Mikalo's Flame (10 page)

But it’s always been about finding the right
guy first, you know? And with my nose buried in documents, my
office sometimes more of a prison than not, who had time to meet
“the right guy”.

Yet here he was. The Right Guy.

Did I want kids? With Mikalo?

“Yes,” I suddenly said.

He turned, slightly confused.

“Yes to ‘mama’ being a wonderful thing?” he
said. “Or ... ?”

“Yes to all of it, Mikalo. Yes to kids, yes
to someday being a mama, yes to someday you being a wonderful
father. Just yes. Yes to everything.”

He laughed.

“Oh, yes to everything?” he teased. “This
version of Ronan, it is quite new and wonderful. She says yes to
everything!”

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.”

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.

They 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.”

“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.

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.