I laughed.
“You know what I mean,” I then said.
“Yes, I know,” he responded, leaning close to me as we walked.
“And your ‘yes’ is the most beautiful word in the world, my Grace.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The light from the candles bounced off the ceiling, the walls, the shadows moving as the flames danced. My hands reached up and ran over Mikalo’s naked flesh, his skin basking in a beautiful golden glow.
He moved inside me, gently, slowly.
We were making love.
True love.
Bending low, his lips met mine, his tongue easing into my mouth to taste, to lick.
I moved my hands to his head, my fingers threading through his dark hair.
God, I loved the feeling of his hair in my hands, my fist.
Moving my hips to meet his, he worked his way deeper.
He paused, savoring the feeling of my opening to him, allowing him in, giving myself to him.
We continued to kiss, my hands guiding his head as my appetite for him grew ravenous.
His scent, the feel of him, the sweat of him on my palms, between my fingers, the weight of him as he pressed his chest to mine, it was too delicious for words. I could live with this for an eternity, I decided.
This, I thought as his sigh warmed my cheek, the length of him filling me as his pace found its rhythm, languid and slow and perfect, this is what I wanted for the rest of my life. This man here, making love to me, loving me, allowing me to love him.
This is what I want my life to be.
Lifting my hips, I pushed myself into him.
He groaned, the helpless sound losing itself in the crook of my neck.
I kissed his cheek and then his ear and finally his neck, my lips slowly licking the smooth flesh, my tongue suddenly hungry to taste his sweat, my mouth moving to his sweet spot, there, right below the ear, and sucking.
He moved deeper still, stopping, finding my own secret, hidden sweet spot and, pausing, teased me.
His head moved from my neck, his lips searching for mine and finding them, his hand on the back of my neck, guided me into him.
“My Grace,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said.
The pace quickened, slightly.
His eyes watched mine.
“I did not think my heart, it could love like this.”
I rose and kissed him, my lips lingering on his.
God, I loved him.
“Mikalo,” I said. “My Mikalo.”
His eyes grew wet.
“Every day, my Grace,” he then said. “Every day, I am yours. For my life.”
And then he dipped low, burying his head in my neck, his nose lost in my hair.
He continued to move inside me, my hips rising to meet his, gyrating against him. My body hungry for his, my appetite endless, my thirst unquenchable, my need for him never ending.
And his for me.
I could feel it building, the familiar wave. The thump-thump-thump growing as I pushed my body into his, his hair in my fingers, my lips on his skin, his weight oh so wonderfully crushing me.
He angled his body, his knees now drawn up and tucked under my legs, lifting me into him as he quickened the pace.
“Soon,” he gasped.
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
I lifted my hips and held them there, grinding into him, willing him deeper and deeper still.
“Like this,” he then said. “My face to yours, my heart to yours, my lips --”
He leaned forward and kissed me, his tongue sliding deep into my mouth.
“My lips,” he continued, his breath warm on mine, “My lips on yours.”
“Yes, like this,” I said.
The pace slowed, my own wave gently building, building, building as he worked his way in and out, in and then out, calmly, slowly, in no rush to end our mutual, blessed chaos.
And then ...
“My Grace,” he gasped.
His body shook as he suddenly plunged deep, his warmth spreading through me as I held him close.
Another kiss, my own wave cresting, having yet to crash, the thump-thump-thump as insistent as ever.
He gently rolled from me, his body next to mine, his chest still rising and falling, the sweat of his skin catching the candlelight, his hardness resting warm and thick and wet against my leg.
His hands found my skin, my hot flesh, his fingers running over my breasts to briefly tease my nipples before slowly sliding down my stomach.
He pressed himself close and slid his arm under my neck, wrapping it around my shoulders and pulling me into him, my head resting under his chin.
His fingers found my warmth, paused to caress my heat and then, slowly, buried themselves in my wetness.
Oh god.
Kissing my cheek, his breath in my ear, he gently rubbed me, two, then three, fingers moving down and then up, circling before diving low again. Quickly losing themselves deep before reappearing, shining and wet, to circle and rub and massage and caress.
I opened my legs wider, offering myself to him as I leaned my head back, his lips immediately on mine, his tongue rudely pushing its way deep as his fingers grew more insistent, more daring.
Slap.
Oh fuck.
He circled and rubbed, gently quieting the sharpness of that sting.
Thump-thump-thump.
His fingers paused, aware of the growing heat, feeling the wetness as it dripped, my excitement as it climbed, reaching its peak.
My hips moved.
I wanted his fingers inside me. Wanted it to be rough, unforgiving, needy, and desperate. Wanted them to work their way deep, very deep, finding my secret hidden sweet spot and then unapologetically massage and poke and rub and tease until my back arched and my hips opened and my breath ran ragged and I gasped, pleading for him to stop before begging him for more.
He found it.
