Mikalo's Flame by Syndra K. Shaw

against his cheek.
    “My Grace,” he then whispered, his head
turning as he pressed his lips close to mine.
    “I am hungry.”
     
     
     

Chapter Fifteen
     
    Although the path was lighted, the tall
streetlamps dotting the well-worn concrete path like tall, slender
saplings of metal and chipped black paint, the day was growing dark
with the slow setting of the sun.
    The wood planks of the bench pushed into my
shins as I straddled Mikalo’s lap.
    This tent of oversized luxurious wool that
was my coat covered us.
    And he was inside me.
    He was hungry, he had said.
    I had stood to go, grabbing his hand to pull
him with me, eager for the comfort of our home and our bed and his
naked flesh on mine.
    He had pulled back, easily guiding me to him,
his strong arms holding me tight as I sat on his lap.
    His fingers worked the large buttons of my
coat.
    The material opened and spread, falling to
the side to hide us.
    He had kissed me then, his hands finding my
breasts through my shirt and giving a gentle squeeze.
    I had gasped.
    “No,” I said, rising to stand.
    He had pulled me back, holding me firm, his
other hand working his zipper.
    “Lift your skirt, my Grace,” he had
breathed.
    A jogger approached.
    We paused.
    I couldn’t do this. Public sex just wasn’t
for me. I craved the warmth of our bedroom. Tasting his naked
skin.
    This desperate fumbling of zippers and
buttons in plain sight of anyone who bothered to spend even a
millisecond watching us just didn’t do it for me.
    And with things at work suddenly iffy, the
last thing I needed was to be arrested for public indecency. Or
whatever they’d call this.
    So, no.
    He gripped his hardness in his fist.
    Oh shit.
    I suddenly wanted him.
    The jogger ran past, oblivious to my desire
or Mikalo’s nakedness.
    “The skirt is lifted, yes,” he urged me, “And
then you sit and I will move, gently, quietly.”
    His lips found mine again as he reached under
my coat for my skirt.
    “It will be very quick,” he said, his lips
close to mine. “I know this to be true. And this appetite, it will
be happy.”
    Another kiss, his tongue moving deep as he
inhaled and then groaned, the sound resonating in his chest.
    A sound I found incredibly sexy.
    I flirted with the idea. Ignored how
preposterous it seemed. How idiotic it would be in retrospect were
we to get caught. How dangerous it all was.
    And then I thought of that night, drunk on
ouzo and giving in to my own appetite, I had taken him in the park,
in the dark, among the trees. Had demanded he satisfy my hunger.
And how he, maybe, had battled his own doubts to make me happy, the
eventual coupling quick, exciting, dangerous. Memorable.
    “Okay,” I said before pressing my lips to his
and standing slightly, enough for him to push the skirt up past my
hips and, his fingers briefly flirting with my growing heat, move
aside that thin layer of fine silk.
    He paused, thinking, his mind racing.
    “Phone,” he suddenly said.
    What?
    “Your phone,” he repeated. “Bring it out.
Hold it to your ear as if there is a talk.”
    Ah, got it.
    Poised above him, his hardness hidden by the
coat, my skirt bunched above my waist, his fingers teasing the
growing wet, I jammed my hand into my pocket and brought out my
cell, placing it to my ear, the pantomime of a shared cell phone,
our heads pressed together as we listened, explaining our being
close should anyone care or look twice.
    Gripping himself, he pressed his hardness to
me and closed his eyes.
    “Please,” he whispered.
    I waited, teasing him.
    An older couple turned the corner many steps
away and started ambling their way toward us.
    Suddenly afraid, I hesitated.
    And then I gasped, Mikalo slapping his
hardness against me.
    “Wait,” I whispered.
    The couple drew close.
    “Talk on the phone,” he quickly said,
pressing his face close to mine as if we were both listening.
    I acted as if I was talking, the phone at my
ear.
    The older man and woman, lost in
conversation,