Free Mikalo's Fate (The Mikalo Chronicles) by Syndra K. Shaw Page B

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.
     
     
     
     

Chapter Twenty
     
    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