Mikalo's Flame (18 page)

My fist still pumped his length, still
massaged and stroked. My palm circling the flesh from base to tip,
my fingers not quite meeting as I gripped his width.

He still moved his hips, pushing himself into
my stroking and gripping and teasing and taunting.

And together, the three of them, my finger,
my fist, and his hips, worked together, his head turning to the
left and then the right as his storm drew near, his gasps now
constant and pleading.

It grew harder in my hand. Hotter.
Thicker.

My mouth grew dry, the desire I felt to take
him in my mouth and taste him growing stronger as he grew closer.
To feel his heat under my tongue while my fist worked him, the
fingers below not as gentle as they buried themselves deep,
responding to his thrusts and gasps and groans.

I moved quicker, matching the rhythm of his
gyrating hips.

He was panting now. Speaking under his
breath, the words lost in his excitement, almost a whisper, known
only to him.

His flesh was burning red now. His hips were
all but bouncing off the bathroom floor. And he now held his arms
to his sides, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.

He suddenly stopped.

My fist didn’t.

And neither did my fingers.

His mouth hung open, his eyes wide as, chin
to chest, he watched me stroke his now rock hard length.

His hips raised one last time.

He breathed a thick “My Grace”.

And then it happened.

The storm hit, his desire shooting up his
stomach to splash across his chest as, hands cradling his head, his
still wet hair clutched in his fists, he moaned.

I didn’t stop, my fist eager for the wave to
continue, urging his pleasure to new heights, my fingers below
buried deep and then deeper still.

My eyes watched his face.

He was still focused on my hand gripping him,
his hands on his head, in his hair, his muscles clenched, his abs
one hard ripple after another as he curled up, tense and
excited.

And his mouth was still open as he fought for
breath, his brow furrowing as his excitement continued to pump and
splash across his stomach or slide down his length to cover my hand
in its warmth.

Laying back, his hands went to his face as he
tried to relax, tried to quiet his heart.

I still stroked, slower now, the fingers
poking and prodding below now one and then none as they left that
secret pleasure behind, my pace relaxing as he grew sensitive.

And then I stopped, releasing him to lie
against his hip, his chest rising and falling as he sighed and then
smiled.

I crawled alongside him and gave him a
kiss.

“And now work,” I whispered in his ear as I
rose to leave.

He laughed, an almost helpless, breathless
sound. An exhausted sound.

I stood over him.

Sweaty, messy, panting and gasping, his heart
still racing.

He was perfect.

After giving my hands a quick wash under the
tap, I turned to go.

“My Grace,” he called out.

In the door, I looked back to find him
propped up on his elbows, his length now softening as it rested
against his hip.

His chest rose as he took a deep breath
followed by a large sigh.

“You are a very bad girl, my Grace,” he then
said.

And then he smiled and collapsed, lying
back.

“A very bad girl.”

I kept smiling. I couldn’t help it.

Even here at my desk, the two computer
screens on my desk demanding my attention, the documents spread
across the thick glass before me scattered like begging orphans, my
phone ringing, Janey’s phone ringing, everything demanding an
answer, all I could think of was Mikalo.

My Mikalo. On the bathroom floor. His
hardness in my fist. Me in control of his pleasure, his release.
Him leaning back, exhausted, with a smile.

I smiled again.

Damn it. I needed to focus.

Janey poked her head in.

“Deni on line two.”

Yes!

She left, the door closing behind her.

“Deni,” I said into the phone.

“Sweetie, got your email and I have no
time.”

“Okay, no problem.”

“So, yeah, he’s had other girlfriends,” she
said. “Of course. I mean, please. Your Significant Other is walking
sex on a stick and then some. So that’s really no surprise.

“And he has lived with one or two.”

I paused, not sure I wanted to hear what was
coming next.

“He has?” I asked.

“Well, from what I could find out, yes and
no.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you’d shut your trap,” she said
impatiently. “I’d tell you.

