Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (27 page)

Or perhaps . . . intent on torturing. Her.

Mercédès swallowed with difficulty. All moisture had evaporated from her throat, and her lungs felt tight, pressured. Her heart shook her body with the force of its pounding, and a twinge of apprehension mixed with anticipation twisted in her belly.

Her arms, bound above her head, weren’t stretched uncomfortably, nor was the silk binding tight. Her legs were still free, and she thought for a moment, as Monte Cristo leaned toward her, that he’d done that purposely . . . to give her a false sense of freedom.

His hands—warm, large, sure—came down onto the sides of her torso as he bent over her, gently gripping her hips as though to hold her still, his dark head blocking out the lamplight behind him. He moved too slowly, deliberately, as though to prolong her waiting—as if he knew she wondered whether he’d suddenly ravish her, or if his intent was to coax and tease as he’d done before.

Unlike the other kisses between them tonight, this one was softer, gentler. His lips fairly worshipped hers—in a way they hadn’t since . . . She lost her thoughts, let herself spill into the sensation of slow, sensual movements . . . their mouths molding together and apart, slipping to the side with a subtle swipe of tongue over hers. She felt herself beginning to breathe into his mouth, against him, felt his fingers tighten on her flesh and the rise of response flourish in her belly and roll to her ready quim below.

“Like that, do you?” he asked against her mouth, his lips a hot, soft breath away. “Good. I look forward to hearing you beg for more.”

He pulled back suddenly, in contrast to the manner in which he’d approached, and his hands began to move over her body with deliberate purpose.

He thought to make her beg.

The first time she’d truly pleaded with a man, cried and debased herself, had also been the last time she’d done so.

She’d learned what hell begging could wrought. What power and control it gave.

No. Monte Cristo was bound to be disappointed if he thought he could take her to those depths again.

When his hands smoothed up to cover both of her breasts, his torso, still clad in its fine lawn shirt, brushed over her skin, and Mercédès merely closed her eyes. She parted her lips, letting the pleasure of his mouth on her nipple puff out in a soft exhalation that wasn’t feigned.

She shifted her hips, brushing them against his leg, bent next to her on the bed as he gently sucked her nipple far into his mouth, deeply, drawing in her whole areola. It was hot and slick and sensual, sending low, undulating waves of pleasure with each rhythmic draw. Long and slow and steady . . . She felt her breath begin to rise, and her other nipple tighten beneath the pad of his finger.

That finger circled around in tiny motions, teasing the very topmost, sensitive tip as her areola shrank and tightened beneath. The dualing sensations of slick tongue and teasing finger made her belly flip and twist, and sharp pangs of desire spiral down to her sex, which was already sensitive and swollen, burgeoning with need. He pulled away, his white shirt pale against rich, tanned skin and dark hair, his lips full and parted, his eyes bold and driven.

Locked on her gaze, he moved his hand . . . gently skimming her flesh, sending shivers scattering over the low swell of her belly . . . and down to the rise of her mons, to the delicate thatch of hair curling there. He watched her, and she couldn’t close her eyes, she couldn’t look away. Deep in there, behind the flat wall of his gaze, beneath the darkness and the torment, Mercédès saw Edmond. A hint of him, the man she knew . . .

He slipped his fingers down over the front of her sex, just brushing against the tips of the wiry, sensitive hair, creating little shivers along the insides of her thighs. She let her eyes slide closed as he fingered through the tangles, lifting them and sliding through the wetness spilling from her quim.

“Open your eyes,” he said softly, slipping a finger deep inside.

Pleasure rushed through her at the sudden movement, and Mercédès shifted her hips in response as she opened her eyes.

“There . . . now . . . there.” Satisfaction gleamed in his face, and he pulled out and then slid his fingers back in again, deeper, fuller, brushing against her pip as he did so. She arched gently, pushing against him, letting the pleasure spread through her.

Then he pulled his hand away, and moved down between her legs, spreading them with one easy movement. She allowed her knees to fall to the sides and felt the firm grip on her thighs, just above her knees, as he positioned himself between them.

