“This is the truth, no?”
I nodded.
But it wasn’t. Not quite.
At least my truth, the truth I was living, the truth he and I shared together, was bigger than her lies.
That much I knew.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It wasn’t quite morning, the streets quiet outside, the sun still sleeping as the moon shone through the window.
Mikalo slept next to me, turned on his side toward me, his arm cradled under his head, his other draped over me, holding me close.
I turned and looked at him.
He really was beautiful.
His eyes closed, his face relaxed and peaceful, the lips parted as he snored, quietly. And, honestly, I didn’t mind his snores. There was something calming about them.
Something that, like the sounds of the cars passing below or the occasional noises of the house as it settled or the clocks dinging or water running in a nearby pipe, had become the soundtrack of my night, helping me to sleep.
Except tonight.
Nope, not a wink.
And I blamed The Byzan.
Okay, logic time, Ronan.
I slipped out from underneath his arm and slipped my robe on. I’d need coffee if my brain had to work. Especially in light of all that wine I drank.
Pausing at the door, I turned.
Mikalo still slept.
Now on his back, his head tilted, his chin in the air, he had kicked away the sheet, one foot dangling free, the other still hidden under the comforter, his naked torso bare.
I could go to him now, I realized. Slide in next to him. Run my hands over his body and into his boxers. Kiss his neck, his cheek, his sleepy lips, as my hand gently caressed and stroked and fondled, coaxing him into hardness.
And I know he’d wake, ready. Eager for me. The memory of sleep quickly tossed aside for the taste of me, the feel of me under him, the sensation of me on top, riding him, his hands on my breasts or holding my hips, guiding me as he inched deeper.
I could do that, I thought, my eyes raking over his smooth chest and sculpted abs. And I’d enjoy it. Very much. As would he.
But no. It was logic time.
And I needed coffee.
I padded my way downstairs to the kitchen and, the blaze of the sudden light hurting my eyes, headed to the coffee maker.
First things first, Mara was a conniving, heartless little monster who wouldn’t know the truth if it smacked her on the ass.
So, that’s that.
Second, yes, Mikalo wanted his own place. It made sense, really. And there’s no reason it needs to be the end of us or what I had with him.
And if it was?
Well, then it was.
Didn’t mean I wouldn’t survive. Didn’t mean I wouldn’t love him. And it certainly didn’t mean he didn’t love me.
All it meant, if, in fact, that were to happen, is that whatever we’re sharing, whatever we have now, wasn’t supposed to last.
Again, I’d get over it.
Someday.
Milk, sugar, a quick stir, and that blessed first sip.
I sat at the table and popped my lap top open.
Mara had talked about other girls Mikalo had loved. I knew of Claudia, of course, his girlfriend, the model who had slowly starved herself to death. Based on what he said, it certainly didn’t sound like he had abandoned her.
Truth, 1. Mara, 0.
But that’s all I knew. And, let’s face it, Mikalo was one sexy fuck and it would be unrealistic to think he had only Claudia and then me.
I mean, c’mon.
My email came up.
Ignoring all the new messages needing either a response or a delete, I brought up a new message box, typing in Deni’s address.
If anyone would know Mikalo’s history -- or at least know someone who would know Mikalo’s history -- and be able to tell me whether or not there was any truth to what Mara was saying, it would be Deni.
And if she was still distracted by the implosion of her marriage -- and, knowing Deni, she had shaken it off by now and was back to wanting to fight --, she’d simply not respond. No harm done.
So, I typed. Told her quickly about being cornered in The Mercer Kitchen bathroom by Mara. Told her about what Mara said. The claims of Mikalo’s moving out being the first step to him leaving a girl.
And then I told her I loved her and hoped she was well.
I paused, thinking of her. Still, after all these years, somewhat still in awe of her. Her strength. Her courage. Her beauty.
Friends didn’t come better than her, that’s for damn sure.
I sat back and re-read the message.
Sipping my coffee, I clicked Send.
It’d be an early morning at work, I decided, standing to climb upstairs and hit the shower. I’d get in early, get some solid work done before everyone else showed up. Maybe take a long lunch. Maybe with Deni.
Who knows?
I secretly hoped so.
I padded into the bedroom.
Mikalo still slept, still on his back, his legs spread, one foot outside the covers, the other still tucked under. His torso was still bare and he still snored. Quietly.
Despite it all, despite the doubt and worries and Maras and the lies, I loved him. Very much.
Regardless what waited around the corner, that wouldn’t change.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
As I was leaving, freshly showered, make-up in place, wrapped in a smart suit over a silk blouse, my trusty Goyard bag at my feet, I had finally relented.
Sitting next to Mikalo, I had reached out and touched his chest, my hand laying flat against the smooth muscle.
He had stirred, his head turning to me.
Leaning forward, I had pressed my lips to his cheek, kissing him awake.
Reaching his arms above his head, his back arching as he stretched with a groan, he had wrapped them around my neck and gently pulled me down to nestle close to his heart, hugging me and holding me tight.
“Mmmmmm ...”