Again, my lips on his, his tongue in my mouth, my mouth sucking him deep, my fingers pinching my nipples as his hand moved below, his fingers working furiously as they rubbed and smacked, dove deep and then withdrew, massaging, caressing, pinching.
The wave built.
“Oh,” I breathed, the first inkling of the impending crash taking my breath.
“Yes, my Grace,” he whispered, his breath in my ear.
Quicker and quicker he moved, his fingers insistent, hungry, the sound of my wetness filling the room, the thump-thump-thump of my desire matching that of my racing heart.
It hit.
With a gasp and a small scream and the lifting of my hips, it hit.
He rode the wave with me.
He worked his fingers deep, stealing into me quickly, without apology.
And then they moved, following the rhythm of this silent storm, encouraging it, coaxing it, teasing it, the second wave crashing almost immediately after the first with more storm clouds building on the horizon.
I gripped his arm and pulled him close, closer than he already was.
His arm gripped me tight, his lips on my forehead as I continued to gasp and pant, my hips now with a mind of their own as they rose and fell, rose and fell, his hand expertly following the pace, never once losing time with the storm.
Tears fell from my eyes.
When it felt this damn good, I couldn’t help but cry. These explosions of thunder and quick flashes of hot lightning tapping a deep well of emotion, my furiously beating heart swerving between hungry desire and immense gratitude as yet another wave built only to quickly crash.
“Please, please,” I panted.
“Yes,” he said, his breath against my cheek. “More.”
“Oh god,” I managed to say before moaning as his fucking fingers coaxed yet another wave to crest and crash, the damn thing nearly knocking me over this time.
His lips found mine again, his tongue moving deep as his fingers slid once more into my wetness, my heat, my pulsating, throbbing heart.
T
hey stopped, holding still.
My hips moved into them.
As always, they followed my movements, rising when I rose, diving when I dove.
He was being lovingly cruel now. Knowing what my body, my sex, desired, but not yet willing to bring this to a close, fully aware that yet another black cloud lay on the horizon, another wave gathered strength, rising, ready to crest and eventually crash.
My hand dove below, my fingers wrapping around his wrist and forcing his hand to remain steady as I gyrated into him, moving against him, finding my rhythm, demanding release and relief.
The last one hit.
Hard.
Somewhere I felt his fingers slow their pace. Somewhere I knew he paused, allowing the storm to spill over on its own. Somewhere I heard my scream, my pants and gasps and groans. Somewhere I could feel his hand on my heart, quieting me as his lips covered me in kisses.
And somewhere, somewhere in this chaos, in the sighs and tears and silent explosion, somewhere I heard the words, masculine and deep and choked with emotion, whispered in my ear as I succumb to exhausted sleep.
“I love you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Come here,” Janey whispered, her head peeking from around the door.
I stood and went to her.
“Look,” she then said, making way for me to stand alongside her.
The elevator doors closing behind her, I discovered Deni.
Dressed in a sharp couture suit, the color a deep, rich plum, a diamond the size of an oversize grape on her finger, and a Birkin bag big enough to hold a bowling ball swinging from her arm, she waited patiently, quietly, while Richardson reverentially greeted her.
But she was not alone.
She stood surrounded by several attorneys. All of them I knew. All of them high powered. And all of them Family Law.
Divorce.
I pulled back as, Richardson’s hand guiding them, they left the elevators and started to the conference room.
She hadn’t told me she’d be here today. And her dinner with Jacob wasn’t until tonight.
And already she was gearing up for divorce, arming herself with some of the best in the business.
As Macfarlane, Schaal handled a great deal of Jacob and Deni’s assets as well as the planning of their estate, it made sense for her to be here.
Plus I was here. It made sense she’d stamp Macfarlane, Schaal as hers before Jacob had a chance to.
I just wish she had told me.
That the hows and whys of what was happening were a mystery to me and her visit was a complete surprised indicated that things were more serious than I knew.
She was hurting and hurting bad.
I sat back down at the desk.
“You don’t think --” Janey began.
“We’ll know soon enough,” I interrupted. “Now get back to work.”
She backed out, apologetic.
The door closed behind her.
In all honesty, I never believed they’d actually go through with it, Jacob and Deni. Sure, they had an odd relationship. One based on shockingly independent lives. He living in California, she in New York. More often than not, they looked more like really good friends or family, not husband and wife and certainly not lovers.
But that’s how it had been for, oh how long was it? Twenty years maybe?
That it could end was somehow still unthinkable to me.
She would need me, that’s for sure.
Jacob could be a major asshole when it came to money. No doubt he’d offer her a pittance of his vast fortune, much of which she had a strong hand in building, and then go ballistic when she calmly demanded her fair share.
Ergo the phalanx of high-power lawyers.
I stood up and walked to the door.
I needed coffee. Needed to take a small break, get a breath of fresh air, get some more caffeine in my system.
Plus the thought of Deni just down the hall preparing for the demise of her marriage was too depressing.
That, more than anything, I needed to get away from.
I stepped into the elevator and pushed “L” for Lobby.
