Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) (5 page)

I had expected something normal.

Not this.

Or this, I thought now, looking around the luxurious cabin.

A mix of warm honey and rich caramel with slender accents of silver and chrome, polished sconces bouncing subtle light along the walls, it was nicer than some apartments I'd been in.

Deep leather swivel chairs in front of dark wood tables polished to a high gloss. An unbelievably comfy couch stretching along one side, perfect for kicking back and reading or holding long conversations or, frankly, falling asleep, my goal to find out who made that couch and where I could get one becoming an obsession now.

We had yet to eat anything, of course. Mikalo wasn't hungry and I was too nervous.

Very nervous.

And I couldn't help wonder why.

Deep inside, I knew.

I had never had to deal with the wealthy version of Mikalo. Until now, he was just Mikalo. Sexy, curious, funny, infuriating, nosey, hot as hell Mikalo. I'd yet to meet this version of him. The version he truly was. The version our life together thus far had insulated me from. The version I'd successfully avoided dealing with until now.

The billionaire.

Flying 50,000 miles in the air, seated in the lap of luxury, waited on hand and foot by three absolutely lovely ladies who obviously knew Mikalo and adored him, I couldn't help but realize this man I was marrying was, in some ways, a stranger to me.

A very wealthy stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

I glanced out the window, the relative darkness of the cabin allowing me to see the stars in the distance, their light twinkling against the sharp black of the night sky.

I loved him, I reminded myself. I loved the Mikalo I knew. The wander into the kitchen sleepy-eyed and yawning, barefoot and in boxers for his morning coffee Mikalo. The never can ask too many questions while you're trying to tell a story Mikalo.

The Mikalo of soft kisses and gentle strokes and cumming so hard my legs shake as my grateful tears stain his sweaty shoulder Mikalo.

The Mikalo I loved had nothing to do with his money. I knew that. It was indisputable.

So why was this, the luxury of a private jet, worrying me so much?

"But it is not mine," he said again.

"Mikalo ... " I began.

"It is the company's," he interrupted. "My father's. It is not a thing I use that much, my Grace. So, it is a truth that this, this thing is not mine."

We sat at a table, one of those glossy, polished to shining perfection slabs of slender wood dotting the sumptuous cabin. Delicate plates of fine china sat before us, the delicious food long gone, our fingers toying with the stems of those clear crystal glasses of red wine we now savored.

"But you are the company now, Mikalo," I quickly said. "This is what your father left you and this, this jet, the stock, the, the buildings and apartments -- "

"And responsibility," he interrupted again.

"Yes, the responsibility, it's all yours."

"This is not a problem, I trust," he then said quietly, his eyes watching me.

I sat back, taking a sip of red.

My eyes found his.

"No, of course it isn't," I said.

He all but sighed in relief.

"It is an adjustment, though," I repeated. "I mean, for months you've just been Mikalo. This wonderful, sweet, funny guy I adore and love and want to spend the rest of my life with.

"And, really, I just kind of forgot about this other Mikalo."

"Ah, so now I am two Mikalos?" he joked.

"Well, yes and no," I agreed, flashing him a quick smile. "What I'm saying is I forgot about ... I don't know."

I stopped, reluctant.

To speak of his money felt wrong. That's not where my focus was at. Ever. But it was an issue, much to my surprise.

"It is the money," he said, reading my thoughts.

And then it was his turn to sit back and take a long sip of red.

"It's an adjustment," I said, leaning forward and propping my elbows on the table. "I'm just not used to this, this ... "

I gestured around me, my arm sweeping out over the plush carpet and great leather chairs and the priceless small squares of modern art dotting the limited wall space.

"This," I said, finishing. "I forgot about this. Wasn't prepared for this. Was quite happy not realizing this would be a part of what we have."

"But this," he said, leaning forward and placing his own elbows on either side of the plate. "This is a small part of what I do. This is not a thing that is a part of my life. I chose this because I wanted this trip, the beginning of our life together, to be a special thing."

"It is, Mikalo. It's amazing. It is special, even without this private jet-thing. I'm just a little speechless, I think."

"It was not an expected thing, yes?"

I smiled.

"Yes," I agreed. "It was not an expected thing. It was a huge surprise."

He smiled, his eyes dancing.

"Ah," he said with a grin, "so I gave you a big surprise!"

I nodded with a smile.

"Absolutely."

He grinned and then spoke.

"But will not be our life, my Grace. The Mikalo ... is this Mikalo Number one?"

Another smile from me followed by a brief nod. And then a light laugh.

"Yes, Mikalo Number One."

"This Mikalo Number One will be the Mikalo you met and liked and fell in love with."

He stood and then, sitting next to me, slid close, his arm me as he hugged me.

"This Mikalo Number Two, he also will be a lot like the Mikalo, the Number One, who loves to kiss you, who loves the smell of your hair, who aches to kiss the little dip in your brows when you worry, and cannot keep his hands off your beautiful body."

His lips were near my cheek now, his breath warm against my skin.

"This Mikalo, both of these Mikalos, are the Mikalo who would never imagine a life without you. And that is why this Mikalo ... or any Mikalo you wish ... is going to make you his wife.

"This is good, yes?" he then asked, resting his forehead against my hair.

"It's good," I said.

"Very good?"

I smiled.

"Okay, very good."

"How good?" he said, teasing me.

I turned my face toward him. My lips found his, the briefest of kisses running through me like a shock, my fingers, my toes, every inch of my skin suddenly alive with my love for him.

