Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (19 page)

His fingers dug into the bare skin of her back, beneath her ribs, holding her in front of him as he became more urgent, covering her areola with his warm, wet mouth. He sucked hard, rhythmically, drawing her nipple into his mouth deeply. From where her hands rested on his shoulders, she felt a rumble deep inside him, like a groan, and the barest tremors beneath her fingers. But all those details were lost in a sudden whirl of sensation.

He moved, kissing down around her breast and onto the smooth, jumpy skin of her belly and then back up to her other nipple, where instead of sucking, he merely teased it with his tongue. Around and up and down, the hot, slick strokes. The pointed sensual assault brought tremors to her body. He pulled away, and her nipples shone wet and hard in the night, cool from the moisture on them. When he slipped his hands down along her torso, she thrust her hips toward him even as her hands dug into his hair, smoothing along the wedge of his sharp cheeks to the slice of his jaw. She found his lips, sliding her finger along the parted seam of his mouth.

He opened, and she slipped it in, felt the deep rumble in the back of his throat as he sucked and licked and drove the spirals of pleasure even more deeply into her belly, down into her sex. It throbbed, pounding there between her splayed legs, damp and needy as he tongued the sensitive web of skin between her fingers.

Edmond
. She said his name silently, above him, where he could not hear, could not see.
Ahh, Edmond . . . at last.

A tear leaked from the corner of one of her eyes, still closed— closed against the reality that she was married to another man when the man she had always loved, had never forgotten, and could never have, was here before her.

Kissing her. Undressing her. In the gazebo of her gardens during a dinner party.

Mercédès thrust the thoughts away, focusing instead on the pleasure of the moment. His thick hair under her fingers, and then, as her hands moved lower, the crisp collar of his shirt, warm next to his hot skin. She was trembling in his arms when he pulled her off the bench—yanked, really, with that impatience that seemed to pervade his mood—into his arms. He covered her mouth, nearly smothering her, thrusting his tongue in and biting on her lips so that she knew they’d be red and soft and swollen like the skin of a wrinkled peach.

His hand slipped between her legs as he devoured her mouth, and found the shiny hard nub of her sex. Sliding in the wetness there, his fingers quested, slid up and around and between the folds of her labia, tickling the hair there and covering her entire quim with wide, slow strokes . . . oh, just nearly in the right place . . . close to the center of her existence at that moment . . . around and near and along the side of . . . but not . . . not where she needed it.

Not where she throbbed and bulged and begged.

Please
, she thought, pushing herself against him, feeling through his trousers for the bulge that strained them.

“Ah,” he sighed when she found it, both hands sliding down between them, surrounding the full, velvety cock that strained against the fabric. It was hot and heavy, and she stroked him there, cupping his ballocks and finding the smooth flesh of the tip.

He arched against her, and for a moment, she thought he’d come . . . but there was no wetness, no shiver of release, and she found herself tumbling back into the pleasure of his hands between her own legs. She whimpered quietly as he pulled away so that her hands came out of his trousers, and lifted her back onto the bench. She stood before him, and he grasped her thighs, pulling them apart so that her gleaming sex was bare in the darkness there in front of him. . . . She reached behind her, felt the beam from the wall of the gazebo, and caught at it with her hands as he bent to her.

Oh.

His mouth, there on the inner part of her thigh made her shiver and squeak softly in surprise . . . those soft lips, the hot moist tongue, firm fingers. . . . She arched toward him and shifted so that his mouth swiped over her quim. He paused to lick long and deeply through the crevice of her labia, nudging her pearl with a quick little tup that made her jump and arch and prepare herself for an onslaught.

And then he pulled back, his fingers still on her thighs, standing before her. She felt him draw in a deep breath, the quick clutch of his grip into her skin, and then it fell away.

She felt rather than saw him step back, away from where she stood on the bench like some sort of trophy on a shelf. Her arms trembled, and she let them fall, realizing her fingers were shaking, her body was still humming, and he wasn’t pulling her back . . . he wasn’t tearing off his own clothes. He wasn’t touching her.

