I grew quiet, unsure what to say next, afraid my tongue would betray me as the champagne flooded my head, dulling my mind.
"Miss Grace."
My eyes found Miss White, quietly enraged.
"That was a wonderful speech," she said, her voice low. "We do give a lot for what we do, you're right.
"But are you willing to give up what you do for him?"
The words slapped me in the face like ice cold water, shocking me into sobriety.
My mind raced, whatever words I had in response disappearing as quickly as they appeared.
"Well?" she asked, a look of triumph on her face.
"Are you?"
Across the room, Deni and Mikalo laughed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was late, it was dark, and I was drunk.
And riding in the back of a cab would most certainly make me sick.
So we walked, my Mikalo and I.
Sticking to the lighted paths, we made our way through Central Park, 72nd Street slicing through its winding trails and dark trees and offering the quickest, easiest path between Deni's apartment on Park Avenue and my townhouse on the other side of the park.
He held my hand tight as we walked.
After the unpleasantness that was and still is Abigail White, I had knocked back more champagne, not caring that my tongue would grow thick and my words slurred. I had said my piece and now there's was nothing I could do.
"What, what would you do," I asked Mikalo, my head spinning as we moved further into the park, "What would you do if you, if you got the job, if they offered, they offered the job? What would you do?"
"My Grace, she enjoyed the champagne."
I laughed, drunk.
And you enjoyed my friend.
Wait, did I say that out loud?
No, no I didn't.
Thank god.
"No, no, no," I insisted, veering into him as I stumbled. "Tell me. What would you do? Would you take it? Would you take it and be with me and live with me and fuck me every morning and every night? Would you? Would you?"
I stumbled again. He caught me. I laughed. Loud.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, steadying myself. "Perhaps I should have had more hors d'oeuvres."
And then I laughed at that.
He smiled, taking my hand and urging me along.
We walked several minutes in silence.
"My Grace, I would love to be with you, every morning and every night."
"Oh, that is so, that is so sweet, so, so sweet," I said, stopping and pulling him close. "That is so sweet.
"Kiss me," I then said as I grabbed his coat, pushing my face toward his.
We kissed, long and deep.
He pulled away.
I slipped my hand below, reaching for him, discovering him and then feeling him, caressing him, eager to feel him grow hard.
"My Grace," he laughed.
He stepped back.
My head spinning, my tongue too thick with drink, all I could was laugh, too.
We walked.
"You had a good time at this party, yes?"
"Mmmm," I answered as I fought back thoughts of him laughing in the corner with Deni. Or of blasting that bitch Abigail White with the truth. Or of making more enemies in one night than I had my entire time at the Firm.
But that wasn't true. I was hated. My success at such a young age guaranteed that.
Not even a head full of champagne could disguise that fact.
"Did you?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"No, it is not true. This party, it was not for me."
What? But he and Deni, they had laughed. He looked to be having a wonderful time. And he had evidently charmed everyone he needed to charm. Or at least it looked that way from where I was sitting with my spinning head in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee, courtesy of our gracious hostess, in the other.
"You looked, it looked like you were, you were having fun," I said, discreetly swallowing a belch.
"In my home, we party. There is good food, yes. And laughter. And drink. And tears. And children. In my home, a party is a celebration. It is life.
"This," he continued, "it was beautiful. Your friend, beautiful. Her home, beautiful. The food, beautiful. And delicious.
"But there was no joy, no happiness."
He stopped, the lights of Central Park West just up ahead, our destination in sight.
"Tomorrow you will come with me to dinner. I have friends, from Greece, and these friends, they are having a party. A real party. We eat, we drink, we dance, we love. You will laugh and your heart will feel joy, yes?
"Please, you will come, my Grace."
I was drunk, I was finally tired, and I had heard drink and eat and love. And laugh.
"Of course," I said.
"I'd love ..." I continued, another small belch swallowed. "I'd love to."
And I smiled, looking forward to spending yet another night with my Mikalo.
If only I had heard dance.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was high school all over again.
Me hiding in a corner, my two left feet tucked under my chair, my eyes down. Willing myself invisible, dreading the possibility of being noticed. Or, God forbid, of being asked to dance.
Mikalo sat next to me, his arm draped around my shoulder as he talked and laughed and drank and ate.
We were surrounded by his friends. In fact, in this restaurant out in Queens, in Astoria, I believe, we were surrounded period, the room filled with people, bodies snaking between tables and chairs, the aisles full. Even brave souls sitting on tables, their butts bracketed by a plate of food on one side, a jug of delicious wine on the other.
Old women with bent backs and dancing eyes. Young men with hard bodies and easy smiles. Old men sitting quietly with canes and small children running about, their mothers, wide hips seated on sturdy wooden chairs, watching and laughing and eating.
And the men.
My goodness.
Thick dark hair, dark eyes, square jaws and brilliant white teeth. Broad shoulders and barrel chests, their biceps thick and muscled, their legs sturdy, their asses rounded and tight as they swaggered by.
