Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (37 page)

Her mouth was dry from breathing through open, gasping lips. She drew her tongue over them, wetting them, and suddenly he was on top of her again, his mouth, moist and musky and tasting of her, eating at her lips, thrusting his tongue between them, long and deep and sleek. He grasped her hips, and she lifted them, using her hand to slide between them and wrap around that incredible length and width of cock, hot and heavy.

She guided him to her, then removed her grip as, with a long, easy thrust, he filled her. Tears sprang to her eyes at the beauty of it, the sensation of being one with him, joined so deeply and so fully . . . and then he began to move, and she too, their breath hot and gasping as he held himself over her body, the muscles of his arms bulging like small boulders under her fingers as he thrust in and out, sliding easily into her and out, deep and long and sweet.

He moved faster, and she did, raking her nails over his arms as she tried to pull herself closer, wanting to crawl up and into him, into his hard, rich body, spicy and musky and smooth and powerful . . . in and out and up and down until their movements were frantic and crazy and the only sound was the slam of their bodies together, the soft sucking sounds of her juices holding on to him.

She felt him release, shooting hard and fast inside her, and she met him with her own peak, with one last thrust of her hips up toward him, one last gasp before she fell back onto the cushions, her body sifting lazily into the nothingness of pleasure.

He held himself up on his strong arms for a moment longer. Then he too sagged down, trembling under his skin, and rolled to the side, bringing her with him.

“I love you, Haydée.”

For a moment, it didn’t register through the haze, the satiation of her pleasure . . . but then . . . She would have bolted upright if he hadn’t had those impossibly powerful arms holding her against the slabs of his chest. “You can speak?”

She felt him nod against her, his arms tightening when she tried again to sit up and look at him. “Those are the first words I’ve spoken in more than three years.”

Haydée lay there, her hand open on his warm chest, his skin damp with exertion, the deep
ka-thump
of his heartbeat beneath her ear. “Why . . . why did you not speak for three years? Does His Excellency know?”

“Indeed, he does.” Haydée was distracted for a moment by the richness of his voice, with an exotic accent that made his syllables short and clipped on the end, yet deep and husky. It was heavy and dark, and it matched him perfectly. “I am from Nubia, as you know—but what you do not know is that I am what you would call a prince, or a duke, of that country. My family is very powerful and rich, and a little more than three years ago when we—my father and mother and siblings—were on a voyage to the Indian Ocean, our ship was destroyed during a large storm. I shouldn’t use the word ‘ship,’ ” he added in his formal, clipped voice accompanied by a soft laugh, “for His Excellency disabused me of the notion when he saw the remains of our vessel. It was little more than a yacht, in fact, and had been unable to survive a great hurricane in the sea. Monte Cristo saved us—all of us—and in return, I, as the eldest in my family, and as is the custom in my country, pledged myself to him in service for ten years.

“At first he wanted to relieve me of the obligation, but I insisted on repaying the debt as a matter of pride and honor. It is what would have been expected of anyone in my country—and such a long period of service was due to the fact that it was not only my life that he saved, at the jeopardy of his own, but also my entire family’s. When he saw that I was intent on it, he at last agreed, but with some modification, and asked that I serve him as his personal guard until such time as he concluded this business in Paris. As is the custom with my people, I took a vow of silence for the duration of my time in service to him, and that is how I came to be here. It took me some time before I was able to communicate easily by signing, but since His Excellency wasn’t fluent in my native language, nor me in his, we began our relationship with hand gestures.”

Haydée could scarcely accommodate the details of the story. “And now?”

“Now,” he said, those soft thick lips moving to slide over her delicate temple, “I have been released from his service, and I wanted the first words I spoke to be the ones that told you how I felt.”

“And you did not . . . that whole time, you never spoke. Even when . . . even . . .” Her voice trailed off as she remembered him bound against the chaise in the gazebo, how he’d fought and struggled, and yet had never said a word. Though he could have.

A man who would keep his vow under such duress . . . She shivered, remembering how she’d wronged him and weakened him.

