Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (10 page)

Wordlessly, my panties ended up as a ball in his fist, his legs parting my knees as his fingers found a new target, gently rubbing me into shocked wetness as his tongue continued to assault my mouth.

God, I loved it.

I reached up, peeling the shirt from his body, rising to him, my mouth leaving his to taste his neck, the sweat of his chest, my hands reaching to paw at his back before reaching lower to cup the perfect globes of his astonishing ass.

I started to speak, but he kissed me quiet.

Yes, I understand.

No words.

His hardness stretched the fabric of his surfer shorts, the length of him precariously close to escaping.

The zipper in my hands, I helped release it, the warmth, the thickness, his heat immediately in my hand.

I wanted to taste him.

Pushing him back, pulling my shirt free and tossing it to the side, I climbed on top of him, my lips on his as I kissed him deeply, his hands now pulling my hair as he guided my head, pushing his tongue deep in into my mouth.

I moved away, diving low my lips finding him, his salty skin, the bead of sweat hiding in his belly button, my tongue teasing and licking lower as I inhaled his scent, my teeth oh so gently caressing his hardness as he slipped into the wet, warmth of my mouth.

He gasped as I licked and sucked, my mouth easily knowing the rhythm he liked, my fist working in tandem with my tongue as I stroked and sucked his length, his legs spreading, his hips rising, his hands gripping fistfuls of my hair.

The sighs became gasps, the gasps moans, the moans groans.

And before the groans became words, it was my turn to kiss him quiet.

I left him, his width slapping against his stomach, wet and shining with my spit and his excitement as I lifted, my flesh to his, my lips silencing him as he held me to him, rolling us over in the grass as he now took charge.

And in the blink of an eye, he was sliding deep.

For some reason, this shocked me.

I had anticipated something slower, something sweeter, something I could prepare for, the width, the length of Mikalo still pushing me to the point of panic.

At first.

And then it was beyond heaven.

As it always was.

He moved slowly at first, watching me, relishing my expressions as he filled me, opening me, feeling my hips relax and rise, offering myself to him.

I watched him. The sweat on his forehead running down his temple to his cheek. The crease in his brow. The glint of the sun as it kissed the shining sweat of his rounded shoulders. The flex in his biceps as he hovered over me. The part of his lips as he held his breath, my heat opening to him, accepting him, urging him deeper, allowing him to make me his.

The helpless look in his eyes as he found himself buried in me.

God, I loved this guy.

I lifted my head, begging for a kiss.

He answered, his lips gently, sweetly pressing to mine.

Finally he exhaled, the warmth of his breath on my cheek as he nuzzled close, burying his face in my hair.

Above, the sky was clear and blue. The sun hot, as always. The grass, even sun-scorched and yellow, still sweet. The air itself smelling of heat and dust and Mikalo's sweat. Our hunger for each other.

The pace picked up, Mikalo's movements quickening, his hunger for me stronger than the romance of the last moment.

My hips rising, I urged him on.

I wanted it. The passion, the need, the urgency. Wanted to hear skin slapping skin. Wanted to feel the pebbles beneath me dig into my skin. Wanted my Mikalo, my beloved, to ravage me. Allow the beast to claim its prey.

My fingers threaded through his hair, the locks moist with sweat.

Gathering it in my fist, I pulled. Gently.

My wordless lover dug his knees into the earth, his back hunching, his face pressed to my neck as he moved faster, pummeling me.

I pulled harder, my grip becoming cruel.

He gasped, his thrusts becoming more insistent. Deeper. More desperate.

His hair in my fist, I moved him from my shoulder, lifting him up. And holding him there, I watched him, his eyes closed, his teeth gritted. The brow knitted as if he was close to bursting into grateful tears at any moment.

I raised my hips even further, my heels digging into the earth, steadying myself against his passion. My legs opening wide. My heat now his.

Mikalo was lost to me now. His release rolling toward him like a certain sunrise, each thrust bringing him closer and closer to relief.

The hair still in my fist, I lifted my other hand, my nails finding the flesh of his chest to lightly scratch, my fingers discovering his dark, wide nipples to caress, tug, pinch.

That did it, Mikalo slamming into me with a gasp, his body quivering and shaking, his relief rushing through him as I dug my nails into the flesh of his back, his ass, bringing him closer, deeper.

He stopped. He fought to catch his breath. His eyes remained closed as he fought to capture those last few moments of orgasmic bliss.

And then he relaxed, his length still in me, sweat dripping from his face as he lay on top of me.

And with a small kiss came a promise.

A promise that brought a smile to my lips and a song to my heart.

"You will be my wife, my Grace," he whispered, the words warm against my lips. "This I promise.

Another sigh.

She sat near, her red talons flipping through a European gossip rag.

I sat, trapped in a private jet winging its way to Paris. Leaving behind the sun, the sand, the sea, and my beloved Mikalo, I now endured the withering stares and forced smiles of Caugina.

Her large feet stuffed into designer heels, the impossibly thin stiletto threatening to snap as she had marched her way up the stairs, a stiff couture suit covering her ample form, the material stretching to accommodate the extra poundage she had obviously put on since splashing out who knew how many thousands for the privilege of wearing the finest of fabrics worked by the most skilled of hands.

A large pair of very dark sunglasses rested on the bridge of her very large nose, her lips stained a too-dark red, the whispers of a wispy mustache above her upper lip, her dark hair gathered into an artfully messy bun sitting on top of her head, she had plopped herself down in one of the large reclining chairs, her chunky diamond bracelet jangling as she had reached out, wordlessly demanding a drink.