“What it means,” she continued, “is he lived
with Claudia, who you know about, of course, and then one other
girl, Noelle.

“This is the girl he moved in with and then
left.”

I breathed, realizing that despite the
cocaine and booze and general bitchiness of Mara Byzan, she was
right. She had been telling the truth.

“So Mara was right,” I finally said.

“Yes and no,” Deni said, correcting me. “The
facts are right, but there’s a bit of a story behind it.

“Noelle and Mara were friends. And, like
Mara, Noelle liked to drink and, eventually, started doing drugs.
Mikalo hated it.

“I mean, this was not the girl he thought he
loved or who he thought he’d be living with. She started getting
mean, started yelling at him, screaming at him, locking him out of
the house.

“So he decided he had to leave. Which led to
her slashing her wrists.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly,” she said. “What’s he supposed to
do then, right?

“Well, Mikalo being Mikalo, he bides his
time, waits a few months, puts up with her drugs, her abuse, her
drinking, puts up with Mara being around all the time, and then he
suggests he should get his own place.

“Of course he does and then, after that, he
leaves her. Which is devastating. And, a few years later, she’s
found dead.

“Mara being Mara, she blames Mikalo,
completely ignoring the insanity of her life and Noelle’s life and
how they drove him away.”

“You see, Ronan,” she continued. “There’s a
tiny grain of truth in that really big lie. He did live with her,
he did leave her, but he had his reasons.

“He hasn’t lied to you yet. I don’t know why
he would start now.”

I let the story sink in and then spoke.

“I know, Deni. You’re right. But if he would
just, you know, talk to me every now and then, share this stuff
with me, there wouldn’t be so much confusion.”

“Yeah,” she said. “If he’d just be American,
things would be so much easier.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ronan, he’s European. They’re just not like
us. They’re reserved. Quieter.

“We’re Americans. We’re talkers. We’ll tell
anyone anything at anytime for any reason under the sun. And he’s
just not like that.

“It’s a cultural thing.”

“And then you add being incredibly wealthy to
that?” she continued. “He’s used to playing his cards to his vest,
not putting himself out there to be used or taken advantage of.
He’s going to be a tough nut to crack, but it’ll be worth it.

“And he loves you, so that’s over half the
battle right there.

“So just relax and know he is who he says he
is and you can trust him.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Thank you.

“How are you doing, by the way?”

“I’m good,” she said quickly. “Back on the
saddle and ready to battle.”

“Oh wow,” I teased. “That sounded much better
in your head, didn’t it.”

She laughed.

“Something like that,” she then said.

“Am I to assume you’ve got some new battle
scars?”

“You’re bad, Ronan.”

“That’s what Mikalo said this morning.”

“Oh man, I have no time right now and I hate
waiting for sexy updates,” she said.

“Yeah, you better get back or Lucas is gonna
punch you,” I teased.

“Nope, I punch, he slaps. It works as long as
everyone remembers the Safe Word.”

“Which is?” I asked with a smile.

“Butternut.”

I laughed.

“God, you’re sick.”

“And you’re a slut,” she said. “Love
you!”

And then she rang off.

I smiled again.

Damn it, there was just no way I was going to
be able to focus today.

It was going to be a lazy weekend. It had to
be. After the week I’d had, I was exhausted. I wanted to do nothing
but lay around, watch TV, maybe read a bit, perhaps wander outside
occasionally.

In short, I wasn’t going to do a damn
thing.

And for that, I needed coffee.

That was Mikalo’s job. Pouring my coffee.
Which he was doing right now.

Clad only in a t-shirt and boxers -- I
insisted he wear them around the house in the morning; a naked
Mikalo swinging in the wind everywhere I looked would be beyond
distracting ... very hot, of course, but distracting; ergo, the
boxers --, he stood across the room whispering to the coffee as he
poured it, saying hello to the milk as he sloshed it in, and then
teasing the sugar as he stirred into the cup.