“I nearly did,” he said, and his lips moved against her skin so she knew he was smiling again. “But I focused on the day when I’d be able to tell you all, and then I . . .” He stopped, pressed a kiss against her cheek. “You nearly destroyed me, Haydée. I couldn’t make you understand that my honor rested on my service to Monte Cristo. . . . I couldn’t take from him. I would not have been able to live with myself if I had.”

“I’m sorry I forced you,” she said. “I regretted it almost the moment it was over.”

“I know. I could see it in your face, but I was angry, and I wanted you to know that you’d hurt me. But I never stopped loving you.”

“And now . . . you are free to go?”

“Yes. His Excellency has released me. I may go back to my people, or I may stay and work with him. Not as a servant, but as an equal.”

“He has finished his business here in Paris, then,” Haydée said, smoothing her hand over the planes of his chest, gently tickling the tight whorls of black hair there.

“Yes. Tomorrow, he says, shall be the last of it, and then he will be free to go.”

“Go where?”

Ali shrugged against her, his arms squeezing her tight. “I do not know, and I’m not certain he does either.”

“I have known him for nearly a decade, and I’ve never known him to be uncertain or indecisive of anything,” she said sadly. For now that she’d found her completion, she felt more aware of her master’s deficits. “But I think you are right. He has lived with nothing but his drive for vengeance for so long. I don’t think he knows how to live without it. He is a very unhappy man. And I think the one person who would make him happy . . .”

“The Comtesse Morcerf?” Ali said, smoothing his hand along her hip. “Yes, perhaps . . . yet I don’t believe he is ready to be happy yet. At least, as happy as I am.” His fingers slipped around to find the hot juncture between her legs. “No, indeed. It is my pleasure now to partake of all of those treasures you so boldly flaunted, and freely shared, nearly to my undoing. I love you, Haydée.”

"I love you, Ali.”

SEVENTEEN

Mercédès crouched in the small garden, pulling up the tenacious weeds that had taken over the plot during the last decade of neglect. June was too late to start many of the plants she liked, but there was still time to plant tarragon and sage seeds, both of which grew quickly, if she could clear out a sunny area in this small, fenced-in yard. Much of it was shaded by olive and oak trees, or by the house on one side, and the tall wood-plank fence that was meant to keep the deer and rabbits from feasting on tender seedlings.

A new shadow fell across the rich Marseille soil, sending Mercédès twisting around and back onto her heels. She had to shield her face against the sun to look up at him.

It wasn’t Albert—he had left two days ago to enlist in the army, refusing to use any of the fortune that had passed to him upon Fernand’s death. Like Mercédès, he would rather create his own life than take something from such a man. He even disdained his father’s name, opting to take Herrera, Mercédès’ surname, for his own.

No, it wasn’t Albert standing over her. Even though the bright stream of sun shadowed the details of his face, she knew those shoulders, that proud bearing. Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach plunged. “Edmond.”

His boots rested on the stone path behind her, scuffed and worn, spread apart as if he needed stability and power in his stance. “Mercédès.” He said her name as if he’d saved it forever and then suddenly needed to feel it on his tongue. Softly, tentatively.

Surprise and apprehension had leached her mouth dry, and she swallowed hard. Certainly, she had expected some response from him in regard to the letter she’d sent after he ordered her from his residence in Paris—a summons, perhaps, which she would have ignored . . . but she hadn’t thought the powerful, aloof Count of Monte Cristo would travel to her. To her poor, little cottage in Marseille—even if it had once belonged to his father and been left to her upon his death.

It was just as well that the sun blinded her when she looked up at him; it made it easier for her to remain cool and unaffected. She didn’t want to see his face, to remember the angles of his cheeks, the fullness of his beautiful lips, the depth of his hot gaze. It would make her too weak, too susceptible.

“You received my letter,” she said by way of response, closing her fingers around a stubborn chicory plant to tug it from the soil. The flowers were good for steeping into a coffee, and also for stomach ailments . . . but this was not the location she wanted it to grow, for it was greedy and would take over the garden.

“Yes.” His voice was careful, as if afraid to reveal too much. “Mercédès.” This time, it was a plea, a gentle one, beckoning. “I—” He broke off, shaking his head as if to clear it.

