Master

by Colette Gale

  She smiled against his throat, tasting salt and dark, hot skin . . . feeling the rampant surge of blood coursing through the veins there, the tension in the long tendon at his neck, and the low rumbling deep in his chest. He didn’t touch her again; she could tell that his hands sort of hung helplessly above her body, as if afraid to reach for her for fear of what they would do.

  “I want to be with you, Ali,” she murmured, lifting her face above his. The light was filtering in more strongly from the window, and she could better see his expression: set and still as marble, lips pursed tightly and chin raised as he half turned away. “And it’s obvious that you want me.”

  He angled his face as far as he could, his eyes closing, his mouth tighter, and shook his head slightly. No.

  Though he didn’t speak, she could feel the negation—the false, desperate negation—in his body language.

  “Yes, Ali,” she murmured, and she began to slide down his body, lifting her hips in the air and inching her breasts, shoulders, and face along his sternum to the rippled belly below. He was hot and sharp-planed and hard—a quivering mass of rock-firm muscle, salty and faintly moist, tense and dark.

  He bunched up beneath her as she drew closer to the massive cock she crushed into his belly with the weight of her torso, and she smiled again and paused to look at him, enjoying the feel of his erection hot and firm beneath her.

  Seeming to gather himself up, he made quick, jerky motions with his hands. No. You belong to him.

  Haydée sat back on his hips, settling onto the tops of his thighs. The head of his cock poked out from where it was trapped beneath her bare sex, and she gave a smooth little move, sliding gently over it in the smallest of motions. The soft sound of wet suction, of bodies shifting against each other, sent a stronger thrill of desire zinging to her swollen pip. Ali’s throat convulsed and he closed his eyes again.

  Haydée, you belong to my master.

  “He doesn’t want me that way, Ali,” she said in a low voice, serene in her control.

  Yes, you’ve been with him. Tonight.

  She shook her head and said, “Look at me, Ali.”

  He reluctantly opened his eyes, but she couldn’t read what was there. Her only clues were the way he held his body so rigid it must be ready to shatter, and the irregular hitch of his chest every few breaths.

  I will not take what is not mine. His signing was sharp and angry, his large hands whipping through the air, smacking and snapping together with vehemence. I may be a slave, but I have honor.

  “Yes, I was with him tonight.”

  He demanded you when he returned. I saw the look on his face. He needed a woman.

  “Yes, he did. And I went to him willingly, just as I have in the past. He asked me to run a bath for him, and he ordered me to remove my clothing.”

  Ali stared at her, his eyes unblinking, his smooth, hairless head shining in the slowly growing light. He licked his thick lips, and another wave of lust coursed down from her belly to her sex. She shifted, and he caught his breath.

  She lifted her hands and cupped her breasts, and his lips parted. He breathed heavily.

  Perhaps this was a better approach. “I stripped in front of him and waited for his next instruction,” she said, keeping her voice low and hypnotic. “Then, as I watched, he seemed to dissolve from the cool, correct man we all know to . . . someone else. It was as if he’d released his control, and allowed his real emotions to come through. His hands began to tremble and the expression on his face became stark and cold. Furious.” In contrast to her serious words, she plucked at one of her nipples, then began to toy with it. It grew harder, the skin around it wrinkling tightly.

  “He was murmuring things I couldn’t understand, as I stood there, naked, and the bath streamed into the tub behind us.”

  What did he say?

  Ali was staring at her breasts, watching her play with them. She licked a thumb and forefinger, and then brought them to her nipple, sliding them around. His cock gave a little surge beneath her, and she shifted in response. Ali groaned and closed his eyes again. His huge hands had fallen to the pile of cushions above his head, palms up, fingers curled helplessly. The golden bands at his wrists gleamed in the dark.

  “I could understand very little. He stared into the darkness, out over the city, his hands opening and closing at his sides. When he finally turned back to me, after I had said his name many times, he called me to come to him. ‘Unclothe me,’ he ordered.”