Yeah, Mikalo talked to his morning coffee.
And mine.

It was adorable.

He’d make a wonderful father.

Someday.

Balancing our two cups, he came to sit at the
table.

He handed me mine.

I brought it to my lips to take a sip.

“My Grace,” he began, leaning forward, his
elbows on the table, his hands wrapped around his cup as it sat
steaming in front of him, “There is something very important to
discuss. Something important for us to say. For our
relationship.”

What the hell?

The coffee caught in my throat, leading to a
small cough.

“It is hot,” he said apologetically.

I put the cup down and, willing myself calm,
swallowed the cough down.

“Okay,” I finally managed to say.

He stood and, his back to me, continued.

“I do love to be here, with you. Every day it
is a joy and a pleasure. It makes my heart happy. And, with you, I
smile, my heart smiles. I am very happy.

“But you know I have bought a home of my own.
And this, this home, is what we need to speak about.”

He turned and watched me.

I spoke.

“You are welcome to remain here, Mikalo. You
know this. We’ve talked about it. And you also know I’m fine with
you leaving, if that’s what you want.

“What I want to know,” I continued, “is if
your leaving has anything to do with our relationship. If maybe
you’re just sick of me or something.”

My eyes remained on the table, my cup of
coffee, my fingers around the cup, the slight chip in the polish on
one of my nails. I looked at the grain in the wood of the table and
then, my eyes rising ever so slightly, his untouched cup of coffee,
the black liquid still steaming and so infused with milk that it
was almost white.

I thought of him putting spoonful after
spoonful of sugar in his cup, then.

It would be one of the things I’d miss when
he left, I realized.

He had turned from me and now faced a wall. A
bit of dead space, it was one of those weird areas that I just
never knew what to do with. Too small for a hutch or table, too big
for ... oh, who the hell knows. It just sat there with nothing in
it. Wasted space.

And I kinda hated it.

“You are wrong,” he finally said.

“This,” he continued, his arms open to that
bit of nothing wall I now hated. “This is where it will be.”

I finally looked at him. Really looked at
him. Not just noticing where he was in the kitchen.

But really looked at him. Watched him. Saw
how he was standing. Whether his body language was angry or
exasperated or apologetic. Hoping for some clue to what the hell he
was talking about because he was confusing the hell out of me.

“Where what will be?” I asked, grateful for
the slight change in subject, but not sure I wanted to know the
answer to this question either.

“The door, my Grace,” he said. “To my
home.”

The door to his home? In my kitchen?

What the hell?

“What?” I asked.

“My home and your home, they can be joined
together with a door here, you see?”

“No, I don’t.”

He came and sat across from me, his hands
once again around his cup.

Lifting it, he took a healthy drink followed
by a sigh.

And then he smiled and continued.

“My home, the home I bought, it is the home
next to yours, here.”

What the ... oh, I give up.

“What?” I asked for the millionth time this
morning.

“The family next door, in the townhouse next
door, the building that shares this wall with yours, we, my lawyers
and I, we met these wonderful people and spoke with them. We
offered them a very pleasing price and, wanting a change and eager
for the money, and very pleased with the money, they said yes.

“So I now have my home,” he finished, still
smiling.

“You bought the house next to mine?”

He nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “Maybe you need another sip
of coffee.”

He was right. My head was spinning and I was
still sort of half-asleep and really seriously couldn’t handle a
left hook like this without coffee.

Besides, I had choked down the first sip, so
that one didn’t really count.

Blowing on the hot liquid, I took a healthy
sip. And then another. And finally a third.

“Good?” he asked.

I nodded. It actually was good. And, now that
the shock was wearing off, I was beginning to get excited. Mikalo.
Living right next door.

That’d be pretty sweet.

“And so, my Grace, the important thing we
need to discuss is if this home I now have, if it will remain a
home of my own or if, perhaps, we will join the two, your home with
my home to become one very big home.”