Mikalo's Grace

by Syndra K. Shaw

I was wet.

  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.

  "We all have our secrets," she said, watching the chaos of cars and people angling for room where Fifth met 14th Street. "Now hush."

  I settled back, watching the familiar hustle and bustle, the gritty energy of it all a stark contrast to the almost genteel streets of my Upper West Side neighborhood.

  I had earned my graduate degrees at NYU, so none of this was new to me. Familiar, yes, but, in my heart, I know this was a life I had left behind.

  Within minutes, we had come to a stop, were out of the car, hustling our way through the park, and approaching MacDougal Street.

  Where we suddenly turned left.

  "Listen," Deni quietly said as we threaded our way through the college kids choking the sidewalk outside their dorm. "I made some calls. He's still in town."

  "Really."

  "Really," she said as we crossed the street.

  "So where's he been?" I asked.

  "I'm getting to that," she said.

  She stopped under a large awning at the foot of several steps leading to a brightly lit coffee shop.

  "Wait here."

  And with that, she skirted up the steps, her pink Chanel coat and matching pumps quickly disappearing inside.

  What the hell?

  I looked around, the noise of busy West Third Street to my right, the quiet park with its wanderers and dog walkers and readers sitting on iron benches soaking up the latest best seller to my left.

  And finally the happy sounds and delicious smells of the coffee shop wafting from the large windows facing the sidewalk, the room inside warm and inviting with its small, circular cafe tables and wood paneled walls.

  The door creaked open.

  Deni stuck her head out and motioned for me to come in.

  Climbing the stone steps, I followed.

  She held her finger to her lips as she took my hand.

  We made our way through the room, the rich scent of bitter espressos and thick cappuccinos and icy frappuccinos filling the air, the desserts waiting behind the large glass case looking inviting, the heat of the ovens baking pizzas warming my skin.

  To the back we went, a surprisingly large garden waiting down several more steps.

  Her hand stopped me as, catching my eye, she nodded her head to the outer edg
e of the space.

  And there at a small table near a small fountain they sat, arm in arm, her red head cradled on his strong shoulder, his lips grazing her cheek as he held her tight.

  Virginie.

  "Do you know her?" Deni whispered.

  "Yeah."

  "Oh," she replied, sounding surprised. "Since when did you start reading French Vogue?"

  "What?"

  "French Vogue. Virginie LaMaddo. She's on the cover this month."

  Oh shit.

  I started seeing red. And I wasn't talking about the bitch's hair.

  Deni reached out her hand, steadying me.

  She shook her blonde curls and then turned, nodding to the couple again.

  The red-headed harlot was taking her glossy supermodel curls from my Mikalo's comforting shoulder.

  She removed her sunglasses as his strong hand stroked her cheek. Lifting an elegant hand, she wiped away discreet tears and, ducking her head low, laughed a small laugh.

  He smiled and kissed her, his hands moving to cup her chin, lifting her face.

  She looked up at him.

  Her eyes were blackened and bruised, the wounds still raw and red.

  Shit.

  Deni touched my arm and cocked her head toward the door.

  I followed her outside.

  We rushed down the stairs and hit the sidewalk, quickly walking toward the park.

  "What the hell?" I asked.

  "Her husband, her new husband, Alfredo, he beats her."

  "So, this isn't the first time?"

  She shrugged.

  "It rarely is."

  "But why couldn't Mikalo tell me? I could have helped or something. I should have known. He could have told me. Wouldn't have spent an eternity wondering where in the hell he was or what I did wrong or ..."

  Deni stopped and turned to me, angry.

  "Why would he? Think about it for one second, will you? Why would he? One of his best friends, a woman he's known for a hell of a lot longer than he's known you, is beaten to a pulp, reaches out to him for help, for comfort, for safety, and he's supposed to call you?

  "The last thing that girl needs is for it to get out that her face is screwed up. That's her paycheck, Ronan. She could lose work if people knew. She's probably already had to cancel jobs. You don't think Mikalo knows that? You don't think she would tell him that? You don't think he's aware of how frightened and alone she feels?