"The best, Mikalo Number One," I said, my lips close to his. "The best."

He stood, pulling me with him.

"Come," he then said, taking my hand as we walked through the dark cabin toward the back.

Toward the back behind a slender door that opened with the touch of a small button, the wood sliding with the quietest of whispers, waited a room.

A relatively small space, the same shades of honey and caramel found in the cabin, slender strips of chrome and silver running along the walls and skirting the edge of the carpeted floor. And around a small corner waited a surprisingly generous bathroom with a shower bracketed by soft white robes hanging from chrome hooks.

There was a bed in this room at the back, of course. One big enough for two, night stands on either side, the generously sized mattress covered in sleek cotton and a soft duvet, a plush mountain of pillows capping off the top.

The earth thousands of miles below us, this jet barreling through the night sky toward Greece, and this is what I see when I walk through the door.

Sumptuous, quietly luxurious perfection.

He had guided me, Mikalo, my hand in his as we entered.

He had turned and locked the door, Mikalo, his eyes on mine as he pulled me close.

And now he laid beneath me, naked, his skin soft in the glow of the sconces on the wall, as I lowered myself, his hardness filling me, stealing my breath, his hands on my breasts, his fingers slowly, gently pinching my nipples before falling to grip my hips, holding me steady as he moved his hips, pushing deeper.

I looked down, watching him.

His eyes now closed, his lips parted. The muscles of his chest and shoulders, his biceps, flexing as he guided me, his stomach clenching and unclenching as his hips continued to move.

I stroked his face, my hand reaching out to caress his cheek, my fingers tracing his jaw and his soft lips before losing themselves in the dark locks of his thick hair.

Turning his head, he responded, pressing his cheek into my palm, the tip of my thumb stealing between his lips and into his mouth where he sucked me deep, his teeth grazing the flesh.

I gasped.

I wanted to kiss him.

Now.

And so I did. Dipping low, I pressed myself to him, skin on skin as my lips met his.

He answered with a kiss of his own. Long, deep, ravenous. His mouth sucking my tongue deep as he quietly arched his back and then, uncoiling, raised his hips, pressing himself into me even deeper.

I arched my back as well. Grinded myself into him. Opened myself, desperate and hungry and greedy for his length to fill me, the familiar thump-thump-thump starting somewhere quiet and hidden.

Looking down at him, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips parted, his skin shining now with a thin film of sweat, I toyed with the thought of having him on top of me. Of laying beneath him, trapped, as he pummeled me, in and out, in and out, the blessed chaos of certain relief inching near with every thrust.

But no. I wanted to ride him. To watch him. To see him squirm and suffer. To see his brow knit when I pulled him back from the edge. To see the head tip back and the teeth clench as his frustration grew.

I wanted to feel his hands on my hips guiding me, willing me to move faster. And I wanted simply to witness his surrender. That indescribable moment when he abandoned logic and reason and just gave in to his body, the room filling with his sighs and groans and moans and whimpers as he raised his hips and paused, the warmth spreading through me as he shivered and shook.

Only beneath me, was I in control. Only beneath me, did he give himself fully to me. Only beneath me, was I able to watch my beloved, my Mikalo, my husband-to-be.

My husband to be.

I slowed my pace.

He sighed.

I lifted his hands from my hips, my fingers laced in his, and drew them to my breasts, his fingers on my nipples, slowly pinching them.

My pace quickened. He pinched them harder. I grinded into him. His head went back, his mouth opening. I moved faster. His hands left my breasts, falling to the bed, his fists clenching the sheets.

I stopped.

He groaned.

Rising, he tried to move me to my back, his desire to climb on top of me driving him.

A finger to his lips, I stopped him with a hand on his chest, pushing him to the bed.

He smiled and lifted his hips, diving in deep.

I gasped, grinding down into him, meeting his thrust, opening myself to him.

We paused, together, relishing this delicious blend of pleasure and pain. The sheen of sweat. The intoxicating smell of sex.

Moving my hips, I picked up the pace. He responded, his movements matching mine. Our eyes locked, my hands on his chest, his on my hips, the wet sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room, I could feel that familiar thump-thump-thump growing.

And then it hit.

I arched my back. My mouth opened as I drew in a deep breath. He paused, feeling me pulse and throb against him.

My thighs clenched, holding off the shaking, the spasms. I relaxed them, willing myself calm. And then I opened my eyes, glancing down at my beloved.

He was watching me, his eyes hooded with his desire for me, his hardness still resting deep inside me, his need not yet satiated. A small grin graced his lips.

"And now," I began, lifting myself from him and sliding alongside him, my nails gently raking up his firm stomach, "it's your turn."

The sand beneath my feet was incredibly soft. The water was astonishingly blue. And the rocks in the distance, jagged and jutting from the side of the island, slapped by white capped waves, were simply beautiful.

After two days navigating 'round the chaos of Athens or bumping into Mikalo in his shockingly small apartment, his family's island was damn near idyllic.

That's right.

His family's island.

No, they didn't live in Athens. Only Mikalo, as independent as ever, had taken up residence in that crazy kaleidoscope of claustrophobic alleys, traffic-clogged streets, and bleached white buildings, the throngs elbowing their way below. Horns honking, trucks rumbling, shouts and cries and more shouts, the constant drumbeat of vibrant life, of arguments and pleas, of laughter and celebration, rising into the clear blue of a hot sky.