Mikalo's Flame (3 page)

“Bingo.”

“What do you mean ‘bingo’?”

“That’s what it comes down to in the end,
doesn’t it?” he asked. “Why you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Perhaps. Probably. Oh,
who the hell knows?”

He paused, listening.

“Are you sure you want to know the answer to
those questions?” he then asked.

“I do, Bill. I do.”

His eyes shifted away from me to look out the
window over my shoulder, the skyscrapers surrounding us shrouded in
misty clouds of grey and white.

“Why did he interview for a job he didn’t
want or need?” he then asked. “That’s what I find fascinating. Why
would he come all this way from Athens, from Greece, to meet with
all these law firms he had no intention, and I can only assume he
had no intention because I frankly don’t know, of ever joining?

“Not that I should care because god knows
there’s a lot of eager talent out there to draw from, but I am
curious. With his money and his responsibilities at home, why would
he even entertain the possibility of uprooting everything to be a
Senior Associate at a New York law firm?”

I stopped, unsure how to respond.

So I spoke the truth.

“I don’t know.”

Bill nodded, his eyes back on me.

“Perhaps that’s a good place to start.”

He sighed, leaning his head back as he
gathered his thoughts.

We sat near the fire, snuggled into a couch
of rich, supple leather, rows of books climbing the walls behind us
and all around, the night dark outside the large window.

I waited.

It was such a simple question, really. And to
ask it shouldn’t be such a big deal. Especially in light of his
insistence I ask him anything at any time. Total communication.
Complete honesty. Nothing hidden.

But for some reason, it was.

And I was nervous.

He dropped his head, his chin briefly ducking
into his chest as he took a sip of his drink. Scotch. On the
rocks.

So he had an occasional vice. I could live
with it.

“My Grace,” he began, “Is this a thing that
is important to know?”

“Important, no,” I said. “But I am curious.
And so I’m asking: why did you come to New York to meet for jobs
you didn’t need and probably wouldn’t have accepted?”

And, Mikalo being Mikalo, he answered my
question with one of his own.

“If you were my bride, and what I had was
yours, everything I have is yours and there is now no need to do
anything, anything at all, would you quit your job, your work, and
spend all day with me?”

“Mikalo ...”

“Please, my Grace,” he interrupted. “I would
like to know. Would you stop your life and be with me?”

I looked past him and out the window, the
bare branches of a tree holding my attention briefly as they swayed
in the wind.

Of course I had walked right into this
one.

Still ...

“I would not,” I finally admitted. “Of course
I would work. Of course I would still want to work. Of course.”

“Why?” he asked, leaning forward.

Yeah, I totally walked into this one.

Damn it.

“Well, what else would I do? I mean, just sit
around all day? Sleep late? Eat three hour lunches?”

“Of course not,” he answered. “And why would
this be different for me, my Grace? Should I not want a life where
I am needed? Where I have a purpose?”

“You have that with your family’s business,
right? That’s obvious, Mikalo. They need you. And, from what I
understand, many of them want you to run things, right?”

He stood angrily, pacing to the window and
looking outside, his back to me.

“I do not want them,” he said before taking
the last swallow of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass
in the sudden silence.

“And they,” he then continued. “They are not
what I need.

“I will be there, of course. For them. But
for my life, I want more. I need more.”

He turned back to me.

“I had a dream when I was a small boy.
Something simple, something unimportant. But it was a dream I held
in my heart and my father, when he learned of this dream, he killed
it. He said no. He would not allow it.

“My dream was to be his dream, he said. I was
to do what he does. Do what he says. Always. To have this small
dream was not for me.

“But that dream, it was mine. And since it
died, since it was taken from me, I do not have so many
dreams.”

“What was your dream?” I asked quietly.

He paused, deep in thought, and then shrugged
the question away, walking to the bar and pouring himself a new
drink, the ice clinking angrily against the glass.

“It died. That is enough. And there is pain
in the thought of it.”

