by Colette Gale
Her eyes closed as she gave herself up to the familiar sensations shooting through her, curling in her middle, and twinging between her legs. The warm, slick stroke of his tongue and the urgent scrape of his teeth; soft, molding lips by turns sensual and coaxing to tight and harsh. The heat from his body and the scrape of wool sleeve over her delicate skin, the smell of Edmond mixed with that of Monte Cristo: slightly smoky and musky and citrusy, tinged with the aroma of wool and starch.
His leg pressed between hers, parting her thighs beneath the scads of fabric from her gown and crinolines, pushing boldly into the softness of her quim. Mercédès moaned softly against his mouth as she increased the pressure against his thigh, shifting her hips slightly in a little rhythm. Her head tipped back, the top of her coiffure catching in the rough plaster of the wall as he moved to kiss the generous expanse of skin exposed by her low bodice.
Warm, soft lips nuzzled into the hollows of her throat as he gathered her up closer, his knee sliding deeper between her legs, burrowing into the froth of skirts, her feet now on tiptoes as she kept her balance.
Edmond.
This was Edmond; this was how he had made her feel, how he had made her body hot and tight and needy.
When he tugged at the line of her bodice with impatient fingers, Mercédès battled herself back to reality, pulling from the deep place filled with strokes and licks and nibbles, and forced her eyes open. There was no one about. The area was dimly lit and quiet but for the gentle rasp of their breathing and the rustle of clothing.
Though her brain was fuzzy, and her body cried to be released—undressed, skin to skin with the man before her, filled and stroked and wooed until it peaked—she remembered what had happened last time. And the thought of being left half clothed in a theater was a chilling effect that helped to clear her mind.
Opening her eyes, she saw the top of his dark head as his tongue slipped down into the warm cleft between her breasts, followed by the gentle bite of his lips on the inside of her cleavage. Her nipples were hard, surging under the confines of her corset, and Mercédès gave a little shrug so that they would brush up, over it.
Then she reached boldly for the placket on his trousers, smoothing her hands under his coat and over the stiff brocade waistcoat beneath. Monte Cristo startled at her movement, but when she found her way beneath the long tails of his shirt to the hot skin and rough hair, he pulled back, straightening in front of her. His knee edged out from under her throbbing sex, relieving some of the pressure there and sending a little chill over her body from the loss of his warmth.
But Mercédès’ hands were busy down in the heat inside his trousers, and as her fingers came together over his flat belly and the indent of his navel, she reached up to kiss the side of his neck. Musky warm and salty, rough from the beginnings of stubble, and starchy-smelling from the crisp folds of his neckcloth, it was that frightening combination of Edmond Dantès, Sinbad, and Monte Cristo. She shoved her hands farther in, bringing him closer to her so that their bodies were nearly flush again. Combing her nails through the wiry hair that grew thick, and then down and around to cup the heavy, burning cock straining there.
He gave a quiet sigh, nearly a moan, and she swore she felt him surge in her hands. Blindly, she pulled apart his trousers so that her movements weren’t restricted, and as her fingers slid along that glorious length of cock, over the bold veins and velvet skin, she found the softness of its head. With a little squeeze there in the warmth of his trousers, she pulled back the skin and traced the edge of that head, over the most delicate veins there beneath, and felt him gathering up beneath her touch . . . felt the little sticky drip from his cock’s tip, and the tensing of muscles in his powerful thighs as she pressed against them, and the little sizzle as his seed moved up along the pounding erection.
If she had doubted his response to her before, she no longer did. Mercédès wanted nothing more than to drop to her knees in front of him, and take that long red-and-purple cock into her mouth and suck until he begged for mercy . . . shouted her name and admitted who he was . . . .
Her own sex was wet and ready, and her breasts tight beneath his hands, which had at some point begun to crush them behind her corset and gown. Their mouths met and she kept her fingers close around him, stroking arhythmically, unwilling to let him go, to release him, loving the feel of that solid cock in her hands . . . and knowing she held it, and him, in her control.
She cleared her mind again, remembered who she was, where she was . . . who she was with. She tightened her fingers around him and paused. Pulled away from his mouth enough to whisper, “By all that is right and fair, I should end this now.”
He stilled beneath her, then captured her mouth again, holding her head with both hands. Grinding his lips against hers, he forced hers open in a rough, angry kiss—at once acknowledging her statement, and forcing her to respond with her own passion.
Mercédès kissed him back—she could never refuse it—and kept her hands tightly over his cock as it swelled and throbbed in the heat. She pulled her face away, looking up into his countenance, dark with shadows and fury, and said, “But I won’t.”