Or blond and lanky, the skin burnished bronze and long arms toned, surprisingly blue eyes and gentle faces with kind smiles. Effortlessly seductive as they bent low to kiss your hand, their eyes watching you from beneath infuriatingly long lashes.
Christos, Jaysen, Piero, Alexandros, Darion, Stavros.
The names tripped of Mikalo's tongue as they approached and gave him a hug before turning to me and either gathering me into their arms to give me an affectionate squeeze or quietly taking my hand in theirs as their lips grazed my flesh.
Yes, this was nothing like Deni's party.
One heaping plate after another of food. Glass after endless glass of ouzo and wine and then more ouzo and still more wine. A constant, almost deafening buzz of conversation, in Greek or English or a combination of both, people slipping in a Greek word when they couldn't think of the English and vice versa.
And then laughing.
And always Mikalo, sitting by my side, his arm around me or his hand in mine, his presence, his warmth, the scent of him, all of it a comfort in the midst of all these boisterous strangers.
One of his many friends, this one with beautiful brown eyes and thick low brows and luscious skin the color of soft, buttery caramel, handed me a small shot of ouzo.
I politely declined.
"But it is Mytilini," he said, offering the small glass again.
"Mytilini?" I asked, turning to Mikalo.
"It is the only ouzo to drink," he explained. "Very difficult to find outside of Greece.
"Please," he continued, "It is a wonderful gift. A rare treasure here, so far from home. And it is only polite, yes?
"And Christos, he is such a good friend. We only want that you have a good time."
For a third time I was faced with the stout shot of clear
liquid. Sighing, I took it from this Christos, smiled, glanced over at Mikalo who indicated I was to knock it back in one clear gulp, and brought it to my lips.
I swear a hush fell over the room, all his friends waiting for my reaction as I drank the licorice flavored drink and then swallowed the slightly thick liquid in one big gulp.
I winced, my eyes burning, my throat burning, my nose burning, my face, I was certain, turning red.
A cheer came from the room.
Laughing, I held the empty glass in the air.
"Ouzo!" I yelled.
They all laughed, another round of applause erupting from the crowd.
I turned to Mikalo.
"No more," I quietly said. "I'm still recovering from last night, so, please, no more."
"But my Grace," he responded, moving close, his breath warm against my lips, "This taste, it is something I love."
And then he kissed me, his tongue lightly licking the anise from my lips as he sighed, his arm pulling me close.
He pulled free, his nose grazing mine as he smiled.
I turned to Christo.
"Another ouzo, please."
Chapter Thirty
Her plump hands took mine and led me deeper into the circle.
I had drunk too much ouzo, I think. Had eaten way too much. That, I was sure of.
And now this kind woman with the happy face and wide hips and generous stomach was leading me barefoot and woozy onto the floor to dance.
They had moved the tables -- to where, I had no idea --, creating a large circle in this sea of people. The ouzo still flowed and the food kept coming, the conversation still buzzed, and there was still laughter and shouts and cheers and greetings and tears and joy and kisses and hugs.
And now there would be dancing.
The music started.
Where was Mikalo?
I glanced around, the woman's hands firmly gripping mine.
He sat surrounded by Christos and all these other men whose names I had forgotten looking happier than I had ever seen him, his heart truly belonging with these people in this culture with this food and drink and all this laughter.
Catching my eye, he winked, silently urging me to go and dance and enjoy myself.
But I couldn't dance.
Or at least I don't think I could.
We stopped, this kind woman and I.
Patiently watching me, a teacher guiding a new, clumsy student, she held me tight as she moved her bare feet, first one way and then the other.
I followed, awkward and embarrassed and ill at ease.
She laughed, grabbed my hips and shook me.
"Too firm!" she joked.
"Like this," she then said.
And she moved her body, shaking her hips, their width swaying to the right and then the left, her thick fingers snapping as her pudgy feet danced, her lips curling into a grin.
"Yes?" she asked, watching me, her smiling eyes lost in the folds of her happy face.
I swayed my hips.
"Yes!" she said, her hands finding the rhythm and clapping.
Lifting mine, I snapped my fingers, aping her movements.
She joined me, laughing, following me as the music pulsed, the bodies around us dancing and stamping their feet and swaying their hips and snapping their fingers and clapping their hands.
Little boys bouncing next to their mothers. Little girls swaying with their fathers. Couples pressed close as their lips touched, their feet moving in time, the rhythm between them already established and familiar.
Young and old, fat and thin, they lost themselves to the music, whatever inhibitions they had banished by glasses of ouzo and endless bites of rich, hearty food and the safety of friends and family they loved.
I closed my eyes, allowing myself to drop my worries.
Somewhere I could hear Mikalo cheer and clap.
I smiled, my body finding the beat, my feet moving, my fingers snapping, my skin feeling flushed and my tongue thick as I danced, not caring what I looked like or who was watching.
My hips swayed, my hands inching down my stomach to my thighs as I gyrated, then traveling up to gather my hair from my neck as I continued to move.
This felt good.
I turned this way and that, the old lady now applauding, her laughter coming from a distance, her own steps having taken her from a student who no longer needed guidance to her own space, her rhythm now searching for its own pleasure, its own joy.