The first touch of his tongue nearly sent her off the bed. It was so light and tentative on her swollen, ready pip, so quick and so
needed
, that she gave a little cry, jerking her hips there in front of him.

Dios mio
.

That first stroke was fleeting, but then the tip of his tongue came back and teased her again with a soft flick, and another one, and another . . . and then as she began to gather up, to ready herself for the next, for the one that would send her ready body over . . . he moved away, kissing along the inside of her thigh with feathery kisses, light shifts of the tongue, gentle sucking.

Mercédès closed her eyes, her breathing faster, her nipples tighter, her pip pounding, exposed and ready. Of course. He wanted her to ask for it. To beg.

She felt Monte Cristo lift his face, and opened her eyes to look down at his dark ones just beyond the gentle swell of her belly. Their gazes met as he burrowed his nose back into the thrush of hair surrounding her sex, using his lips to gently nibble on her swollen labia, his chin and jaw brushing teasingly against her pip.

He seemed to be gauging her, and she let her eyes sink closed as the pleasure built again, slowly . . . inexorably . . . as he ate at her, sucked and licked, and snaked his tongue deep into her, dragging it out slowly, jaggedly, under her needy sex. An orgasm rose, then fell back, rose and nearly peaked . . . and each time, he seemed to sense the tightening of her body, the readiness and gathering of it, and just before she spilled over into the sweet release, he moved away, stopped the rhythm and the touch and let her slide back down on a ragged little moan.

Mercédès twitched and cried against him, beneath the easy touch of his hands against her knees as every aspect of her being centered there between her legs. Her breathing had become louder and more ragged, every exhale edged with soft little sighs . . . and she heard him too, heard and felt the change of his breath there against her sex.

She wanted to reach for him, to touch the man before her and to sense his own response, to know if he was near and wanted her too . . . but her arms were bound, and her fingers could only curl helplessly against the bedpost. She dared say nothing, for fear the words would turn to pleading . . . and so she battled with herself, and with him, determined that he would break first. That he would take what he wanted from her before she gave in to her desperate need.

Then he stopped, easing away and leaving her legs spread and cold, her quim open and wet and ready. She opened her eyes when the bed shifted and his weight moved, just in time to see Monte Cristo move around to the opposite side of the bed from where her hands were bound. She followed him, and her gaze brushed over Fernand, who stood at the side there, his hand furiously working his cock as he stared blankly into space. She focused her attention on her repulsive husband’s slack jaw and glassy eyes for a moment as a way to pull herself out of the pleasure that blanketed her, ebbing now but waiting to be reawakened.

Which surely Monte Cristo meant to do in some other manner.

Then Mercédès’ legs were being pulled; Monte Cristo dragged them over the bed so that she lay sideways across it, her arms long and stretched, her hips settled on the edge of the mattress and her feet nearly flat on the floor. He stood between her knees, still fully clothed in contrast to her nakedness, and began to unfasten his trousers.

His face was just as unreadable as ever, and a shock of dark hair obstructed one eye, but she swore his sure fingers fumbled clumsily with the ties and buttons at his waist. . . . Surely, it didn’t take that long to pull them away . . . and she felt rather than heard his relief when the purple erection surged free, raging there in the dark opening of his trousers. Mercédès felt a sudden rush of desire shoot down to her quim, and she gave a soft little moan.

“Ah,” he said, the sound low and knowing. And a little raw. A little breathless.

He moved between her legs, grasping her hips to raise them as he poised there. She closed her eyes, ready, wanting, feeling her quim dripping and needy.

When he fitted himself to her, when he slid deeply inside, her breath caught and she was overwhelmed with need and pleasure and fulfillment, and she held her breath, ready for the onslaught . . . for the rise and spill of climax.

But he didn’t move. He merely held her there, held her hips immobile with those strong fingers, breathing against her, throbbing and full—so damned long and full and familiar—inside her, close to her . . . but not close enough.

Not close enough.

Mercédès caught herself on a soft sob, tried to shift just so that he’d rub against her aching tickler and send her over . . . but he didn’t move.