The sound rumbled through his chest.
“Good morning,” I had said, my nose snuggling into his neck.
“Morning,” he mumbled, still groggy.
“You leaving?” he then asked.
“Yeah. You want me to put some coffee on for you?”
I had felt him nod his head, his chin briefly dipping low to graze my forehead.
And then he had wrapped his arms around me tighter as he sighed.
For a moment, I had thought about how his arms were wrinkling my suit. Or how my hair was getting mussed as I sat here, resting near his neck.
And then I had realized I was being ridiculous and just breathed him in, enjoying the sensation of his warm flesh against my cheek.
I had lifted myself from him then, and, after another quick kiss, had left him, a busy day at work awaiting me.
Now I walked down Central Park West, eager for the slight chill in the morning air, knowing it would wake me up, get me focused. Not minding the crowds speeding along during the morning rush or the noise of the traffic or the voices rising as they fought to be heard on their cell phones ...
Which reminds me.
I dug in my pocket for my cell phone, curious to see whether Deni had emailed me back.
Not there.
I stopped, stepping to the side -- standing in the middle of the sidewalk was sure to get me mowed down by the rushing crowd or, worse, screamed at --, opened my bag and started digging, searching for that slender square of plastic and glass.
But I knew it wouldn’t be there. I always dropped it in my left pocket.
Unless it was still in the charger near the door at home.
Damn it.
Distracted by the echoes of Mara’s lies and a bare-chested Mikalo sleeping upstairs, I had left the damn thing at home. And, like it or not, I needed it. Me without my cell phone was simply inconceivable.
Needed a support group for that, I thought as I turned and started headin
g home. Not now, of course. But someday.
Maybe.
Or maybe not.
Thankfully I was only a few blocks away and, before long and only after elbowing my way upstream against the crowd, I was standing at my door praying I had slipped my keys in the other pocket.
They were there. Thank god.
I opened the door, spotted the phone, and, unplugging it, slipped it in my coat. And then, keys in hand, I stepped outside and started closing the door.
I stopped, listening.
The water was running upstairs.
Mikalo was in the shower.
He had talked about this. Days ago. In the park on the bench. Him blushing as he spoke of his showers after I left for work. Of the steam and the soap and ...
I stepped back in the house, suddenly remembering.
There was time for this, I suddenly realized. I was already early and, frankly, I couldn’t ignore my need for him.
Yes, I could do this. And I was going to.
My bag dropped to my feet, my keys slipped in the pocket of my coat, my coat slid from my shoulders to fall to the floor.
I kicked off my shoes and, climbing the stairs, my hands slipped my jacket off, letting it fall as my fingers started unbuttoning my blouse.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The bedroom was still dark when I entered, the only light a slender shaft of gold shining from the open bathroom door.
My jacket had been shrugged off and my blouse slipped from my shoulders, both left behind on the stairs, my shoes kicked off at the door. And now, with a simple zip, I stepped free of my skirt.
I could hear the water running. Could see the steam hanging in the air like a gentle haze. Could smell the heat and the bracing scent of the soap.
I imagined him, then.
Imagined him standing there, naked, the water rolling over his body, coursing in rivers down his muscles, down his back, down that amazing ass of his, down his legs, splashing in a soapy river around his large feet and long toes. Imagined his bicep flexing as his arm moved, finding its rhythm as he stroked, his head back, his wet hair pressed flat against his skull, his eyes closed as he thought of me there with him.
My heart pounded in my chest and I felt the familiar tingle of that thump-thump-thump below as I walked to the door.
I stopped, a lump in my throat.
What if this was wrong? I wondered. What if my interrupting this most private of moments embarrassed him or made him angry? What if what I wanted to do was the last thing he’d want, preferring the fantasy of me in that moment instead of the reality of me there?
If that was the case, I would blush a very deep shade of red, apologize, pick up my clothes and sulk my way to the sidewalk then kick myself all the way to work.
But that wouldn’t happen, I assured myself, silencing my doubts. And if it did, he would forgive me. That I was sure of.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and slowly peeked in.
The bathroom was large. I insisted on it during the renovation. Had dreamt of something big and pretty and quietly luxurious. And that’s what I got.
The floor was carrera marble, the dusky grey veins splashing through the smooth rock like a myriad puzzle of wandering rivers and streams, the stone spilling up the walls before giving way to the clean white of simple walls.
A white double sink stood on sturdy metal legs to the side, a large mirror dominating the space above it. On the opposite side sat an antique claw-footed tub, the pale porcelain perfect and blemish free and deep, easily holding me those few times I needed a hot soak.
Between the sink and the tub sat a large, wide, plush rug. The kind that wrapped your wet toes in soft warmth the moment your foot hit the floor..
Behind a small wall in a generous, private space of its own sat the toilet.
And anchoring the other end of this space dotted by discreet bouquets of flowers and delicate bursts of color, sat the shower.
Surrounded by clear glass, the space inside spanning the width of the bathroom, it was almost as large as a small room, two shower nozzles jutting out from either side, a smooth wooden bench ringing the border.
