Chapter 1: Beginning
Margaret's fingers drummed impatiently on the white marble tabletop, and she gave the maître d' a curt nod. He hurried away, further delaying the arrival of her son and the end of a long day filled with back-to-back business meetings. She swirled the ice in her whiskey without taking a sip, admiring the elegant design of the crystal goblet.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to the open balcony doors.
The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, setting the Adriatic Sea ablaze. The scent of saltwater and jasmine wafted in, and she took a deep breath, letting the serenity of the moment wash over her. This was what she'd craved - a moment of peace, away from the boardroom chaos, with the one person who truly mattered.
Michael.
She could hear his laughter echoing through the suite, and a small smile played on her lips. He was always so vibrant, so full of life.
She could hear him now, chatting animatedly with the concierge, his voice as warm and inviting as the Croatian sun. She imagined him, his tall frame leaning casually against the reception desk, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed, his golden hair tousled from the sea breeze. Her heart fluttered, a sensation she'd grown accustomed to whenever he was near.
The clatter of cutlery and the hum of distant conversations filled the air as she waited.
Margaret's gaze drifted around the lavish dining room, taking in the ornate chandeliers, the opulent velvet drapes, and the plush carpet beneath her feet. Each detail screamed luxury, yet none of it could compare to the warmth that spread through her at the sound of Michael's approaching footsteps.
He entered the room, his eyes scanning the tables until they landed on her. A wide grin spread across his face, and he strode towards her, his athletic build moving with an easy grace.
"Mom, you should've seen the sunset from the beach," he said, pulling out the chair opposite her and sinking into it. "It was like nature's own fireworks display."
Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you had quite the afternoon, Michael. Anything else catch your eye?" She couldn't help but tease him, her gaze lingering on his lips for a moment longer than necessary.
Michael caught her eye and held it, a hint of a challenge in his voice. "As a matter of fact, there was.
But I'll save that for later," Michael replied, his voice low and playful. He reached for the bottle of wine chilling in the ice bucket and poured them both a glass. "To new adventures," he said, raising his glass towards her.
Margaret clinked her glass against his, her eyes never leaving his. "To new adventures," she echoed, taking a sip. The wine was crisp and cool, much like the air between them.
The waiter arrived, placing a steaming plate of Crni rižot - black risotto - in front of each of them.
The aroma of squid ink and seafood filled the air, and Margaret's stomach rumbled in appreciation. They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments, the clinking of cutlery against porcelain the only sound breaking the tranquility.
Margaret savored each bite, the flavors exploding in her mouth, a testament to the chef's skill. She stole glances at Michael, watching him enjoy his meal with the same enthusiasm.
"So, how were your meetings today?" Michael asked, breaking the silence. He leaned back in his chair, his plate now empty, and took a sip of his wine.
Margaret sighed, setting her fork down. "The usual. Negotiations, dealings, trying to make my millions." She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of pride in her voice.
Michael chuckled.
"Well, Mom, you're doing a pretty good job of it. I mean, look at this place." He gestured around the opulent dining room, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Only the best for Margaret Thompson and her son."
Margaret laughed, shaking her head. "You know me too well, Michael. But seriously, it's not about the money. It's about providing for you, for us, for our future."
Michael reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His thumb traced circles on her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. "And you do that, Mom.
You provide for us, and you do it incredibly well," Michael said, his voice soft and sincere. His thumb continued to trace patterns on her hand, his touch gentle yet firm. Margaret felt a warmth spread through her, a sensation that had nothing to do with the wine.
She looked at their hands, his large and tanned, hers smaller and fair. She felt a sudden urge to entwine her fingers with his, to feel his skin against hers. She resisted, but only just.
The nightclub looked surreal as they entered , a neon-lit wonderland pulsing with energy. Margaret's eyes adjusted to the dim light, taking in the writhing bodies on the dance floor, the glint of glasses raised in cheers, and the thumping bass that seemed to resonate in her very core.
Michael nudged her, pointing towards a table in the corner. "There's a spot," he shouted over the music. They weaved their way through the crowd, Margaret acutely aware of Michael's hand on the small of her back, guiding her.
