you, and you won't even call him."

  She signaled to the waiter for a refill.

  The handsome man quickly came over, smoothly filling Deni's glass and then mine, and left with a nod, Deni gifting him with a smile and a wink.

  "Pick up the phone, dear," she then said as she watched the taut backside of the young man walk away, "before your Greek sails into the sunset.

  "And I'm begging you," she continued, turning to me. "Please, for the love of god, get a manicure. Your nails are positively frightening."

  Chapter Nine

  He sat on my living room floor, his biceps bulging in a crisp white t-shirt, strong thighs wrapped in blue denim, and his large stocking feet crossed, his leather bomber jacket tossed aside earlier, his heavy boots left near a small bench near the door.

  Earlier my door bell had rang and there he stood, balancing two coffees in one hand, a bag of bagels from Murray's in the other.

  "There is everything," he explained as he handed me the bag. "I did not know, so I got every kind. It is Saturday. Let's enjoy."

  The day before, after lunch, I had sat watching the lights of the city come on below me as the sun set, my phone in hand. And, after a very deep breath, I had dialed, the familiar deep voice answering, my heart racing.

  "Oh, but tonight, my Grace, I am busy."

  Of course he was. Damn it.

  "But tomorrow, if you like, I would like to see you."

  Yes!

  "Is that good?"

  "That would be wonderful," I had answered, suddenly feeling foolish for having corner him into meeting me.

  "I was going to come," he was saying, "but talking with you before is better, I think."

  "So, whenever you like," I suddenly said. "I'll be around."

  I could have kicked myself.

  "Ah, then we will have a day."

  Oh, nice.

  Next call. Deni.

  "I called him."

  "Good."

  "We're spending the day together tomorrow."

  "I'll call my girl and get you an ASAP Brazilian."

  "Deni! I don't think --"

  "Shut up. The girl's a genius and we don't want to scare your sensitive Greek first time out, do we?"

  I had paused.

  "Okay, call her."

  And now here he and I sat, our coffees now lukewarm and set aside for steaming mugs of homebrewed, the bagels slathered with cream cheese, half-eaten and lying nearby.

  And a photo album open and balanced on his knees as we revisited my past, years of embarrassments and braces and glasses and chunky thighs now lying open, cradled in his large hands.

  And me, smooth as a baby below thanks to the magical talents of Lucinda.

  "And this, here, this is you?" he asked, his finger pointing.

  I glanced at the picture, a particularly horrid one of me at thirteen or fourteen standing in a frilly peasant blouse with my tummy protruding over a very large, wide light blue denim prairie skirt. Face scarred red by acne, of course. Big round glasses. Thick bangs. And yellow wool knee socks.

  "Yep," I answered, resisting the temptation to crawl under the couch and curl into a fetal position. And then polish off the half-dozen or so bagels left in the bag.

  "Ah, so your hair has always been beautiful," he said, turning the page to discover various holiday photos.

  "Christmas!" he said with a smile. "I love Christmas."

  This guy really was too perfect.

  "You have a very nice home," he continued, looking up at me. "And there is more upstairs?"

  "Oh, a family room, a few bedrooms, bathrooms," I responded, being careful not to sound too boastful over the townhouse I had called home for nearly a decade. In a city of apartments, to have a townhouse, especially on the Upper West Side and especially at my relatively young age, was a big deal.

  Still, I worked hard, spent wisely, and most certainly deserved it. And I felt proud. Besides, it's not like this four story home was over-the-top or anything. It was homey and comfortable with a luxury that whispered, not shouted.

  "Bedrooms upstairs," he said, turning yet another page, this one sprinkled with beach scenes and barbecues and me, sunburned and chubby in an unfortunately colored two-piece with a flotation device stuck around my waist.

  "Tell me about Greece," I asked.

  "Greece is Greece," he said. "It is rocky cliffs and very white sand and blue, blue water that tastes clean and salty and fresh when you swim in it. It is ouzo and fish and a very bright sun blinding your eyes when you eat lunch outside.

  "Greece is home," he continued. "It is my heart, it is my soul, it is my love. Me without Greece is not me."

  "And if you're offered this job? I mean, if you're offered and accept this job, here in New York, what then?" I asked, the familiar taste of disappointment catching in my throat as I swallowed, suddenly aware I might need to quickly recalibrate whatever feelings, whatever fantasies, I was having for this young stranger.

  "I will decide then," he said, closing the photo album and respectfully laying it aside. "If I come to New York, it won't be because of a job. It will be love. A love of the city, of the restaurants. The people. A love of the air and the light. The way the sun sets and rises. The trees in the park and the smiles on the people.

  "It is not choosing a job, it's choosing a life. And a life must be chosen carefully, no?"

  I smiled. He was right.

  "I must have a happy heart or ..."

  He stopped, pushing the thought away.

  "And if there is no happy heart for me here," he said, continuing, "then why choose? A job is not a lover. Not a wife. Yes?"

  "Yes, you're right," I said, standing to refill my cup.

  "Do you have a happy heart?" he then asked, watching me.

  I paused, unsure what to say.

  "Ah," he said as he reached out and, in one swift movement, placed his hand be
tween my legs, "then what would make your heart happy?"

  Chapter Ten

  I'm going to die, I thought as my body contracted yet again, my legs shaking as I fought to breathe.

  Whatever that boy's mouth was doing down there, it was doing it well. Almost too well. Way too well.

  He was going to kill me.

  Earlier he had grabbed my crotch. I froze as his fingers gently massaged me, the thin fabric separating his palm from my flesh quickly growing damp.

  "It is hot," he whispered as he continued to rub me.

  Unable to speak, I nodded. And then swallowed.

  "And it is wet," he then said.

  "I'm sorry --" I began.

  "It is perfect," he interrupted, his other hand stroking himself through his denim.

  He then took the coffee cup from my hand, set it aside and pulled me close, his arms wrapped around me as he buried his face in my waist and groaned. Standing, he easily lifted me, turned, and laid me on the couch, his hand now under my shirt as I ran my fingers through his glossy, thick hair.

  "It is good, yes?" he asked, his words choked with passion.

  "Yes," I managed to say, my heart beating in my throat.

  His lips were on my skin, then. Oh so lightly grazing my stomach, his tongue gently lapping its way north, tasting me, his fingers now expertly unhooking my bra.

  And then, my shirt now under my chin, he was suckling me, another groan rising as he drew my nipple in deep, his teeth ever so sweetly biting the sensitive skin, my gasp filling the room.

  I peeled off his shirt. His shoulders round and chiseled, the deep valley in his chest bracketed by two dark nipples, his torso tight, his abs sculpted and taut.

  I inhaled deep, the smell of him intoxicating. The scent of soap and sweat and the heated desire of a young man eager to discover me, my body. My secrets.

  My hands felt his flesh. Smooth. Impossibly smooth. Tan. I raked my nails along this perfection, lightly.