We hadn't even taken off yet.

And now we flew toward Paris, her thick ankles crossed, her head down as she poured over the gossip magazine, studying each page as if it was the Holy Bible.

A third sigh as she paused, the snap of the turning pages stopping momentarily.

"Now this one, yes," she said, loud enough for me to hear. "She is a beauty. A perfect bride for our Mikalo."

A pause, and then the page snapping again as she rudely turned it.

This had been happening since we left Athens, our smaller plane from the island landing, with Caugina's insistence, right next to the larger plane that'd take us to France, her annoyance at having to walk more than fifty steps between the two shouted to anyone within ear shot as we made our way across the tarmac.

On one page, the first, I think, a beautiful heiress, evidently Russian in light of Caugina's rude crack about vodka shots at the wedding followed by a long explanation to no one in particular about how perfect this apparently beautiful, wealthy woman would be the perfect one for Mikalo to marry.

And with me being nothing but a stupid, poor American, it was most surely a great struggle for my little brain to pick up the subtle clues Caugina was scattering like so many stale bread crumbs.

A few pages later, another beauty, this one from London, maybe royal, maybe not -- no, she's not, Caugina discovered when she actually took time to read the slender paragraph next to the picture, a task that took her a distressingly long time to do --, but still gorgeous and elegant and oh so skinny.

Yes, she decided, her eyes glued to the magazine, she would be a very nice choice for Mikalo to spend a lifetime with. A wonderful addition to the prestige of the Delis family.

Another page turned, her eyes almost imperceptibly glancing up at me from behind her designer shades, hoping to catch a tear, a sigh, a trembling of my bottom lip as I fought back despair.

I sat in my sundress and sandals, the wide brimmed hat I've worn since the day I arrived in Greece still on my head, looking out at the blue of the sea below.

The hat now in my hands -- I had actually forgotten it was still on --, I ignored her, trying to find my excitement about going to Paris and seeing my beloved Deni.

Yes, I was meeting Deni in Paris. Deni and Lucas, her new boyfriend.

God, I needed her. She would get how soul destroying this was. How truly depressing everything had become.

I stopped and reminded myself that this was just a week or two. It was temporary. I just needed to get through this and then, my husband in tow, I'd return to the surprising sanity of chaotic New York City.

And I'd never have to go back to Greece again.

Sigh.

The diva had stopped on yet another page.

"Oh, the old girlfriend," she said dramatically. "Mikalo was so happy back then when they were together and so in love.

"Now that," she continued, again most definitely loud enough for me to hear, "that would have been a wedding."

Okay, yes, I could speak. I could correct her, argue with her, destroy her with a few well-chosen multi-syllabic words, verbally beating her into bloody oblivion with my Masters Degree and ability to read more than a tawdry gossip rag.

But why?

She was a bully and you never won when you went up against a bully. She was goading me, hoping to get a rise, desperate to take back a story of how that uncouth Ronan, the peasant, lost it on the way to Paris and yelled at her, the woman who was so generously taking her to buy her wedding dress.

Imagine that!

So I bit my tongue, listening to her thinly veiled vitriol, ignoring it, letting it wash over me, not letting it hit my heart or my head.

And silently imagined beating her ass in a blaze of bitch-driven glory.

God, that'd be nice, I thought as I gritted my teeth.

And then I smiled.

Caugina, peeking at me from beneath her sunglasses, snapped to the next page, her painted lips puckering as she chewed the inside of her cheek.

Seriously, though, I wondered why she was doing this, this trip to Paris thing, if she so despised me? Wouldn't it make more sense to put me in a potato sack and push me down the aisle? Certainly easier and a hell of a lot less expensive.

Didn't matter. We were on our way. Paris waited. Those beautiful avenues and twisting side streets. The Seine. The Pont des Artes bridging the golden domed Institute de France and the Louvre. The light. The sounds. The rich, delicious smells.

And Deni.

All of that waited at the end of the big nosed bitch's sighs and catty remarks and snapping of pages.

For that, it was worth it.

God only knows how Deni was going to handle Caugina.

I smiled a small, discrete smile, relishing the thought.

This was basically a closet.

A nice closet, of course. A five star hotel-type of closet. A closet in a gorgeous city I've known and visited and loved for years.

But, still, a closet.

It was all that was available on such short notice, I had heard apologetically at least five times from the truly sincere Hotel Manager.

I didn't care. I just needed a good night's sleep. And to get over my indignant sense of utter rage, of course. Those two things, that's what I needed.

On the other side of Paris, Caugina was kicking off her shoes in an apartment on the Avenue Foch, a generous twelve room residence owned lock, stock and barrel by Mikalo. A gorgeous space of priceless carpets and antique furniture and a view of the leafy green of the Bois de Bologne through floor-to-ceiling French windows.

I had seen this space, of course.

Driving into the city, it had been our first stop, Caugina insisting we go there "without delay", as she imperiously put it.

And I had, stupidly, assumed this was where I would be staying as well.

But when the maid didn't take my bag and Caugina left me waiting as she did god knows what god knows where, ordering me to wait in the vestibule, suitcase in hand, I started to have doubts.

And then when she peeked around the corner, crooking her fat finger my way, indicating I was to follow, those doubts quieted.

Of course I was staying here. It made sense.