My eyes opened, the bodies around me a whirl of twisting and turning, of stomping and clapping and snapping fingers. Of laughing faces and shining skin sweaty and flushed from drink.
My hips moved again.
The crowd cheered.
I stamped my feet, my fingers snapping.
I heard applause.
The people had moved back, allowing me room.
Soaked in ouzo and wine, I didn't care.
I danced.
Another cheer from the crowd, their clapping rhythmic, urging me on as I gyrated and swayed, stomped and turned, snapped my fingers and threw back my head.
More cheers, more clapping.
And then a huge, collective shout.
I opened my eyes.
From the edge of the room, he came near, threading his way through the tables and chairs and people as he stripped off his shirt, his muscled flesh gleaming with sweat.
Smiling, I held my hands out to him, beckoning him near, the ouzo flowing through my veins making me brave.
He came close.
The crowd was cheering louder now, the room filled with the thunderous sound of stomping feet and hands slapping tables and clapping.
He stood in front of me now, his nose close to mine.
He took my hand, his arm around my waist.
A huge cry from the crowd, and then laughter.
His hairy chest pressed close, the scruff of his unshaven cheek and chin rough against my face, his unfamiliar lips close to mine, he moved near.
I reached up, gathering his shoulder-length dark curls in my fist as we took our first step, his thick, muscled body moving with mine, his breath hot on my lips as we swayed first one way and then the other.
And then this stranger and I danced.
Chapter Thirty-One
I didn't know his name, this dark-haired stud who grinded his hips into me as we moved across the floor, his strong hand on the small of my back as he led me.
He was not a friend of Mikalo's. He had not been introduced to me, his name not in the rambling list of Greek accented vowels and consonants I had struggled to hear through the constant buzz in the room, the Greek voices melding with the clink of cutlery against plates and children laughing.
No, I don't remember meeting this man.
But I knew him.
Or, rather, my body did.
My hips knew his, my lips were familiar with his, our breath already friends.
Although a stranger, we held no secrets, the sweat from our bodies mingling as his heart spoke to mine, my wetness responding to the improbably thick hardness pressing against me.
He turned me, at once catching me and bringing me close as he pulled me into him.
I looked into his eyes.
They were hooded with lust.
His face moved close, the stubble once again gently rough against my smooth cheek and then my neck as he dipped his head low.
I held him to me, my hands resting on his massive shoulders as our hips ground into each other, the music thumping and pumping, the clapping of the crowd still rhythmic and loud.
My heart was in my mouth.
Briefly, I thought of Mikalo. Briefly, I feared his jealousy. Briefly, I considered letting go of this muscled mountain of a man.
Briefly.
We continued to dance.
When I walked backward, he walked forward, our steps in perfect time.
When I turned, he turned.
When I breathed, I felt the heat of his lips on my flesh.
When I pr
essed myself into him, I was rewarded with his hardness. Thick and hot. Not as long as Mikalo, no. But much thicker.
And hard. Very hard.
I felt my mouth water.
This was only a dance, I told myself. You love Mikalo. He's your man, he's the one you came with, and he's the one who's going to ravage you tonight.
Not this man. Not this stranger.
No, only Mikalo.
He quickly turned me again, catching me.
He paused, his eyes looking into mine as his hand slowly traced down my back.
And then we were dancing again, the room filling with others. More couples, more children, more strangers stomping and clapping and snapping their fingers as this stranger and I, this man, stepped and grinded and breathed our way closer to cumming.
I glanced over his shoulder.
Mikalo.
He sat, ouzo in hand, watching us. His eyes heavy with desire, his mouth slightly open, his breath ragged, his hand resting in his lap, his palm laying flat to disguise the hardness beneath his jeans.
I ran my hand up the stranger's neck and nestled my fingers in his hair, grabbing the sweaty, curly locks in my fist.
He smiled, this man, pulling me to him tighter.
Mikalo gulped and breathed deep, his gaze still locked on us.
The music sped up, the bodies around us writhing and twisting and turning and dipping. A blur of dancing strangers riding a wave of drink and very loud Greek music.
We turned again and then again, our hips swaying, the sweat dripping off his chin onto his neck and then running in rivers through the dark hair on his chest.
The scent of him was intoxicating.
I closed my eyes and breathed deep.
He was a worker, most definitely. Construction, maybe. The clean scent of soap not quite covering the dust, the gentleness of his touch not hiding the roughness of his palms, the subtle grinding of his thickness into me not concealing his brutal hunger to take me and take me hard.
I allowed myself the fantasy of tasting him.
Fantasized about him tossing me onto the bed and roughly taking me. No foreplay, no tenderness, no polite whispers and sighs. Just forcing my legs apart as his tongue assaulted my mouth, his stubble scratching my skin before he rammed his improbable thickness deep and then rudely fucked me. The speed of his thrusts giving vent to his need, the desperation of his grunts and groans as he trapped me beneath him taking the place of gentle moans and quiet groans.
Mikalo's Grace Page 9