Mikalo's Flame

Copyright 2013 Syndra K. Shaw

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Cover photograph by OLJ Studio

via shutterstock

Cover design by Renae Porter

Social Butterfly Creative

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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of this author.

To my FB bff Jodie,

who gave me her time and encouragement,

kept me safe and warm in her pocket,

and always made me laugh.

And to you, the Reader.

Without you, there would be no words to
write

or stories to tell.

Thank you.

At least we made it into the house this
time.

While leaving the restaurant, Mikalo had
given me “the look”.

But instead of his customary boyish smirk,
the teasing grin hinting at his growing need for me, this time his
eyes were already hooded with lust.

And after all but dashing out of the cab and
running down the block to skirt quickly up the stairs, jam the key
in the lock and slip inside, the door barely closing behind us, he
was on me.

His hands pulling off my coat, his fingers
tugging the scarf from my neck, mine ripping his free over his
head, wrestling with the buttons of his coat and then the belt
buckle around his pants.

He slammed me against the wall, his palms
rummaging past my shirt to lie flat against my breasts as we
kissed. Deeply.

I broke free, pulling the fabric over my
head, Mikalo dropping to his knees to slip off my shoes and wrestle
my pants down my thighs and past my calves, his face quickly
pressing close to my warmth.

My fingers in his hair, I ground my hips into
him.

He moaned, the vibration of this helpless,
desperate sound resonating against the delicate layer of silk.

I pulled him to his feet again, sliding his
jeans down, the denim languishing ‘round his knees as he kicked his
shoes free, my fist immediately wrapping around him.

His tongue in my mouth, he groaned.

I smiled as I bent low, playfully ducking
under his arms and, slipping from his grasp, starting up the
stairs.

He laughed as he hopped, trapped by the
denim, freeing first one leg and then the other before throwing the
jeans to the side and taking the stairs two at a time to easily
catch me.

And pinning me beneath him, he had smiled,
the edge of the stairs cutting into my shoulders, my back, my legs,
my calves.

“Is that what you would like, Ronan?” he
asked. “To go free?”

I squirmed, pushing myself against him as his
lips met my neck.

He had called me Ronan. Not “my Grace”.

Yeah, this was going to be quite a night.

“You want me to?” I mumbled as I wrapped my
legs around him and squeezed. “You don’t like me helpless and
trapped?”

His hardness pressed against my thigh, hot
and thick.

God, I wanted it.

Slipping my hands beneath his shirt, I raked
my nails up his flesh, scratching him.

He gasped, his eyes closing as he lifted from
me, arching his back and pushing into the sudden sting.

Squirming to the side, I tore free, dodging
past him.

And then, turning, I scrambled my way up the
stairs.

Another laugh as he followed, his hands
grasping at my ankles as he crawled and then stood, chasing me.

Finally at the top, I sprinted toward the
bedroom, Mikalo close behind.

Dashing through the door, I turned to face
him as he came in.

He stopped in the doorway, his shirt
impatiently peeled over his head with one hand as he watched me
backing away from him, my fingers slowly drawing the thin layer of
silk down my thighs.

And stepping free from them, I waited, naked,
ready, willing.

He lunged, catching me, slamming into me, the
two of us falling to the floor.

Yes.

I opened myself to him, his hair in my fist,
my teeth on his neck, his shoulder, his lips on my cheek, his
tongue licking my flesh, his mouth sucking me as we gasped and
groaned.

Reaching below, I grabbed him, stroking and
pulling.

He moaned, the sound lost in my breast as he
sucked me deep.

I guided him, impatient. Forced him deep in
one sudden, perfect thrust.

And with that, he was inside.

We paused, holding our breath as he lifted
his chest from mine, his eyes on me.

I nodded. Begged.

Do it. Hard.

He withdrew slowly, so, so slowly and then
plunged deep.

God yes.

I stretched my arms above my head, giving
myself to him.

He plunged again, grinding hard, moving
deeper.

Oh god yes.

I opened my legs wider and pulled him down to
me, his chest crushing my breasts as he wrapped his arms around me
and held tight.

His movements came brutal, quick, my gasps
urging him on, the words dying in my throat all the permission he
needed to ravage me without apology.

My hips raised, forcing him further into me,
my fingers threaded through his hair to grasp and pull, his arms
hooked under, his hands clutching my shoulders, steadying me,
holding me firm as he picked up the pace, his eyes no longer seeing
me as his need grew.

The hard wood floor was bruising my flesh.
And on my tongue I tasted the tell-tale metallic tang of blood, our
passion wounding me yet again.

I pulled his head back by his hair.

“Kiss me,” I said, his lips quickly on mine
as I sucked his tongue into my mouth.

My hips were trembling.

I moaned, digging my heels into the wood as I
rose to meet his thrusts.

He gasped, his lips roughly grazing my
cheeks, my neck.

“More,” I begged.

His hips slammed into me.

The trembling grew, my legs now shaking as
the thump-thump-thump began.

