Burying her wounded heart in a successful career, Ronan Grace had all but given up on romance. Then, over coffee, she glances up to discover a Greek god in grey wool. Mikalo Delis. Young, handsome, charming, hot. And rich. Very rich.
Over passionate kisses and blistering sex, they battle the past. Struggling to forget, learning to forgive, eager for the future. Together.
But when Mikalo considers returning to Greece, his soul yearning for the sun and sand and blue skies of home, Ronan wonders if their new love will be strong enough to endure. And how much will she give up to be with the man who awakened her heart, taught her to trust, and showed her true love?
warning it’s super hot 😉
“Oh my god,” she mouthed to me as I approached.
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?
I refused to apologize.
But, yeah, I was pretty late. I’d make up for it by burning some midnight oil.
Janey pointed into my office.
“In there,” she mouthed again.
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.”
Mikalo looked at her.
“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.”
“Thank you. You can go.”
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?
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.
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?”
“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 my waist, his fingers already stoking the heat of my lust.
Moving closer, he sighed, his breath hot on my skin.
Quickly, he turned me, bent me over the sink, our reflections facing us.
And he was inside.
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A little about Syndra:
Syndra was born in Paris, educated in England, she now lives very quietly in New York and Paris.
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