Master

by Colette Gale

  Monte Cristo was silent for a moment, and then he stepped down onto the second stair. “Perhaps . . . perhaps if you were to offer me one,” he said, suggestion heavy in his voice.

  She snapped a glance at him, but his face was inscrutable. His leg blocked half of the light from the lantern, so even though he was closer to her now, he was still in shadow. “Perhaps if you were a bit closer, I might be able to do so,” she replied evenly. Her heart ramrodded in her chest at her boldness.

  He stepped onto the ground, and they were facing each other. “Is this better?”

  The tug, the rush of sensation from his proximity made the night air feel warm and cloying. Mercédès slowly raised her arm, a grape held firmly between her thumb and forefinger, and concentrated on keeping her hand from trembling. He was so close, so tall and forbidding, and he smelled of some exotic, spicy scent. And he was distant, yet . . . she felt a sense of deep, driving purpose simmering beneath his words and actions.

  Suddenly, his hand reached out and captured her wrist in midair. The heaviness between them shattered into bright tension. “Take off your gloves, madam. I’ve no wish to taste cotton.”

  His grip was solid and firm, his fingers wrapping easily around her narrow wrist, and then deliberately flinging it from their grip as if disdainful of the modest covering. She looked up at him, annoyed, and hesitated.

  “As your esteemed guest, I wish you to remove your gloves, Comtesse Morcerf,” he said. “I dislike hand coverings immensely, particularly when they are touching food of which I am presumed to partake.”

  The request was a small thing, yet stubbornness lengthened her spine. Her lips firmed and she said, “Edm—”

  “How long have you and that young whelp been lovers?” his biting voice cut into her words. “Salieux.”

  She was so startled by his question that she smashed the grape between her fingers. Its juice stained the gloves, seeping through to her skin. She ignored it then, trying to read the expression in his face, for the question—the timing, the tone, the topic—gave him away. Confirmed what she knew. It was Edmond who stood before her, her lost love. And he remembered her.

  “So long that you cannot recall?” he pursued in a soft, coaxing voice. “Or one among many so that you cannot remember when one ended and another began?”

  “You are mistaken,” she replied, steady and controlled. He was trying to get a rise from her, and she would refuse it. “Salieux and I are not lovers.”

  “And now you lie to your guest. You cannot deny that you have welcomed him into your bed, Comtesse Morcerf. The evidence is there for all to see. The way he touches you, the expression on his face when he looks at you.”

  “Why,” she countered, feeling stronger now, on a steadier path, “is it of such concern to you, Your Excellency?”

  He seemed to withdraw slightly, yet he made no move to step back. “Because I do not share, Comtesse Morcerf. Although, apparently, your husband does.”

  Her mouth dried instantly and her gaze sharpened, caught by his harsh one. “My husband does not—”

  “I have already requested that you remove your gloves, madam,” he said, suddenly snatching at her wrist again. His fingers closed around it, pressing the little pearl buttons angrily into her tender skin. “Twice. Why do you continue to offend me?”

  And with that, he adjusted his grip and stripped off the juice-stained glove, sending it whipping to the ground. “Where is the grape you wished to feed me?”

  She realized she was still holding the bunch in her other still-gloved hand, and when he released her wrist, she plucked one of the small grapes from it with her bare fingers. It was smooth and cool, and she held it up in front of him. Looking up she found his dark eyes trained on her, and although it was too dark to read them, she sensed mockery in his entire demeanor.

  “Here,” she said, stepping closer and raising the grape to his mouth. “Crisp and sweet and clean.”

  Instead of opening his lips to take it, Monte Cristo curved them into a sardonic smile. He caught her wrist again, and brought her even closer. She stumbled slightly, her feet skittering against his heavier ones, and she felt the push of her skirts as they bumped against his legs. Her heart was racing again, and she brought the hand with the bunch of grapes up between them.

  “I believe I’d rather watch you partake,” he said. “I have no appetite. For food.”

  Mercédès allowed him to bring her fingers with the grape back to her mouth, and felt the warm brush of his hand against her chin as the fruit touched her lips. She opened them and the grape slipped in as Monte Cristo released her wrist. But he didn’t move away; and she realized that her other hand had twisted and was now flush against the lapel of his coat, the cluster of fruit dangling between them.

  She bit into the grape and the juice exploded over her tongue. He watched as she chewed, the expression on his face leaving no doubt as to what he was thinking. Mercédès swallowed and stepped back, suddenly unsure and discomfited.

  He gave a short, sharp laugh and reached for her arm. “You needn’t play coy with me,” he said, his fingers closing firmly around her. He gave a little tug and she stumbled again, dropping the cluster of grapes and falling against him. His arms went around her, and his mouth crashed down on hers as he pulled her flush to his body.

  She didn’t push him away.

  Her hands faltered for a moment, fluttering, then settled on the tops of his warm shoulders, moving up to touch the ends of his hair. His mouth wasn’t gentle or tender, nor did he bother to coax her response. He took from her with a driving tongue, strong and deep and sweeping, and agile lips that fitted and moved around hers. His teeth scraped the edges of her mouth, the sensitive corners, as if he intended to swallow her whole, and Mercédès found herself hardly able to catch her breath.

  And it was furious. There was an underlying anger and roughness in him, in the way his fingers curled into her arms and manner in which he pulled her up against his hips, shifting her so that she nearly straddled his thigh there, standing in the garden.

  At last Monte Cristo released her mouth and raised his face. He was breathing heavily, his eyes dark and shadowed. His lips were parted, but firm and straight, as if flexed in annoyance. And he tilted his head, mocking her. “You must be gratified now, madam, for your intent has been accomplished.”