She opened her eyes to see that his were closed, his face like stone, the shadows of his cheeks deep and dark. He didn’t breathe, and there, suddenly, in the amazing silence that gripped the chamber, came a deep, expressive grunt from the side.

Her gaze flew to Fernand just in time to see his head thrown back and the spurt of his release whip from the end of the cock he flogged mercilessly with his hand.

Mercédès felt her own body tighten in reaction to such a display of pleasure, and she shifted again, more urgently. More desperately.
Please.

Monte Cristo opened his eyes, looked down at her, and smiled, hard and knowing. “Is there something you want, madam la comtesse?”

She looked away, her gaze flickering to Fernand, and she felt the cock inside her shift . . . just the slightest, easiest bit . . . and her whole body seized up, ready . . . and then fell back. She gathered up her resolve, her determination to snap his control. “Perhaps if you don’t wish to . . . finish things, my husband should take over.”

Monte Cristo’s fingers convulsed against her, ever so slightly, but his expression remained dark and calm. “I think,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Fernand, who’d collapsed into a chair, “he has finished for the night. But . . . I am in no hurry.”

Mercédès tightened herself around him and watched his face react. Subtle, but the surprise was there. “It’s too bad you feel the need to have me restrained,” she said, keeping her voice steady with effort. She felt as if she were to lose control, lose her focus, for one moment, one instant, she would also lose this battle. “Do you not trust yourself at my hands?”

In response, he pulled back and gave a sudden, savage thrust inside her, and she gasped at the beauty of it.
Dios
.
More, oh Dios mio, please . . .

Mercédès bit back her cry and looked at him, and saw the same struggle on his face.
Good . . . oh, thank God.

She shifted insistently, nearly throwing off his hold—she only needed one, maybe two strokes and she’d be there . . .
Please
.

“No, you don’t,” he breathed, pushing her hips into the mattress even more firmly, allowing her no room to move. “Ask for it . . . beg me.”

“No,” she gritted between her teeth, tightening her vagina around him again and giving a little flex of her buttocks to shift her hips. “Coward.”

He laughed, harsh and short, and gave another sharp, hard thrust. Mercédès cried out and thrashed her head to one side, biting her lip at the surge inside. She wouldn’t. He couldn’t last much longer.

She arched her back, lifting her breasts slightly, focused on the throb between her legs. He was close. . . . she felt him filling inside her even more.

“Come with me, Comtesse,” he said in a long, tense voice. “Beg.”

“No,” she said again.

He took a sudden, sharp breath and ground himself against her, pushing deeper. She sighed softly, erotically, and looked up at him. Desire blazed in his face now, as if he could no longer control it.

“I’ll never beg you for anything,” she said in a strong voice, using every bit of control to make it so. Forcing away the sensations that pounded through her, that twisted and dug and curled and promised.

“Never?” he said, and began to move in short, little strokes, barely shifting inside her, holding her in such a way that he came near, but didn’t touch, her pip. Teasing. “Oh, you . . . will . . . ,” he promised on a low breath.

“Oh . . . ,” she cried. It rose again, her lust, burgeoning and billowing like a sail filling with wind, and Mercédès tossed her head to the side, biting her lip as he moved, holding her there, keeping her from matching him, from that pressure, that lovely pressure that would send her over. She focused, willed herself to live there, between her legs, where everything rose and rose and grew and surged and—

“Oh . . . no . . . you . . . don’t . . . ,” he gasped, pulling himself out in a sudden, desperate movement, leaving her swelled tight and shiny and needy. Oh,
Dios
. . . needy. She cried out, then bit her lip again to keep the pleas from erupting, tears leaking from her eyes as she rolled her face away.

He climbed on the bed next to her, his cock dark and rosy, slick and rampant with her juices, and she licked her lips, caught her breath, squeezed back the need, swallowed desperately . . . and drew in one long, steadying draft of air. Control.

“Come here, Count. Let me taste you and give you release.” She licked her dry lips again, suggestively, dropping her gaze to that beautiful cock.

With a growl of rage, he moved quickly, his hand closing over his own thick, surging length and with two sharp movements, he finished, spilling thick white seed over her torso.