I waited, choosing my words carefully.

“So, your meeting with these Firms, it was,
what, a way to be something your father didn’t want? Do something
of your own?”

He shook his head and shrugged, belting back
another swallow of the rich amber liquid, taking a piece of ice
into his mouth and slowly sucking it as he thought.

“No,” he finally said, the ice crunched in
two and swallowed. “There is more, but it is not important.”

“You said once I could ask you anything at
any time,” I said. “No secrets. Nothing hidden.”

“My Grace, this is true. And you asked me the
question. I have answered.”

“No,” I said. “There’s still something you’re
not --”

“Yes, you are right,” he interrupted. “The
time is not now for all the answers you want. Soon, but not
now.”

“Mikalo ...”

“Not now,” he repeated, his tone almost
sharp.

Now I was really curious.

And, with me, curiosity and patience didn’t
walk hand-in-hand.

He came close, kneeling in front of me to
wrap his arms around my legs and, his eyes on mine, rest his chin
on my knees.

“We have our lives to share our secrets,” he
said quietly. “The reason for why I meet with these firms or why I
come to New York, that reason is not one you need to fear.

“Please, trust me. You will know, and
soon.”

I stroked his face, moving his hair from his
forehead, and cupping his chin.

I nodded.

Okay.

He bent low and kissed my knees, his hands
moving from my legs up my back to wrap around my shoulders.

And like that, I could feel myself growing
wet.

Question time was over.

I grabbed his hair in my fist as he pressed
his face to my thighs.

Inhaling deeply, he moved his face between my
legs.

And then he groaned.

In the light of the fire, he watched me as he
sipped his scotch, sucking a small piece of ice into his mouth.

And then, bending low, the cold, half-melting
nugget clenched between his teeth, he brought his lips to my
breast.

I gasped, my back arching as he sucked me
deep, the chill of his mouth pressing against me almost unbearable,
the burn of the ice melting against my sensitive flesh addictively
delicious.

Wrapping my fingers in his hair, I drew him
near, brought him to me, eager to taste him, to wrap myself in his
scent. My lips on his, my hands now on his hips, his waist, clawing
at his belt, wrestling with the zipper of his jeans.

He lifted me from the couch, holding me close
as he gently laid me on the plush carpet covering the hardwood
floor. Pausing, he lifted from me, resting on his knees, towering
over me.

One by one, the buttons of his shirt were
undone, his fingers patient and teasing. And then the fabric pulled
open to reveal his muscular chest and tight torso, the light from
the nearby flames bouncing off the subtle ridges of his stomach,
before the shirt slipped past the rounded, smooth shoulders and
slid free, dropping on the floor around my legs.

He leaned forward, crouching over me, the
muscles in his shoulders and spanning the width of his chest
flexing.

I lifted up, rising to him, eager to taste,
to lick.

We kissed, deeply.

My mouth moved from his down to his chin, his
neck. I paused as I reached his chest, my lips searching for the
dark circles of his sensitive nipples while breathing deep and
losing myself in his masculine scent.

Finding the familiar small peaks, I took a
sensitive circle between my lips, my teeth grazing the skin, my
fingers finding and then pinching the dark flesh of its twin.

Still crouched over me, he moaned, his hand
now on the back of my head guiding me as I sucked and nibbled and
teased, my fingers darting below once more to work the zipper of
his jeans, eager to free his hardness.

He roughly pulled me from him, my hair
clenched in his fist as he brought me away from his chest and
lifted me to his face.

His lips desperately found mine, his tongue
pushing its way deep as he stretched out, forcing me back, laying
on top of me, his knees parting my legs as his weight tenderly
crushed me, his hardness grinding into my heat.

I groaned and ran my hands up his back. And
then, knowing his likes, understanding his needs, slowly raked my
nails down his flesh, the manicured talons scratching their way
lower and lower.

He gasped, his mouth leaving mine, the breath
hot against my lips.