“Shall I . . . send for your husband . . . or your maid?” he asked. His voice was cool.

“Wh-what?” she asked, lost, groggy as if she’d just awakened. She could hear him moving—away, toward the steps beyond which glowed in the faint light of the lantern. Mercédès’ knees felt weak, and she let them buckle as she half fell, half stepped off the bench.

“To help you.”

Mercédès gathered her wits, shoved aside her pounding arousal, her unfulfilled need, and replied, “Why?”

“Surely,” he said, a faint hitch in his breath, “you don’t wish to return to the party . . . as is.”

“What are you doing?” she breathed, suddenly realizing that, yes, he meant to leave. Leave her here, like this: throbbing, wet, breathless . . . naked.

“I’ve been gone from the party for long enough, I believe,” he said, his words now calm. He was standing on the threshold of the gazebo steps, outlined from the waist down.

“But . . .” She struggled, caught herself, and allowed the anger to wash away the humiliation that threatened. “My maid. Or no . . . no, perhaps you should send Salieux to me. At least he will finish what he starts.”

Monte Cristo gave a low, hard laugh. “Clever, Comtesse. I’ve already told him what will happen if I find him sniffing around you again. He nearly pissed his pants.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, walking toward him, heedless of her nakedness. Somehow, she couldn’t make herself call him Edmond, though part of her believed it would jar him. No, this was not her Edmond.

Whoever he might have been, he was now the Count of Monte Cristo.

“Nothing,” he said. “I merely find that I have lost what little appetite I had.”

And he disappeared into the darkness.

SEVEN

Mercédès returned to the dinner party with her head held high, her gown in place, and her hair as immaculate as it had been when she walked down the stairs earlier that evening. But there was fire in her eyes, and fury simmering in her veins. One of her gloves was lost in the dark bushes.

She hadn’t been able to leave the gazebo until someone came to assist her to dress again, and thus she’d remained at the mercy of the man who called himself Monte Cristo, waiting to see if he would follow through on his offer to send Charlotte—or Fernand. It was at least fifteen minutes before her maid—thank God, not Fernand—appeared, peeking carefully around the doorway.

During those fifteen minutes, Mercédès traveled through a vortex of emotions. Her hands shook, her breasts ached, and her thighs moved wetly against each other as she stalked around the inside of the gazebo, at that point heedless of her state of undress. She cursed, she wept, and she vowed revenge on Monte Cristo—not only for leaving her here, naked and vulnerable, but also for the trick he’d played, the game, the tease.

The deliberate, ruthless taunting of her body.

That it had been deliberate, and not a sudden case of discretion and prudence, she had no doubt.

She was more certain than ever that Monte Cristo was none other than Edmond Dantès—for she’d kissed him, touched him, smelled him . . . tasted him. There’d been familiarity, and a sort of comfort, buried beneath the passion between them. Despite his harshness, she
knew
him. She remembered him.

But . . . why?

Why would he do such a thing?

Why would he come to Paris and play about society, and ingratiate himself with Fernand and Albert, and even Danglars and Villefort? And not admit his true identity? What did he have to hide?

As she turned the possibilities over in her mind, there in the dark and silent gazebo, Mercédès had the first niggling of worry in the back of her mind. Monte Cristo had been more than amiable to Albert, and had made himself a quick favorite among the other powerful members of society. He’d even made a friend of Villefort, who rarely deigned to interact with those whom he didn’t know well.

The only person to whom he’d been less than cordial was she, Mercédès. Those dark eyes, that set face, the cool whiplash comments . . . all had been delivered to
her
with an edge—an underscored edge that had culminated in this moment of frustration and humiliation. She’d bared herself to him both literally and figuratively, and he’d left her vulnerable and aroused.

Perhaps he believed she’d done the same to him when she married Fernand.

Perhaps he was here because he was angry with her for doing so.

