Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (4 page)

"Just this," he then said, his breath in my mouth. And then he kissed me. Slowly, patiently, lightly. With love and adoration.

"Just a kiss," he continued.

I leaned against the wall, the bathroom sink to my left, the huge, infamous shower at the end of the room. With everything packed into storage, it felt as empty and lonely and strange as the rest of the house.

But the memories lingered.

Of watching Mikalo in the shower, the soapy water running down his back and onto his firm ass, his bicep flexing as he stroked himself, unaware I waited on the other side of the steamy glass.

Of Mikalo lying on the floor, his lips parted, his legs spread, his arms above his head, his hair still wet as he turned his head this way and that, the dark locks sticking to his forehead and cheek.

Of my Mikalo's chest rising and falling as he fought for breath, his stomach clenching and unclenching as his hips moved, pushing himself, his hardness, his throbbing thickness, into my hand.

And the feel of him in my fist. In total control, his desires rising and ebbing as my strokes dictated, teasing him, edging him close, only to back away, hearing him whimper and beg, his white teeth biting his lips as his brow knitted and his fists clenched.

Now we stood chest to chest, my hand in his, his lips near mine, the hardness in his jeans pressing against me.

And all he wanted to do was kiss.

He moved closer, his head dipping low as he pushed his nose into my cheek, my hair, inhaling my scent as I breathed in his. Coveted the warmth of his skin against mine. Desperate to taste him.

"I want you," I said, my lips near his ear.

"But I am yours, yes?" came the response, his face buried in my hair, his lips lazily moving across the flesh of my neck.

"Please," I almost begged.

He moved from my hair, my scent, his mouth quickly moving toward mine.

I pushed my face up, ready for his kiss.

His lips stopped, hovering near, not yet touching mine.

I couldn't help but grin.

Oh, you bastard.

He smiled in return.

"I am yours when you would like," he then whispered.

"Now," I said. "I want you now."

His hand rose, his fingers cradling my chin before slowly dropping down my neck, the fingers tracing my cleavage, the palms coming to rest flat against my breast.

"You want me now?" he asked, his eyes fixed on the palm now massaging my breast.

"Mikalo, don't," I finally said, my frustration with him batting my need.

His fingers found my nipple through the fabric of my shirt and pinched. Slowly.

Fuck.

I reached once again for his hardness, determined to release him, eager to taste him, to feel his width stretch me to the point of panic.

He caught my hand, quickly moving it away.

"I am yours for all these days, all the days for the rest of the life, my Grace," he said. "But now, here, it is just a kiss. A tease. A taste to make me hungry for you.

"And then later," he continued, moving close, his lips near mine as he held my hand in his fist, "it will be time and I will be yours and you will be mine and I will take you. Hard and fast, like you like. Brutal, if you like, and then gentle and then more. Always.

"But there is time. Time to discover all those secrets. Those dark corners."

He kissed me, deeply. His tongue working past my lips and into my mouth, his lips pressing hard against mine.

I groaned, pushing my sex against his hardness.

His lips pulled from mine.

He rested his forehead against mine as he spoke.

"This is what I want. Not just the sex or the fuck or me being deep inside you. It is more than just fucking you hard until there are tears and happiness and then more again until your body shakes and you scream and cry and then cover me in so many kisses, our hearts beating together.

"I want more. Much more. I want your body to be mine. To discover your secrets. And have you discover mine.

"I want you to know me like no one else could. Or will. I want there to be nothing to hide and you hide nothing from me. With you, I want to be free, without the shame or the embarrassment or the guilt. To discover my true heart and to trust and then, I think, to be even more than we were before my heart was yours."

He looked at me, his eyes glistening with quiet tears.

"This is what I mean when I say I am yours. Forever, my Grace, I am truly yours."

I waited, sitting on the couch in the hotel suite as Mikalo rushed around, throwing the last odds and ends into his large leather travel bag.

We were leaving New York today. I had no idea what time or on what plane or if there was a stop-over or even when the car was coming to pick us up. All that had been left to Mikalo. He had insisted.

And it was driving me crazy.

The main suitcases had already been taken downstairs, certainly more than enough to last us the three weeks we planned to spend in Greece. And I had my trusty Goyard with me, passport, iPad, make-up, all the other essentials stuffed inside and in tow.

But I still had no idea what was happening and when.

Of course, something like this was pure torture for someone like me. When I traveled, I had everything organized and planned down to the minute. From flight to hotel to car, even to the restaurants I was going to eat at, everything was meticulously planned for. I couldn't do it any other way.

So this, this was just infuriating.

I inhaled and then exhaled. Tried to keep everything in perspective. Tried even to take my hands off the steering wheel and just let whatever was to be to just be.

Mikalo rushed past, nearly tripping over his feet as he lugged the bag to the door, muttering under his breath in Greek or French or god knows what.

I watched him, a small smile now on my lips.

Yes, he was worth it. Worth this temporary feeling of frustration. Worth not being in control of the itinerary. He was even worth not having anything at all to do with the planning of the wedding.

When I'd first learned the wedding, my wedding, would be in the hands of others, even down to what I'd be wearing, it threw me. In fact, I was stunned. Mikalo explained it was tradition in his family to leave nothing to the bride so she'd have nothing to worry about. They believed she'd then walk into her special day relaxed and happy and ready to begin a new life.

