Mikalo's Flame (17 page)

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 heading 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.

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.

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.

“Shhhhhhh,” I said again. “Relax.”

I moved my finger again.

Again, he resisted.

My fist stroked and massaged, diving low
before rising to the tip only to quickly dive below once again, and
then one more time, his length covered relentlessly in this
continuous, unstoppable rhythm.

His hands still moved over his body, his
torso blushing in long red trails where his fingers would dig deep
while raking their up toward his chest.

He turned his head this way and that as I
continued to bring him to the edge, stopping and gripping him hard
when I felt him come to close.

And below, the finger now moved, slowly, in
and then out, his muscles still tight but relaxing as they accepted
and then surrendered to the quickly addictive pain, somehow aware
of the bliss that would soon follow.

And it did.

Another small moan as his legs spread wide,
his knees drawing up and opening further, his hips pushing himself
into my touch.

No longer fighting it, he had given in and,
to his obvious surprise, his length growing harder and even thicker
in my fist, he was enjoying it.

I held my fist still, allowing his body to
set its own pace as he grinded into me, first slow and then fast
and then slow again, my finger still buried below, still inching
deeper, his gasps growing as he opened even further to me.

“My Grace,” he said again, his voice thick
with desire.

“Yes.”

A low moan was his only response, his fingers
now cruelly pinching the sensitive circles of flesh on his
chest.

I watched him.

He was beautiful.

His eyes squeezed shut. His teeth gritted as
he fought for breath. Lost in his own world as his large hands
pawed at the smooth flesh of his chest, his stomach, his thighs.
His fingers even occasionally rising to his head, great clumps of
wet hair gripped in his fist as I teased him yet again, urging him
close only to stop.

But he was getting too close now.

It was time.

The finger below moved quicker, deeper, soon
joined by a second, Mikalo opening almost at once with a sharp
gasp.