Read Online Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw - Free Book Online Page B

approached, key in hand.
    "Oh yes," she said as she unlocked the case
and brought the slender item out. "I love this. It's so gorgeous,
isn't it? And so useful.
    "Now, we do have it in this dark blue, of
course, which is very nice. But it also comes in red, in dark
green, our usual --"
    "No, no, dark blue is fine," I said as I dug
for my wallet.
    "I'll take it."
     

Chapter
Nineteen
     
    "Oh my god," she mouthed to me as I
approached.
    "What?"
    I hadn't been that long.
    Okay, maybe I had. The second floor of
Barney's really was my own little Bermuda Triangle, the hours just
disappearing.
    And then a girl had to eat, right? Ergo,
lunch at Daniel. A leisurely lunch.
    I deserved it, didn't I?
    Yes.
    I refused to apologize.
    But, yeah, I was pretty late. I'd make up for
it by burning some midnight oil.
    Someday.
    Janey pointed into my office.
    "In there," she mouthed again.
    I entered.
    Mikalo sat in a guest chair, a small bag from
Henri Bendel at his feet.
    Janey was at my heels.
    "Again, can I, uh, get you anything?" she
asked. "Coffee, water, tea. A neck rub."
    "Janey."
    "No?"
    Mikalo looked at her.
    She melted.
    "I would like a coffee now, if you please.
But from the coffee shop, if that is good."
    He looked at me.
    "You know the one, my Grace?"
    "My Grace?" she mouthed to me, positively
swooning.
    "Our usual place," I said to her, trying to
keep calm. "Make that two."
    She lingered.
    "Thank you. You can go."
    She didn't.
    "Now."
    Reluctantly, she left.
    Mikalo rose and closed the door.
    "What are you doing here?" I asked, trying
not to sound angry. Or worried. Or frightened. Or guilty for being
late. Still.
    "My meeting is at three, no? I am here early.
I am saying hello."
    Shit! It was almost three?
    Whoops.
    He approached.
    I slipped behind the desk, the large plate of
heavy glass sitting on thick, black, rough wood, the legs crossed
in an x between us, the wall of glass behind me spilling to
Manhattan below.
    "You can't be here."
    "But I am," he said.
    Damn his logic.
    "No, you can be here, of course. I mean, ...
what I mean to say is it might hurt my work for you to be here.
Right now, I mean. And, trust me, Mikalo, I have a lot of work to
do. A lot."
    He turned from me to wander around the
office.
    Paused to gaze at the Rothko anchoring one
wall and then moved to admire the smaller modernist x-table sitting
between the art deco leather chairs, a mirrored mercury credenza to
the side, a second paining, a cubist period Picasso hanging
above.
    Coming across a closed door,
    "Oh, a secret," he said. "May I?"
    He opened the door.
    "It's a restroom, Mikalo. It's no big deal.
Now, please, can you just please go."
    He turned again, coming toward me.
    I backed away.
    Skirting the desk, he caught me, bringing me
close.
    "A kiss."
    Relenting, I kissed him.
    Suddenly, he spun me, catching me off-guard,
his arms lifting me as he carried me into the restroom.
    We stopped as he closed the door, his back
against it, blocking it.
    "My Grace," he said, his lips on mine as his
hands lifted my skirt.
    "No, no, no," I said, resisting him, my hand
now dueling his as I struggled to get the fabric out of his
fist.
    "I need you. And there is not much time." he
said. "Please."
    I kissed him again. I couldn't help it.
    His hand was on my skirt again.
    And then under my skirt, the warmth of his
palm, his fingers, tracing the fabric beneath.
    "I rip this, yes?"
    "No, don't."
    "But if I hurt something of yours, I get a
new one, no?"
    "Mikalo, please don't --"
    Suddenly, he ripped my panties from me, the
torn fabric clenched in his fist.
    I was wet.
    He was unzipping his pants, his hardness
already visible through the expensive wool.
    I weakened, kissing him yet again, my
hypocrisy battling my deep need to have him.
    And failing miserably.
    Grabbing my hand, he guided it, my fist
gripping his heat, his width. The shaft beating like a heart in my
hand, the tip of my thumb discovering his own wetness.
    My skirt was pushed up, the fabric bunching
above