Mikalo's Grace by Syndra K. Shaw Page B

her
movements.
    She joined me, laughing, following me as the
music pulsed, the bodies around us dancing and stamping their feet
and swaying their hips and snapping their fingers and clapping
their hands.
    Little boys bouncing next to their mothers.
Little girls swaying with their fathers. Couples pressed close as
their lips touched, their feet moving in time, the rhythm between
them already established and familiar.
    Young and old, fat and thin, they lost
themselves to the music, whatever inhibitions they had banished by
glasses of ouzo and endless bites of rich, hearty food and the
safety of friends and family they loved.
    I closed my eyes, allowing myself to drop my
worries.
    Somewhere I could hear Mikalo cheer and
clap.
    I smiled, my body finding the beat, my feet
moving, my fingers snapping, my skin feeling flushed and my tongue
thick as I danced, not caring what I looked like or who was
watching.
    My hips swayed, my hands inching down my
stomach to my thighs as I gyrated, then traveling up to gather my
hair from my neck as I continued to move.
    This felt good.
    I turned this way and that, the old lady now
applauding, her laughter coming from a distance, her own steps
having taken her from a student who no longer needed guidance to
her own space, her rhythm now searching for its own pleasure, its
own joy.
    My eyes opened, the bodies around me a whirl
of twisting and turning, of stomping and clapping and snapping
fingers. Of laughing faces and shining skin sweaty and flushed from
drink.
    My hips moved again.
    The crowd cheered.
    I stamped my feet, my fingers snapping.
    I heard applause.
    The people had moved back, allowing me
room.
    Soaked in ouzo and wine, I didn't care.
    I danced.
    Another cheer from the crowd, their clapping
rhythmic, urging me on as I gyrated and swayed, stomped and turned,
snapped my fingers and threw back my head.
    More cheers, more clapping.
    And then a huge, collective shout.
    I opened my eyes.
    From the edge of the room, he came near,
threading his way through the tables and chairs and people as he
stripped off his shirt, his muscled flesh gleaming with sweat.
    Smiling, I held my hands out to him,
beckoning him near, the ouzo flowing through my veins making me
brave.
    He came close.
    The crowd was cheering louder now, the room
filled with the thunderous sound of stomping feet and hands
slapping tables and clapping.
    He stood in front of me now, his nose close
to mine.
    He took my hand, his arm around my waist.
    A huge cry from the crowd, and then
laughter.
    His hairy chest pressed close, the scruff of
his unshaven cheek and chin rough against my face, his unfamiliar
lips close to mine, he moved near.
    I reached up, gathering his shoulder-length
dark curls in my fist as we took our first step, his thick, muscled
body moving with mine, his breath hot on my lips as we swayed first
one way and then the other.
    And then this stranger and I danced.
     
     

Chapter
Thirty-One
     
    I didn't know his name, this dark-haired stud
who grinded his hips into me as we moved across the floor, his
strong hand on the small of my back as he led me.
    He was not a friend of Mikalo's. He had not
been introduced to me, his name not in the rambling list of Greek
accented vowels and consonants I had struggled to hear through the
constant buzz in the room, the Greek voices melding with the clink
of cutlery against plates and children laughing.
    No, I don't remember meeting this man.
    But I knew him.
    Or, rather, my body did.
    My hips knew his, my lips were familiar with
his, our breath already friends.
    Although a stranger, we held no secrets, the
sweat from our bodies mingling as his heart spoke to mine, my
wetness responding to the improbably thick hardness pressing
against me.
    He turned me, at once catching me and
bringing me close as he pulled me into him.
    I looked into his eyes.
    They were hooded with lust.
    His face moved close, the stubble once again
gently rough against my smooth cheek and then my neck as he