“My Grace ...” he whispered, his movements
now frantic.

“Yes,” I urged. “Yes, now. Do it. Now.”

I raised my hips further, opening myself even
more to him as he thrust and then thrust again.

His muscles contracting, he stopped as he
held himself above me, his head back.

And then he groaned, the sound rumbling like
thunder through the room.

I arched my back and lifted my hips again,
pushing myself against him as my own wave crested and then
crashed.

He moved deeper as he throbbed, spilling into
me.

My teeth gritted as I groaned, falling back
to the floor as it rippled and coursed through me, my skin burning
red as my muscles clenched.

He followed, staying close, still moving,
riding it with me, coaxing more waves to crest and crash, each one
quieter than the last until nothing was left but the warm echo of
our bliss.

He grew still, stretching out to lay on top
of me.

And then he kissed me, tenderly, sweetly, his
hands moving my hair from my face.

“And now the bed, yes?” he finally asked, his
boyish smirk back with a vengeance.

There was nothing more beautiful than the
sight of Mikalo satiated by sex.

He sighed and stretched his arms above his
head, his brow knitting briefly as he lingered in that sweet space
between exhaustion and sleep.

I sipped my water, my arms hugging me as I
stood in the doorway watching him.

There were doubts.

There were questions.

And there was love.

This was where I lingered as I watched him
drift into his dreams.

Logic had always ruled me. Every decision,
every plan, every thought, all of it worked and reworked again
through a rock solid sense of unshakeable logic. The unnecessary,
the extraneous, unraveled and tossed aside.

This is who I was and who I’d always been.
Not prone to recklessness. Not given to flights of fancy.

Everything driven by logic, pure and
simple.

Always.

But this. With Mikalo. This was new and
different. This was powerful. This was a whole world of emotions.
And there I was, a stranger in a frightening land, stumbling her
way through the dark.

And I was terrified.

This was love.

I wanted to go to him now. Crawl in bed. Wrap
my arms around him and feel his warmth against me. Hear him sigh as
he recognized my touch. Feel his chest rise as he turned his head
to rest his cheek against me, pulling me close. I wanted to be safe
and secure in his arms, the scent of him surrounding me, quieting
my fears.

But I remained in the doorway, sipping my
water.

Not long ago we had met in the coffee shop,
me with my documents, he in his grey suit. In New York to interview
for a coveted position at the law firm I was a Partner at, he had
charmed me as he stumbled his way through the English language.

Stunningly handsome and effortlessly
intriguing, he had made me feel safe as he rejected girls younger
and, in my opinion, more beautiful.

And, soon after, with an intoxicating blend
of eager sincerity and insistent desire, he had taken me with a
passion that opened my heart and annihilated my boundaries.

And although he had insisted on staying at a
hotel when he first returned, over time he had all but moved in, a
logical -- see, there’s that word again -- decision which made
sense and pleased both of us.

None of this steadied my heart or calmed my
doubts.

Why would he come to New York to interview
for work he didn’t need?

Why would he even entertain the thought of
work if he was worth billions?

What of his family in Greece? Their obvious
needs? The crisis they faced at the hands of his brother and, as
Mikalo called her, “the wife”?

Why should I even care?

And is this, our love, our life together, is
it moving too fast?

As I said, there were questions.

But even now with my heart battling my head,
I could feel that familiar warmth, that tingle, as I saw him shift,
pushing the sheet away, inadvertently exposing more flesh.

I could almost taste the light sheen of sweat
staining the muscles of his chest. Feel his abs flexing under my
fingers as my hand snaked lower.

And my knees still grew weak at the sight of
his beautiful butt, the twin globes rising into the air as he
turned over and snuggled in, pulling the pillow to his chest.

Weeks had passed since his return from
Greece. The city outside locked in winter, the streets snow and
ice, the air bracing and the wind harsh. Weeks of sex. Sometimes
rough and brutal, like tonight. Other times, tender and patient,
calm and giving.

Weeks of an unfamiliar happiness. Of raucous
laughter and long talks that stretched through the night and
continued with the rising of the sun. Talks I loved with a man I
cherished and adored.

Still ...

Oh, Jesus Christ. Just rein it in, Ronan.
Stop talking yourself out of a good thing. Stop the questions, the
fears, the doubts.

Just stop it.

I bit my tongue and swallowed, silencing
those voices which poked, prodded, and questioned. And then I
padded my way through the shadows, finally relenting, going to him,
sliding in and spooning against his smooth flesh, my arms gently
wrapping around him and hugging him close.

We have our whole lives, my Grace, he said
often.

I prayed he was right. Trusted there would be
time for questions. Time for answers.

And then I’d know what to do.

I hoped.

What the hell?

The stretch of 42nd Street in front of my
office building was clogged with dark-windowed black vans. Like,
high level security-type of vans. And metal gates. And guards. Lots
of guards wearing dark suits and sporting even darker sunglasses.
The kind of somber, anonymous, discreetly powerful men you see when
the President visits.