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my body shook.
That I could feel. And I know my heart was racing. Dangerously
fast. And I couldn’t catch my breath, the speed of this assault
catching me off-guard and, like a tornado, lifting me into the air,
helpless.
    There was a moment of darkness, the blessed
chaos shredding my body stealing me from conscious thought.
    His moan brought me back.
    He still moved in me, riding my wave as his
own picked up speed, his pace now a blur as the room filled with
the sound of his flesh smacking mine.
    A gasp followed by another moan.
    I could feel it build again. A second wave,
the first still resonating, still teasing me, still insistent and
alive.
    I wanted to lift my hand, thread my fingers
through his hair, bring him to me. Taste him.
    But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move, my muscles,
my body, even my mind, a prisoner to his plunging and pounding and
desperate desire for release. To fill me. To claim me, once more,
as his own.
    His biceps clenched. Drool fell to stain my
neck. Sweat rolled from his flesh onto mine. He moved deep and then
deeper still. And then a third time.
    My second wave caught me. I inhaled deep, my
hips rising to meet his, pushing him into me even more.
    It rolled through me, my body too exhausted
to fight, my mind too weary to wrap around the perfection of the
tremors and trembling and inner explosions and sighs.
    He paused, feeling this, my body, my heat,
caressing him, coaxing him, urging him, inviting him. Pushing
deeper still, he grinded against me, and then stopped.
    The muscles in his back clenched, his hips
clenched, he held his breath, everything stopping in time as he
inched deeper still, throbbing.
    And then his eyes closed as his own wave
crested and crashed.
    His body jerked once, twice, three times, and
then a fourth as he spilled into me, the small whimpers and gasps
catching in his throat as he fought to catch his breath.
    I could feel him again, my hand able to rise,
my hips once more willing to move against him, work with him. Help
him hit his own heights.
    I lifted my lips to him, kissing him. His
lips, his cheeks, his neck, his temples. Tasting the sweat from his
brow. Smearing his scent onto me, into me.
    Lost in his own world, he gasped, catching
his breath, aware of me, yes, but still balanced on that knife’s
edge of blessed bliss, not yet willing to relinquish the addictive
bedlam of his body’s release.
    He came back to me, dipping low, his cheek to
mine, his lips on mine.
    God, I loved him.
    And, answering my silent thought, he spoke,
the words breathed in my ear.
    “I love you, my Grace.”
     
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
    “I envy you your post-coital glow,” Deni
said, only half-teasing.
    “Wow,” I answered. “That’s quite a
mouthful.”
    “Something tells me it is,” she said with a
wink.
    I smiled.
    We were walking up Fifth Avenue. She had met
me for lunch, insisting I take a break from the desk and the
documents and the quickly escalating turf wars engulfing those
quiet, art-lined hallways.
    Since Mikalo’s return, I had taken to working
hard. Harder than I had in years, convinced that being at my desk
before anyone else and then leaving only after the sun had set was,
in some way, going to excuse those weekends lost in carnal lust
with a man I was loving more and more with each day.
    “You look happy,” Deni was saying.
    I nodded, ignoring the persistent doubts and
questions. Doubts and questions that not even the aforementioned
love could erase.
    “I am,” I finally said.
    She glanced at me. Watched me like a parent
who, aware a lie has been told, is quietly willing to let the child
admit it, confident that somewhere on that road to admitting the
truth, a road strewn with doubt and guilt, a lesson will be
learned.
    She looked away.
    “And how are you?” I asked.
    “Peachy,” came the brusque reply.
    Now we were both walking our own roads of
doubt and guilt.
    “I heard you met the Byzans,” she then
said.
    “Oh god, no,” I quickly said, pushing