What he didn't realize was that, for someone like me, having no idea what was happening or who, exactly, was planning everything was leading to nothing but worry. God forbid Caugina, Mikalo's sister-in-law, was in charge. No doubt she'd put me in some couture monstrosity.

Another inhale, another exhale, the sound of Mikalo in the bathroom rifling through the drawers and the medicine cabinet.

"The shaver for the face," he called out. "It is where?"

"In your black bag," I called back. "You put it there over an hour ago."

"Ah, yes. I forget."

He came around the corner, a sheepish smile on his face.

"Are you nervous?" I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at his bare feet.

"I'll need shoes to leave, yes?" he asked absentmindedly.

"Probably."

Turning to go, he wandered to the next room, leaving my question unanswered.

Of course he's nervous, I thought. Anyone would be. Why would Mikalo be any different?

Was I nervous?

Absolutely.

Was it still a great decision?

Absolutely.

Nothing to worry about.

Mikalo came out of the bedroom.

"I have shoes. The laces are tied. It is time."

I felt a lump in my throat. Fear. Nerves. A bit of nausea.

This was normal, I kept telling myself. This is normal.

I stood, shrugging my bag over my shoulder. The room was ours for the next three or four months, maybe longer, so there was no need to check out or anything. It was a second home. Our belongings, those things we were leaving behind, were safe. And whatever wasn't was in a safe at the bank.

We stepped into the hall, Mikalo closing the door behind us.

His arm around my shoulder, we walked, our steps perfectly in sync as we made our way to the elevator.

When the doors opened with a ding and we stepped inside, he gathered me close to him, planting a quick kiss on my forehead.

"This nerves, they are normal, I think," he said. "It is okay. We will come back and life will be what it was. Only you will be my wife."

He glanced down at me, a smile on his lips.

"And that is worth this butterfly in my stomach."

He was asleep. Finally.

And now here, as we raced toward Greece, the slender private jet slicing its way through the night sky, I watched him.

What I really wanted to do was cuddle up to him. Press my nose into his neck, or even his chest. Snuggle into those spots where I knew it was warm and smelled wonderful and reminded me how lucky I was and how much I loved him and how fantastic it was to feel him next to me. Place my hand on his chest, perhaps, and feel his heart beat.

But no. I resisted, afraid of interrupting his dreams. Of shattering that tender space where he was finding true rest.

He stirred, shifting slightly. His brow knitted, his lips parted as he exhaled loudly, and then he stretched, a small movement, his legs flexing, his back arching, his arms pushing away from his sides before everything returned to normal, my love falling back to sleep with yet another deep breath, his muscled chest rising and then falling.

I suspect this had been alluding him lately, sleep. In fact, watching him now, I was sure of it.

Did he have his own worries? His own fears? Was there something going on I wasn't sure of? Something that was keeping him up at night, his eyes staring at the shadows on the ceiling as he listened to me breathe and snore and sigh and dream?

I didn't know.

But I knew I could ask. And, more often than not, there'd be an answer. If he had one, that is. Sometimes he didn't, whatever worries working through his head still finding themselves, still sorting themselves into clear thoughts and then words. Words he'd then share with me.

"Would you like a blanket, Miss?"

I looked up to find one of the three stewardesses standing near. A professionally pretty woman, one of three on this flight, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, impeccably dressed, a jaunty silk scarf tied 'round her throat, dainty pearls at her ears.

A gentle smile as she waited.

"No," I finally said, "I'm fine. Thank you."

A small nod, another quiet grin, and she was gone, her low heels soundless on the plush carpet as she made her way to the front of the cabin.

I was not expecting this, I thought as I looked around again.

Arriving on the tarmac hours ago, I had been shocked when the car pulled up to a sleek Gulfstream jet.

Not yet comprehending that this is how we were traveling, that this was, in fact, our flight, I had remained seated when the car door opened.

Mikalo had stood, his bag over his shoulder, his hand out, reaching for me.

"Grace?" he had asked.

His hand in mine, I had finally gotten out, suddenly shy, suddenly self-conscious, worried my casual travel clothes -- jeans, v-necked t-shirt, soft leather jacket, low-heeled slip-ons -- looked inappropriate and cheap to the crew who waited on either side of the small stairs leading to the plane door.

The pilot, looking like a silver-haired version of James Bond, effortlessly elegant and suave, exuding an air of accomplished authority. His co-pilot, a young man with the chiseled looks of one of those heroes in romance novels, his brown hair thick, the bangs landing perfectly across his forehead, stood silently, his teeth almost blindingly white as he smiled and nodded.

And the stewardess. Pretty, of course, but not inappropriately so. An older stewardess walking forward to greet Mikalo with a warm handshake followed by a quick hug as we approached, her hand at once grabbing mine, the grip warm and welcoming.

"We are so pleased to meet you, Miss Grace," the pilot was saying behind me, his deep voice cool and calm and comforting. The kind of crisp baritone I could imagine calming me even during the worst of calamities.

"And you," I could hear myself saying.

But I was in shock.

I had not expected this. I had anticipated standing in line to get our tickets, standing in line at security, waiting in the First Class Lounge listening for our flight to be called. I had anticipated sharing my space with strangers, moving our way together as we trudged down the aisle looking for our seats, and then, upon arrival, trudging off the plane before collecting our bags.