  Mercédès could only stare up at him, confused by his statement and still disconcerted and light-headed from the kiss. He released her and she took a reflexive step back.

  “You wished for me to taste the grapes,” he said. “And so I have.”

  She licked her lips, but every bit of sweetness from the fruit was gone. He stared at her, and she at last gathered back a semblance of control, even though her fingers were trembling. “What do you want?”

  “I should think it is quite clear by now, Comtesse Morcerf.”

  If this was Edmond—and it had to be—he had become much more cruel and harsh than the man she’d known. Just in these last few moments here in the garden, gone too was the debonair, calm and controlled Count of Monte Cristo. The man who stood before her was a cold mercenary with anger in his face and arrogance in his voice.

  He was dangerous, and yet Mercédès couldn’t leave. She craved more of him, more of the man she loved—or had once loved. And that kiss had only been a taste. A sampling.

  No more than a grape, when she wanted the whole cluster.

  “My God,” he said in quiet shock, his gaze intent. He reached for her more slowly this time, and she came easily into his embrace. The arms that banded around her were sturdy and strong, not bruising or confining.

  She raised her face and met his lips, and they were softer this time. Not yet gentle, but firm and quick. Their mouths fitted together, tongues dancing and sliding hot and slick, her hands burrowing into the thick hair at the back of his head. He made a quiet, deep sound in his throat and smoothed his hands down her spine under her buttocks to pull her up against his erection. The pierce of lust
in her belly had Mercédès pressing back against him, shifting her hips against the lovely hard cock many layers of clothing away.

  Suddenly, he lifted her against him, her skirts bunching and spilling every which way, and she felt him moving, jouncing her against his body as he climbed the two steps into the gazebo, their mouths still fused together.

  In the shadows, darker from the grapevines hanging over the openings of the small structure, Monte Cristo wasted no time. He let her slide down his body until her feet were on the floor, and then he spun her around, away from him, so quickly that she stumbled against his feet. He steadied her, his firm hands on her shoulders. Then he was sweeping them down the front of her throat and pulling roughly at the low, sweeping neckline of her gown. His fingers were cool and strong, sliding down beneath the lace that edged her bodice as he bent his face to nuzzle roughly at the tendon on her neck.

  Mercédès sagged gratefully against his solid chest, tipping her head back and opening her shoulders so that he could find her nipples beneath the bones of her corset. She reached behind to finger through his hair, but he jerked, pulling his head away so that her hands brushed against his smooth cheek, and then fell back to her sides.

  His lips were on her shoulder, his tongue warm and slick over the hollow of her collarbone, his hands rough and questing down the front of her bodice. He forced his hands between the boning and her flesh, tightening the corset around her torso as he slid his fingers to the undersides of her breasts. A thumb came up from beneath and stroked over her painfully hard nipple, sending more frissons of desire jetting to the center of her belly, and lower.

  With another sharp movement, as though he had no patience, he yanked his hands free and gave her a little push. Mercédès lurched forward, putting a bit of space between them . . . and then she felt quick, impatient movements at the back of her gown, undoing the buttons there with sharp jerks.

  “Edm—” She gasped, holding her bodice to her breasts.

  “I am Monte Cristo,” he snarled, with a particularly vicious tug at her stays. They loosened and Mercédès felt the breath of late-spring air over her skin, bared by a sagging gown and loosened corset.

  Her heart was racing, her hands damp and her breathing rough as he yanked at her clothes, those large, warm hands moving over her skin and the fabric that covered it. She could do nothing but stand there like a doll being undressed, facing away from him and staring into the darkness. Feeling him strip away her clothing . . . and her discretion.

  Suddenly, she felt the whole weight of her gown against her hands, and the shift of her corset and loosening of her chemise as they fell away from her breasts. She was naked from the waist up, except where she held the last bit of bodice to her breasts— all of her clothing settled around her hips. Monte Cristo moved his hands to her shoulders and twisted her around, then gently but firmly pulled her hands away and looked down at her. Her breasts, bare and proud in the darkness, could hardly be visible, but he found one easily, sliding his hand around to cup it, to tease her nipple again as he stepped closer to her.

  Mercédès realized he was moving her backward, and she felt the hard edge of a bench behind her. Before she quite knew what was happening, he grasped her by the waist and lifted her onto the bench.

  Her gown slid down farther, caught at her thighs and under his booted foot, and she gave a soft shriek. “No,” she said, trying to hold up the last bit of her chemise.

  “Ah, but yes, madam, I think so,” he said, now looking up at her, where she perched on the bench, her face just above him. His face was barely visible in the darkness, but she could see a hint of his cheekbone and the unsmiling set of his lips, the thick curl of hair and the faint outline of broad shoulders.

  Her hand rested on his shoulder and she closed her eyes as he tugged ruthlessly at the froth of lace and skirts and crinolines that billowed between them. She felt the warmth of him beneath his jacket, and the brush of hair against the back of her hand, the smooth stroke of his fingers as they moved up along her belly and the sides of her torso.

  She was, suddenly, unbelievably, naked except for her stockings, standing on the bench of the gazebo in front of him. Somewhere next to her or below was the complicated froth of her gown and underthings, and . . . she didn’t care at the moment, for he’d stepped closer to draw one of her nipples into his mouth.

  Pleasure arched through her, forcing her eyes closed. On the bench above, Mercédès sagged against him, her hips against his chest, as he swirled his tongue around the taut tip of her nipple, playing sensuously over it, as if, suddenly, he had all night. Her body seemed to hum under his touch; she felt the gathering of desire tighten in her belly and twinge down to her core with every stroke of his tongue. Oh, yes.

  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.