And there stood Mikalo, standing silently under the stream of a single shower head, lost in a cloud of steam, his back to me.
I crept forward clad only in my bra and ubiquitous silk panties.
I didn’t speak. I almost didn’t breathe. And I didn’t undress.
For what I was going to do, I didn’t need to.
Still unaware I lingered just beyond the glass, he leaned forward, his legs spread, feet shoulder width apart, his hand pressed flat against the wall, his other arm doing what I so hoped it would be doing.
He dipped his head. His wet hair fell into his face and over his closed eyes.
Through the steam I could see him bite his lower bit as his brow furrowed, his private storm inching near.
Yes, he was close. Too close.
It was time.
I swallowed and then spoke.
“Mikalo.”
He paused, stopping, his head lifting.
Suddenly I was scared. Suddenly I was doubting this, doubting my plan, hoping against hope he wouldn’t be embarrassed or humiliated.
Ignoring all that, I spoke again.
“Mikalo ...”
He turned his head, his eyes finding me from beneath the wet tendrils of hair, his fist gripping his hardness, soap creeping down the sides of his torso.
“I’m here,” I finished.
He turned and came near the glass, naked, wet, hard.
And sexy as hell.
With a smile, he turned the handle and opened the shower door.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
He laid on his back in front of me, still naked, still wet, still hard.
Still in my bra and panties, I kneeled between his open legs, my hands running over his body.
“Come in,” he had said moments ago as he held the door of the shower open.
I had smiled and taken a step back.
“No,” I had teased. “You come here.”
He had laughed.
“But there is wet,” he had said before looking down at his hardness. “And, well, my Grace, there is this.”
“I know,” I had answered. “Now come to me. Please.”
And with that I had kneeled on the plush carpet, waiting.
He had finally stepped free from the splashing water and bracing soap, padding his way barefoot toward me and then had fallen to his knees, his lips on mine as he had started to gather me in his wet arms.
I had pulled back, gently, shrugging away his fingers as they had reached around the unclasp my bra.
“Lie back,” I had ordered, my voice quiet.
There had been a pause then, Mikalo confused, not sure why I wouldn’t let him touch or taste or hold me.
My hands pressed against the firm muscles of his chest, gently pushing him back until he was beneath me. And, my knees forcing his legs apart, I had knelt between them.
This is where we were now. Me hovering over him, him under me flat on his back, his legs open, his hardness stretching up his stomach, throbbing, hungry for release, desperate for a touch. My touch.
I continued running my hands over his body, gathering the wet, the soap, feeling my hands grow slippery.
“Relax,” I said.
He sighed, closing his eyes as he gave into my fingers on his nipples or massaging his strong thighs. My palms feeling his tight torso before rising, my fingers pausing to enjoy each hard ripple in his stomach.
Writhing beneath me, he raised his hips, his heels digging into the rug as his hands once again reached for me.
I reached out to steady him with one hand as, with the other, I grasped his thickness, sliding up and then down in one quick motion.
He gasped, his head shooting up, chin to chest, his mouth slack as he watched me.
He tried to sit up. Tried to rise and rest on his elbows.
I pushed him down.
>
Another stroke, this time his head leaning back, his eyes squeezed shut, a groan rumbling deep in his chest as he relaxed.
I continued to run my hands over his stomach and his thighs as my other hand caressed him, toying with his width. Massaging, fondling, stroking. Up and then down and then back up. Sometimes quick, sometimes almost painfully slow, my thumb teasing him at the tip as he gasped and groaned, his hips rising and then his back arching.
My knees spread, opening his legs wider.
Reaching below with my other hand, now as soapy and wet and slick as the one that continued to torture and taunt, I felt for and then discovered that sensitive secret place that hid below. Beneath both his throbbing hardness and those smooth, rounded globes of flesh.
I rubbed it gently, then, this spot, this untouched, often ignored treasure trove of unexpected desire and delight, the hand above picking up the pace as it stroked.
His head snapped up again, chin to chest, his eyes wide.
“What ...?”
“Rub your chest,” I interrupted, knowing how sensitive his flesh now was.
His large hand moved to his chest, massaging deep before his long fingers reached a nipple, the nub of dark flesh squeezed between thumb and forefinger.
His head relaxed, laying back and turned to the side, his hands still rubbing his chest, his torso, his fingers raking up his side before returning to sweetly torture those tiny peaks dotting his pecs.
My hand slowed and nearly stopped, my palm squeezing the tip as my other hand, still rubbing and teasing below, paused.
I then gently slid a finger inside.
Another gasp followed by a loud moan.
He attempted to rise, his legs trying to close, his eyes imploring me to stop.
“Shhhhh,” I said quietly. “Relax.”
I held still, the finger not moving, still buried deep, his muscles relaxing, my other hand now stroking his length in earnest, urging him closer, the sensation of my relentless fist tempting him to forget the newer experience happening below.
Trusting me, heeding my words, he leaned back, his legs still tense.
“My Grace,” he breathed.
Mikalo's Flame Page 13