With a small ding, the doors closed.
I would be there for her in any way I could, of course.
But I knew her. Knew her very well. And I knew that my support in this would have to be something she’d instigate. On her own time, in her own way, on her own schedule, and on her own terms.
With something as delicate as this, Deni would come to me when she needed me.
If she needed me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
She stood at the window, her bowling ball-sized Birkin dropped near a chair.
Standing silently, her arms wrapped around herself in a hug, she didn’t turn when I entered. Not even when I said her name, so lost in thought she was.
“Deni,” I said again, gently.
Her head turned, acknowledging my presence.
A hand rose, impatiently wiping away tears.
“Angelica Faust,” she then said.
I had no idea who she was talking about.
“A woman, a girl, really, called last night,” she continued. “Angelica Faust. Wannabe actress, sometimes lingerie model, husband-stealing whore.”
Oh shit.
“This is why he’s dumping the house in Malibu,” she said, turning to me, her arms still hugging her, her hands tightly gripping her elbows. “This is why he’s spending our money, our money, thank you very much, on some modernist pile of crap on fucking Bellagio in Bel-Air.
“This is why he’s ...”
She stopped, her chin trembling.
Turning, she looked out the window at the city below, her shoulders rising as she fought for breath, fought to regain control.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I remained near the door, though. I should go to her. Place my hands on her shoulders. Wrap myself around her and hold her as she wept.
I should console her with warm, wise words. Assure her these dark clouds will pass and there’ll be a beautiful, bright sun again. And soon.
I should do what a friend does.
But knowing Deni, I knew she’d recognize the happy talk bullshit for what it was: happy talk bullshit. And that what I was doing, right here, right now, was exactly what she needed. Let her find herself, collect her bearings, regain control, and just be here, quietly listening, not judging.
Just be her friend. Her best friend.
“The little cunt called me,” she said, her back to me still. “Twice. Just to let me know that she didn’t want any ‘negative energy’ between us. And she hoped we could handle this with ‘respect and love and happy emotions and good chi’.”
She faced me again, the color rising on her cheeks.
Good. This is the Deni I knew and loved and was waiting for.
“Can you believe that little bitch?” she asked. “ ‘Good chi’?”
She snorted with laughter.
“Silly, stupid little granola eater,” she said. “Of course, she really hopes we can all get together for the holidays someday. And that maybe she and I can be friends. Best friends. Like ‘mother and daughter’, she said.”
“And this is Jacob’s girlfriend,” I said.
“Try bride-to-be,” Deni answered.
“What?”
“Oh yeah. She’s convinced him they’re soul mates, they’re energy is attuned, and she can’t live a day without him as her husband.
“She can’t live a day without his money is more like it.
“Oh, and get this,” she then said as she left the window to sit in my chair behind the desk. “She’s absolutely convinced I’ll be able to make a success of myself and, really, I’ll be so much happier if I work hard to ‘make it on my own’. Or some bullshit like that.”
“In other words,” I said, sitting opposite her in the guest chair. “She’s asking you to not have any claim to what you and Jacob built.”
“Miss Angelica Faust is under the de
lusion that the money Jacob now has is going to be the money Jacob will still have once I’ve taken him to the cleaners.
“She is looking forward to discovering the ‘beauty of Park Avenue’, though.”
I laughed.
“As if he’s going to walk away with that apartment,” I then said.
“And beneath all this,” she said, leaning forward to put her elbows on the desk. “Beneath all this talk of money and houses and what she’s expecting to get or not get or whatever, beneath all that is a broken heart. My broken heart.
“I mean, sure he and I didn’t have a marriage like everyone else. No children, because he simply didn’t want them. Or at least he didn’t with me. No romance or sex or anything like that for years and years and years.
“But when he separated himself from me, moved across the country and buried himself in work, well, I just had to get on with my life. What was I supposed to do, Ronan? Wait around? Follow him like a puppy dog? Give up what I wanted to do so I could play Beverly Hills hostess?”
“Of course not.”
“And what if you’re wrong?” she asked. “What if I was wrong? What if I should have made more of an effort? What if I should have traded Park Avenue for Bellagio in Bel-Air? Played Beverly Hills hostess instead of, I don’t know, doing whatever in the hell it is I’ve been doing for the past twenty years?”
“He made it clear,” I quickly said. “He wanted you to do what you wanted to do and he would do what he was going to do and it didn’t mean that you didn’t love each other. And you did. And you do.
“Maybe this is just a mid-life crisis?” I then asked.
She shook her blonde curls.
“No, it’s done. It’s serious. It’s over.”
She leaned back.
For a moment I felt guilty about my own happiness. Felt guilty about the love Mikalo and I had made last night. Felt guilty for the kisses he showered me with when I left this morning as my hand snuck beneath the sheets to give him a playful squeeze.
Right on cue, Deni spoke.
“And don’t you dare feel guilty for what you have, okay? You’ve waited a long time for this and, god knows, you’ve earned it.
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