  Now she licked her fingers again—the tips of four of them— and slid them down to cup her quim, slipping them through the juices that coated the top of his cock. Ali swallowed hard.

  You are his slave. You belong to him. His signing was weaker now; it was more difficult to read.

  “I unclothed him,” she continued, aware that her own breathing was unsteady. It was no hardship for her to stroke herself with flat fingers trapped between her sex and his. Back and forth, slippery and slick, around that hard little pip ready to be released.

  “I unclothed him,” she said again, “and I knelt before him. His cock was hard, Ali . . . but not so beautiful as this one here. Not so long and thick and ready,” she said, shifting so that she slid off his hips and onto the makeshift bed beside him. Freed, the erection lifted from his belly and Haydée closed her fingers around it, slipping in her own generous wetness. Ali gasped and shuddered, and she moved her hand up and down, up and down, quickly and firmly, watching his mouth open in shock. One of his hands flailed in the air toward her, but it was too late—three strokes, and the zip of juices traveled wildly up along his cock, under her tight fingers, then spurted onto his dark belly as he jerked and cried out.

  Ali lay there, shuddering. Delighted with her success, and curious, Haydee bent forward and lapped up the sticky white puddle, tasting salt and something altogether masculine . . . an experience that gave her great pleasure.

  Go away. He’d caught his breath and his head sagged to the side, but his hands spoke. You’ve gotten what you came for. Now leave.

  “I touched his cock, and he flinched,” she said, ignoring Ali’s pleading. “Not like you . . . no, he turned away the moment I touched it. He snapped at me, told me to get up from my knees.” Haydée spread her fingers wide and smoothed them from his belly up to the planes of his pectoral muscles and over his shoulders. “He doesn’t want me that way, Ali.”

  Perhaps that is true now. But he will change his mind.

  “If he does not take what I have so blatantly offered now, why would he change his mind?” she murmured, her face hovering above his. Her breasts hung over his chest, high above the tiny whorls of black hair sparsely scattered over it.

  He can think of nothing but vengeance now. Later . . .

  “Vengeance?” She bent forward and kissed him on the chin, letting her nipples brush his chest. They were tight and hard, and the demand between her legs had not ceased, but she was no longer in a rush.

  On four men and a woman. That is why he looks at no other woman until he has flushed her from his mind.

  “He needed release, but he wouldn’t allow me to give it to him. I think . . . he took the matter into his own hands, for he bathed alone and I was ordered to sit and wait.” Haydée cupped Ali’s head between her hands, suddenly and fiercely, and turned it toward her. Then she lowered her mouth to his.

  He was tense at first, but suddenly it was as if desire—or curiosity—won out. Ali softened his thick lips, covering hers with them and molding his mouth to hers. His tongue was strong and demanding, scoring the inside of her mouth as though he couldn’t get enough of her taste. She closed her eyes, releasing his face and planting her hands on his chest, where she could feel the rampant beat of his heart and the heat from his flesh.

  He kept his hands away, though, as if afraid to touch her. She mauled his mouth, tightening her thighs around his torso, biting and licking and sucking at those thick, fleshy lips, imagining what it would be like to have them eating at her quim, soft and fu
ll and wet. She groaned into his mouth, pressing the moisture of her throbbing sex down into his belly, grinding there as she smashed her mouth against his.

  At last, he pulled violently away, pushing at her, breathing heavily, and she felt the prod of his cock at the base of her back. Panting, Haydée smiled down at him, and he looked away. She knew he could toss her off, push her aside with the mere flick of his hands . . . but he didn’t. Instead, the massive man beneath her looked weary and beaten and vulnerable. His hands fell back onto the floor above his head again.

  She reached a hand down to her quim and swiped three fingers through the drippings there. “When he climbed out of the bath, he called me over to him again,” she said, bringing her glistening fingers near his face. Ali’s eyes were closed, but they opened and his nostrils widened as he drew in her smell. “He lay on the bed and ordered me to use an oil to massage his skin.”