I watched him as he leaned his head back, his
eyes squeezed shut, his brow quietly furrowed. He breathed slowly,
his lips parted and teeth clenched, reveling in the twin sisters of
Pleasure and Pain, my nails reaching the tender span of flesh
around his waist as they finished their journey.

He was in heaven, my Mikalo, my love, his
eyes almost stinging with happy tears.

I tugged at his jeans.

“Please,” I said. “I want to feel you.”

Another kiss.

He then lifted, his arms outstretched as he
looked down at me.

“No,” he said. “You. I want to see you
now.”

Bending low, his quickly kissed me again.

“Please,” he insisted, leaving me to kneel
between my open legs as he waited.

I slipped out from underneath him and
kneeled, facing him.

He watched me, silhouetted in the orange and
red of the fire, the flames in the fireplace having quieted to a
glow.

Peeling the shirt over my head, I ran my
hands over my breasts, my pace slow, my fingers calm,
unhurried.

I avoided his gaze as I traced my own
sensitive circles of flesh, the pink eager and willing. Hungry for
a touch. A kiss. The twin nubs yearning for the grazing of
teeth.

I knew he was watching. I knew this excited
him. And I knew the more I did and the slower I did it, the more
desperate his need for me became.

Grabbing a nipple, I pinched. Hard.

I closed my eyes, losing myself to the gentle
pain.

He sighed, the unexpected breath thick with
emotion. With need. Desire.

And then he cleared his throat, softly, as he
swallowed, his tongue shooting forward to quickly lick his
lips.

I glanced at him from beneath the curtain of
my dark bangs.

His eyes were on my flesh, my fingers
caressing my breasts, my stomach. The small pink mountains of flesh
he so loved to suck and lick and bite.

Standing, I undid the first button of my
jeans.

He raised his head, watching me.

Moving near him, I lifted a foot, placing it
in his lap.

He took it, slowly peeling the thin sock free
and wrapping his large hands around my slender heel.

Taking it from him, I offered him the
second.

Again, the resilient cotton came clear, the
foot briefly held and caressed.

I snapped the second button open.

The jeans slid from my waist, the remaining
buttons preventing the denim from drifting further.

Shirtless, hungry, horny, Mikalo waited, his
frustration growing as his hand flirted with the hardness still
hidden in his pants. The fingers first gripping his width and then
moving away, denying himself the necessary luxury of that squeeze,
before moving back, his need for release growing as I undid a third
button.

I stepped away from him and turned, my back
now to him.

My hands reached to my breasts again, feeling
the generous, smooth flesh, the pink once more teased and
pinched.

A fourth button snapped free, my gaze quickly
catching his as I looked over my shoulder.

His hands were now rubbing the flesh of his
own chest and torso, the fingers toying with his own dark nipples,
his mouth slightly open as his breathing grew ragged, the tongue
sneaking out again to run themselves over his lips.

I slid the denim down and stepped free.

Behind me, he moaned.

“My Grace,” came the whisper.

My ass was nice. This much I knew. As were my
legs. Slender but strong, the calves sculpted from years of
navigating the city’s streets and climbing its many stairs in an
almost endless variety of heels.

My fingers hooked into the only thing
separating me from nakedness, the fine layer of silk hugging my
hips.

I turned, toying with the thin fabric
covering the growing damp.

“Now you,” I said, holding his gaze as he
watched me.

He stood, shirtless, barefoot, and ready, the
length of his desire stretching the denim down his thigh.

Jesus, I wanted him. Wanted to go to him.
Throw myself on him. Forget the striptease, forget the flirting and
the gentle peeling of layers, and just force him back, climb on
him, grab his thickness in my hand, and ride him, allowing him to
ram his way deep. Deep and hard.

But no. This is what he liked, this dance.
This tease. This is what his heart desired and this is what made
him eventually ravage me until the sun rose.

So this, this is what I would give him.

“Please,” I said. “Please.”