It was the only explanation that made sense of the way he’d acted, of the things he’d said—particularly about Salieux. There’d been an underlying jealousy when he spoke of Georges. Yet it was not the obsessive jealousy of a young man, but the disdainful annoyance of a more mature, confident one.

As if he’d allow no one to disrupt his intentions.

Mercédès hovered on the edge of great sadness for a moment. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes as she thought back to the beauty of their time together: two young, innocent lovers, ignorant of the separate futures that would be forced upon them. She thought she’d wept all she could for the interruption of their love, but the grief rose anew.

And then the sadness eased away to be replaced by anger. For whatever had happened to Edmond Dantès in these twenty-four years, she had been wronged too. Her future, her love, the life she’d desired had been torn away from her as well. In more than two decades, there’d been no news, no communication, no hint that he was still alive.

For the man to be as rich and powerful as he was, he had to have been accumulating the wealth and experience for years. Decades.

And not one word from him over that time.

That he’d been alive—how could she have known differently?

And then for him to come sweeping back into her life, with this cloud of vengeance resting on his shoulders, using her love and her body to humiliate her . . .

Mercédès swallowed another curse. She was damned if she would let him manipulate her like this. She’d not lived with Fernand de Morcerf for twenty-two miserable years—her own penance for making such a foolish choice—to be flummoxed by a plan of vengeance.

If he expected her to cower in the corner or to turn the other cheek, Monte Cristo was bound to be confounded. For Mercédès Herrera de Morcerf was no shy violet, no cowering mouse, no rug to be trod upon.

And so when she returned to the party more than an hour after she’d disappeared to find the Count of Monte Cristo, she held her chin high and walked with an elegant and easy swagger. She smiled, she chatted, she laughed, she flirted.

In other words, she was the gracious and elegant Comtesse de Morcerf.

And when she found Georges, despite the fact that he paled noticeably when she approached him and cast about frantically as if to find escape, she greeted him with a greater enthusiasm than she’d shown in months.

“There you are,” she said, slipping her arm through his and giving him her warmest, most glorious smile. “I must apologize for disappearing for so long. There was a problem in the kitchen, and then in the wine cellar, and then—ah . . .” She laughed up at him and saw, with great satisfaction, that his reluctance was dissolving. “I shan’t bother you with all of the tedious details of my hostess duties. Perhaps, now that I have put things well in hand, we might take a stroll through the gardens. I seem to have lost my glove.”

Georges’ eyes heated and a genuine smile, with the hint of deviltry that had first attracted her, quirked his lips. “Indeed, madam, I would be happy to assist you in your search.” He flexed the arm beneath his coat so that the vee in which her hand rested tightened in a secret embrace.

As they strolled across the ballroom toward the wide-open doors, taking care not to exhibit any signs of hurry, Mercédès paused their progress so that she could speak to several of the guests. She would be discreet, as always, taking care not to make the exit with her companion hurried.

Monte Cristo was nowhere to be seen, and she entertained the thought that he might have been cowardly enough to make his escape before she returned to the party. But when she and Georges stepped out onto the terrace, she saw Monte Cristo’s unmistakable figure, tall and broad-shouldered, and heard the rumble of his voice as he conversed in a small cluster of other guests. Impudently, Mercédès steered Georges toward the group, which included Maximilien Morrel and Franz d’Epinay but, fortunately, not Albert.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with a pleasant smile.

Monte Cristo’s back had been partly angled toward her, but her voice drew his attention and he turned. As Georges’ arm tensed beneath hers, Mercédès continued toward them, stopping at the edge of the group. “I trust that you have had a pleasant time this evening, and are lacking nothing with which to make it more comfortable . . . or satisfying.” Her words were bland, oh so bland, and so was her smile . . . and she kept her eyes resolutely blank as she focused on Monte Cristo.

He was standing with his back to the house, so the light shone behind him and filtered through the wayward tips of the hair that curled around his ears, casting his face mostly into shadow. She couldn’t read his expression, and his stance gave nothing away, but she had the satisfaction of knowing that he could not have expected her to approach him in such a manner, and with Salieux on her arm.