  Her fingers were close to Ali’s mouth, and she gently drew them across the half parting of his soft lips. He opened them, and she slipped a finger into the warm wet, and when he gave a long, hard suck, she gasped in surprise. His tongue swirled around as though to lick off every bit of her dusky juices, making Haydée’s head feel light and her belly tighter than ever. Her pip bulged, saturated in her wetness, and she pressed down into his taut belly with a little grunt. Not much longer, she knew.

  She was breathy as she spoke again. “I smoothed my hands over his shoulders and back . . . but they weren’t as broad as these.” She’d pulled her finger from his mouth with a little pop of suction and trailed her hands over the expanse of his pectorals and collarbone, over the width of his upper arms. “Not dark and rich like these,” she murmured. “When I touched his body, I thought only of yours, Ali. The warmth of your gleaming skin, the bulge of your muscles, the ripples in your skin. Your cock buried in me—”

  Suddenly, she was on her back, slammed to the cushions. His fingers were like bands over her wrists, clamping them to the ground on either side of her hips.

  With a rough knee, he shoved her thighs apart, spreading them and showing her dripping, glistening sex. It throbbed even harder, now that it was open and free, and he knelt between her legs. Using his hands, he gripped her wrists and closed his long fingers over her thighs, pinning her there unnecessarily—for she had no desire to move.

  With a smooth motion, he buried his face in her quim, those thick lips eating at her swollen labia just as she’d imagined. Haydée gave a little scream and arched her back, trying to shove herself closer to his mouth, wanting him to jiggle her little pip, aching and pounding.

  His tongue snaked inside her, then flipped up on the underside of her sex and teased it, working it quickly and expertly until she reached the peak and tumbled over in a mass of shivers and throbs.

  Ali pulled his wet face away from her body, slowly releasing her hands and sitting back on his haunches. His cock was proud and long, straight out from his thighs. He looked at her a long moment, and then signed, I’ll not take what belongs to my master. It is his right as long as he owns you. Now go, or I will throw you out myself.

  Haydée struggled to her feet, still quivering and warm and sated. She walked by Ali and then stopped, standing next to his hunched body. Her hands rested on his broad shoulders from behind, and she bent to quickly give him a kiss on his smooth head. “I’ll change your mind, Ali. Never fear.”

  EIGHT

  At the Theater

  The next morning

  Paris

  Mercédès stood in a cascade of water, and it poured down on her, hot and pounding over her shoulders and on the sensitive tips of her nipples. She raised her face and let the waterfall prickle against her cheeks and lips, and she smoothed her wet hair over the top of her head, feeling it slap against her back.

  Suddenly, large tanned hands slipped around her waist, pulling her back up against a solid chest . . . and a thrusting cock, prodding below the crack of her ass. With a sigh, she rested back against his solid chest and felt wet, hot kisses on her bare shoulder as his hands moved up to cover her breasts.

  She turned her head under the spray of water to see Edmond behind her, his handsome face taut with desire, young and lean, his lips full and moist from the cascade. As she looked at him, he merged into the older, harsher Monte Cristo, his hands pinging her nipples, making the sensation sing down into her belly.

  Her desire rising, mingling with the steam, she tried to turn to face him, but a second pair of hands appeared, sliding over her shoulders to tangle in her sopping hair, and another tall, dark-haired figure was suddenly before her. Sinbad bent forward to kiss her mouth before she could protest, and she felt the bristle of his short beard and mustache as he fit his lips to hers, hands gripping her shoulders, molding his long body to hers.

  Trapped, crushed, between them, Mercédès felt every inch of her body pressing into hard muscle and warm flesh. Between the beat of water, and the rise of steam, she could see little. Everything was a maelstrom of sensation: teeth nibbling gently beneath her ear, strong hands over the front of her nipples, fingertips tracing tiny little circles on them that made her squirm . . . sensual lips molding to her mouth, fitting, pulling, tasting . . . long legs behind hers, a cock raging against her from behind . . . and another one teasing at the front of her sex.