The heat of his palm seared through the thin fabric of her dress, sending a jolt of electricity coursing through her. She wondered if he could feel her heart pounding beneath his touch.
As they reached the table, Michael pulled out a chair for her, his gentlemanly gesture belying the raw, primal energy that seemed to radiate from him. She sat down, her eyes never leaving his as he took his seat beside her.
A waitress appeared, her tray laden with drinks. She placed two shots of rakija, the local fruit brandy, in front of them.
Margaret picked up her glass, swirling the clear liquid, observing the way it clung to the sides of the glass before sliding down in a slow, sensuous dance. She raised her eyes to meet Michael's, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"To new experiences," she said, her voice barely audible over the din of the club, yet it seemed to reach Michael's ears effortlessly. He grinned, clinking his glass against hers.
"To new experiences," he echoed, downing the shot in one smooth motion.
Margaret did the same, the fiery liquid burning its way down her throat, igniting a fire within her. She set the glass down, her eyes locked onto Michael's, a sense of daring coursing through her veins.
The music pulsed around them, the infectious rhythm beckoning her to the dance floor. She stood up, extending her hand towards Michael. "Dance with me?"
Michael's eyes flickered with surprise, but he took her hand without hesitation. "I thought you'd never ask," he said, his voice low and husky.
He stood up, his tall frame towering over her, and led her onto the dance floor. The crowd parted for them, the beat of the music seeming to pulse in time with their hearts.
Margaret found herself sandwiched between Michael's strong arms, his hands resting on her hips. She could feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles, and she fought the urge to press herself against him. They began to move, their bodies swaying in synchrony, as if they were made to dance together.
She looked up at him, his face illuminated by the neon lights, his eyes locked onto hers.
He was so close she could feel his breath on her face, the scent of alcohol and spearmint mingling in the air between them. She could see the pulse at the base of his neck, throbbing in time with the music, and she had the sudden urge to lean in, to press her lips against his skin, to taste him.
"Mom," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the music, "this feels... different."
She nodded, unable to find the words to express what she was feeling. Different was an understatement. This was intense, electric, like nothing she had ever experienced before.
The air between them crackled with an unseen energy, a palpable tension that seemed to grow with each passing moment. Margaret's heart pounded in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. She could feel the heat radiating from Michael's body, his hands on her hips, his gaze locked onto hers. The world around them faded away, the music, the crowd, the very air seemed to hum with the same pulsating rhythm that coursed through her veins.
Michael's hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer, his eyes never leaving hers. They grooved to the music, their bodies moving in perfect sync, a silent conversation passing between them. Margaret could feel the hard planes of his chest against her breasts, the ridge of his arousal pressing against her stomach. She gasped, her eyes widening in surprise, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, her hands finding their way to his shoulders, her fingers tracing the muscles beneath his shirt.
"Michael," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the thumping bass. And then she kissed him . It was a soft, tentative kiss at first, a question more than a statement. But Michael answered, his lips capturing hers, his tongue seeking entry into her mouth. She opened for him, their tongues dancing, exploring, tasting. The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, while his hands roamed her body, tracing the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of her.
She could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against her, and a wave of realisation crashed over her. She pulled back, shocked, ashamed . “I am sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She said as she turned around and walked away from Michael, her heart pounding in her chest. She needed to put some distance between them, to clear her head. She could feel Michael's gaze on her back as she weaved through the crowd, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and desire.
She found herself in the ladies' room, her reflection staring back at her in the mirror. Her eyes were bright, her lips swollen from their kiss, her hair a mess from Michael's fingers. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to cool the heat that still coursed through her veins.
What had she done? She was his mother, for crying out loud.
She had changed his diapers, bandaged his scraped knees, and wiped away his tears. She had nurtured him, loved him, and guided him into the man he was today. And now, here she was, kissing him like there was no tomorrow, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Michael ran a hand through his hair, his heart still racing from their encounter. He watched as Margaret disappeared into the crowd, her retreating figure leaving him with a hollow ache in his chest. He wanted to go after her, to pull her into his arms and kiss her again, to hell with the consequences.