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

smile as he looked across the
park.
    “This is true?” he asked.
    “Oh yeah. I took you home in my head and, you
know, had sexy thoughts --”
    “You touched yourself with me in your head,”
he quietly interrupted.
    Damn, this was exciting. I could feel a lump
in my throat. To be sharing this intimacy, revealing these secret
dreams, there was something quite freeing and bold and vulnerable
about it all.
    “Yes,” I finally answered. “I did.”
    “And?”
    “And it was amazing.”
    He smiled and shifted on the bench.
    I glanced below, immediately recognizing the
obvious hardness of him bulging in the dark denim of his jeans.
    “But you touched yourself, too, right?” I
asked.
    He nodded and cleared his throat again, his
eyes still on the trees.
    “Yes?” I asked again.
    “Yes,” he then said, the slight quaver in his
voice betraying his excitement.
    “And, my Grace,” he continued. “I still
do.”
    I held my breath, silently urging him to
continue.
    He did.
    “When you leave for the day, when you go to
work, before I leave the bed, I push my face into your pillow and
smell you. Feel the warmth of you on the sheets. Imagine you still
next to me.
    “And these thoughts, of you and the taste of
you and your naked body and of you with me, needing me, wanting me,
they are exciting.”
    His voice was almost a whisper now, his eyes
still fixed on the buildings in the distance across the park.
    “And I do not know,” he continued. “Even
though we, perhaps, had just made love, I need to do so again.
Alone. Need to have you in my head. Pretend, like a child, that you
are there with me, and then I go to the shower and the hot water
and the soap and ...”
    He stopped then, his cheeks blushing red.
    He looked like a boy. A boy revealing a dirty
secret. Shy, embarrassed. Unwilling, even unable, to stop himself
from doing something he found both immensely exciting and somehow
wrong.
    It was fucking adorable.
    And, frankly, listening to him describe his
inner fantasies of me, how these thoughts brought him pleasure and
release, I found that incredibly exciting as well, the familiar
thump-thump-thump beginning below.
    “And then what?” I asked.
    I knew and he knew that I knew. But I wanted
him to say it. Wanted to watch his blush grow. Watch him battle his
shyness as he offered this admission.
    “And then I touch myself,” he finally said.
“And it is pleasure and exciting and wonderful and then it is
done.
    “And then I use the soap and the water to
clean.”
    He finally looked at me, his hands still
jammed in his lap, his ankles crossed, his thighs pressed tightly
together.
    I wanted to kiss him.
    Leaning forward, I did.
    He returned my kiss with a shy smile, our
lips pausing briefly before they parted.
    “What?” I asked.
    “This talk, it is not something I have done
with a woman,” he said. “To say this truth that she is in your mind
and your dreams and that you are touching yourself when you are
alone and thinking of her, and that it becomes, you know, a finish,
it is a truth I have never said.”
    “Does it embarrass you?”
    He shrugged.
    “Perhaps,” he said. “No. I do not know. It is
like a very brave thing to say, to talk about, I think, yes?”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But it shouldn’t be. It’s
normal. And, to be honest with you, I’m flattered you think of me
like that. At least sometimes.”
    “Sometimes?” he answered with a laugh. “Every
day, my Grace.”
    I laughed.
    “Yes,” he continued. “You leave, I put my
face into your pillow, feel the excitement as it grows, and then
take the special shower with the soap and the water and the steam.
Every day.
    “My appetite,” he then said, his eyes again
on the trees. “Like with food and your kisses and the smell of your
skin, my appetite is a very big one.”
    Sneaking my hand into his lap, I wove my
fingers into his, feeling his hardness beneath my fist.
    “I like your appetite,” I said, drawing close
to brush my lips