  Mercédès tried to pull away, to escape from the delicious torture, but Sinbad held her shoulders while Monte Cristo cupped her breasts, their strong arms embracing her so tightly she could barely catch her breath. Wet flesh slipped and slid against hot, wet flesh, smooth curves crushed against firm, ropy muscle, limbs tangled and bent, her long black hair plastered everywhere.

  Then Sinbad, with his dark-lined eyes and smooth, queued hair, pulled out of the kiss, and she drew in a deep sigh, struggling to push him away, hands splayed on his bare, smooth chest . . . but Monte Cristo caught at her wrists, and pulled them behind her back, holding them there with one strong hand as Sinbad knelt before her.

  The water rained down, choking her as she opened her mouth to protest—or perhaps to sigh her pleasure—as firm fingers drew her thighs apart. Sinbad bent to her swollen pearl, his hands cupping the underside of her thighs as her knees buckled. She thrust herself toward his face, arching back into Monte Cristo’s chest.

  Sinbad licked all around, teasing her sex with his flat, warm tongue as Monte Cristo released her hands to return his own to fondling her breasts. He lifted them, pointing the nipples straight up into the cascade of water, holding them there, squeezing them, and she twitched, her hips moving as she felt Sinbad’s tongue suddenly drive deeply into her quim. The incessant vibration of water over her nipples, the wringing of tongue in and out and around her sex rolled through her body, coiling and building and swelling unbearably.

  Her hands fluttered around until they rested on the smooth hair of the sailor, who sucked at her pearl as the water pounded down on her . . . hard and strong and firm, he sucked, and drew that little pip into his mouth as if he would swallow it. She moaned and writhed and thrashed there, held firmly in place by four strong hands as the steam clogged her nose and the water filled her mouth, and at last, with one long, rhythmic draw, Sinbad tipped her over the edge into a burst of release . . . and she shuddered and sighed and sagged between them. . . .

  Mercédès woke from the dream to find her sex throbbing gently, and her quim wet and slippery. She was breathing heavily, her heart pounding as though the two men had really been there. Her nipples thrust up into the blankets, sensitive to her slightest movement, as if they had actually been showered upon.

  She swallowed and closed her eyes, reveling in the remnants of one of the most realistic, passionate dreams she’d ever experienced. The easy satisfaction stayed with her for a moment longer, and then it was gone when she remembered the events of last night’s dinner party. And when she opened her eyes again, a dull gray light filtered through her bedroom window, matching her thoughts—thoughts that had plagued her until she fell into a restless sleep as the sun
had begun to light the horizon.

  An ugly feeling gnawed deep in her belly as she lay there, contemplating the pale green silk hanging on the ceiling above. She’d had no right to allow Georges to pleasure her in that way, not when she was enraptured with another man—deplorable as that other man had been.

  Her throat was dry, and it crackled when she swallowed. She’d been wrong to take Georges into the garden—although, in her defense, she hadn’t intended for things to go as far as they had. She’d truly only meant for Monte Cristo to see that she would defy him, that he would have no control over her.

  After all, he’d left her body primed and ready for sensual touch . . . although it wasn’t Georges’ doing, and she should never have let him kneel in front of her and burrow under her gown. Their relationship could go no further, now that Monte Cristo had come to town.

  For, much as she’d like to ignore him and his presence, Mercédès realized that until whatever needed to be resolved between them was put to bed—whatever burned in him so that he felt the need to torture and humiliate her as he had—she had no right to engage with any other man. No right to allow someone else to cloud what she was trying to understand.

  And, in truth, there was no other man who’d made her quiver and come alive the way Monte Cristo had done last night—and not in her dreams and fantasies, but for real. In the gazebo.

  She’d responded to him readily, immediately, as if her passion had never sunk far beneath the surface and was released as easily as a pin popped a bubble. No one else had ever made her feel that intense pleasure, that rightness . . . .

  Except . . .

  Mercédès stopped, a chill washing over her body.

  Except Sinbad.