And then he moved toward her, reaching down to pull her to her feet, soil-dampened skirt, muddy fingers, chicory plant, and all. “Mercédès,” he said as if he would never tire of doing so, drawing her into his arms . . . and,
oh, Dios
, she let him. She ignored her sense, her head, her logic, her grief and anger . . . and she allowed herself to be folded up into his arms, deep into his embrace.

Her legs were stiff and weak from crouching, but he held her against his strong body and she drew in the smell of him— the one of cardamom and cinnamon and musk and, faintly, of Edmond and lemon trees, and the salt of the sea.

Or perhaps that was only her memory of him.

She closed her eyes as his mouth found hers, knowing that her upper lip was salty and moist from the sun’s heat, aware that her hands and the dirt clinging to the roots of the chicory would soil his tailored wool coat, but unwilling to give this up . . . this moment.

For after, she would have to face the truth, and her future. But for now . . . now it was Edmond again, his mouth so firm and hungry over her own eager lips. She closed her eyes against the blazing sun, seeing its bright remnants in blue spots on the insides of her lids as strong hands crushed her against a tall, powerful body. One that had haunted her, one that had taken from her and challenged her and teased her.

Edmond
.

She couldn’t say his name aloud, couldn’t allow that intimacy. But she kissed him back, accepting the strong swipe of his tongue as it thrust deeply into her mouth, and dancing her own around it until he groaned against her. She touched his hair, sliding her hands through it, her fingers warm from the sun, feeling the neatness of his skull beneath her touch.

Before she knew it, the blinding sun had given way to shade, and the rough bark of a tree was behind her, catching on her hair, which she’d braided and pinned into a coil at her nape. The world of seedlings, soil, and sun had slid away to one of slick heat and rising desire, the fumble of fingers at the back of her gown, smooth and strong over the bare skin above it, and the heavy pressure between her thighs.

She leaned to him again, her nose buried in the warmth of his neck, drawing him in once more, tasting his salty skin while the back of her gown fell open under his hands. Her breasts were tight and ready when he slid his hands around to touch them, shoving down beneath the confines of the corset she’d begun to wear more loosely now that she had no one to impress, lifting them out so he could feel them and rub his thumbs against rigid nipples. Her dress fell to her hips and she felt the ruthless tugs at the back of her stays, and they eased and sagged, and then she was there in her shift. . . . There in her little private garden at the cottage in Marseille, she was kissing Edmond . . . Monte Cristo . . . Sinbad . . . and tearing at his clothes.

They were on the ground then, beneath the tree and tumbling over its thrusting roots, mouths clashing and hands seeking, suddenly skin to skin from muscular, haired legs to soft, round shoulders. There was no holding back this time, no game, no teasing or taunting. . . . She moaned when he found her breast with his mouth, sucking gently, erotically on her nipple, slipping around it with his strong tongue as his other hand traced the curve of her bottom. He moved again and pushed her gently down onto the uneven ground, the shady grass cool beneath her skin, the top of her head brushing against the base of the tree.

His hands smoothed from her breasts to her hips, and his mouth followed, soft and worshipful over her belly, which shuddered delicately under his light touch. The heat of his breath warmed her, and as he drew nearer to her quim, she arched up, lifting to him, her breathing heavy and urgent as she looked up at the spread of leaves and small green apples.

She read the way he touched her, the apology, the tenderness in his fingers and the steady, firm sampling of his lips as they moved along the inner parts of her thighs, sucking gently, tasting her warm skin. She twisted and sighed against his hands, shivering and needing, wet and ready. So ready. Ripe and swollen . . . and when his tongue found her tight pip, flicking hard against it, Mercédès gripped his shoulders hard and surged up into his mouth.

He sucked on her little pearl, sliding his tongue under it, darting in and out and around, driving her mad with the swirling, building pleasure focused there in that tiny, needy place. She writhed and cried, the lovely soft spiral of lust sharpening and unfurling into full-blown pleasure, billowing and growing and rising until he gave one last deep, long,
strong
draw, holding her there at the precipice until at last she spilled over, crying and shaking and moaning beneath him.