And she gave two sharp tugs on his ripe cock, felt him gasp and then shudder in an unexpected release. He surged in her grip and the hot, sticky seed splurged over her hands and into his drawers. She swiped her fingers over his shirttails and stepped away, breathing heavy, her body still humming, but satisfied, knowing she’d one-upped him here.
“Good evening, Your Excellency,” she said in a cool voice. “I do hope you got what you came for.”
And she turned, sedately and regally, and walked away . . . every hair in place, every inch the lady.
NINE
In the Bedchamber
Later that evening
Paris
After her little tête-à-tête with Monte Cristo, Mercédès returned to her theater box without an escort. Ignoring Fernand’s annoyed glare when she entered the box, she sat through the rest of the play. Though her eyes were fixed on the stage before her, what was going on inside her mind had little to do with the lines delivered below.
The smell of him—it was still on her: on her hands, when she brought them up to her mouth . . . on her neck, when she turned her head a certain way . . . . Her lips were still full and plump, still throbbing from that last, rough kiss.
She considered leaving early, but decided it might give Monte Cristo the wrong impression, so she stayed until the very end. Mercédès declined an offer to walk through the gallery again during the second intermission, remaining in the box alone with the very attentive Monsieur Hardegree, who appeared to bear no hard feelings toward her for taking so long in the ladies’ retiring room. She suspected yet again that Monte Cristo had engineered his replacement as her escort, likely with Fernand’s approval.
Although she was well aware when Monte Cristo left his own box and when he returned, Mercédès barely glanced in that direction. She got the impression of annoyance wafting across the space between their respective seats, and smiled secretly to herself, wondering whether he was castigated or merely chagrined that she’d walked away from him, clearly the victor in that battle.
Either way, she was content.
Now, much later that night, she was back in her bedchamber, dressed for bed. Charlotte had removed all of the painful pins from her hair, and long, wavy locks fell past the seat on which she sat. The maid was just about to plait it in one arm-thick braid when there was a peremptory knock at the door.
When Charlotte opened the door, Fernand strode in. He was still fully clothed, and there was that unholy gleam in his eyes that Mercédès had come to recognize as one she preferred to avoid.
“You are dismissed for the evening,” he told Charlotte.
Charlotte fairly streaked from the room, leaving her mistress with her hair loose and her evening’s gown still hanging over a dressing screen.
“What do you want, Fernand?” Mercédès asked wearily, turning on her stool.
“You were with Monte Cristo tonight,” her husband replied.
She inclined her head. “Was that not your doing, dear husband?”
“Of course it was.” He eyed her narrowly. “What is your intention with regard to Hardegree? If you plan to entertain him tonight, I forbid it.”
Mercédès stood angrily. “I am going to bed. Alone. Even if I chose to—entertain—Hardegree, it definitely wouldn’t be here.”
“You certainly appear as if you expect visitors.” He gestured to her gown, which was little more than white lace from shoulder to hips, falling into a full silk skirt from there to the floor. “Quite a slut you’ve become,” he added.
“Get out,” she said.
Fernand grabbed at her arm and yanked her off the stool, sending it toppling to the floor. “You cannot order me from your chamber, Comtesse de Morcerf,” he said, his face very close to hers. “I’m your husband, and you belong to me. I can do with you what I will, when I choose.”
His mustache scraped her face when he mauled her lips with his, his fingers biting deeply into her bare arms. The kiss, if one could call it that, was brief, and when he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his breathing heavy. “You would take care to remember that.”
He shoved her away, and she caught herself before she lost her balance, though she knocked her ankle painfully against the heavy post of her bed. By the time she looked up, Fernand had left the room, the door closing sharply after him.
Mercédès stared after, rubbing her throbbing ankle, wondering what that had been about. He came so rarely to her chamber anyway, and although it had appeared tonight he’d come to exercise his husbandly rights, his sudden departure was welcome yet confusing.
But a moment later, when there was another knock at her door, she felt a strange prickle over her back. Had he gone to get the whip? Her mouth dried, and she licked her lips, remembering the one time before he’d used the slender leather whip to increase his reluctant arousal at the expense of her buttocks and back. Because Albert had seen one of the marks on Mercédès’ arm and asked about it, his father had not dared to use it again.
The sound of the knock had barely faded when the knob turned and the door opened and Fernand came back in. He carried only a long, dark bottle and two small glasses. But behind him . . .
Mercédès felt her face go white. Her knees gave out and she sagged against the massive wooden bedpost for a moment before pulling herself upright. Her fingers gripped the thick mahogany.
“We meet again, madam la comtesse,” said the Count of Monte Cristo. He gave an insolent bow as he strode in. As if he owned the room.
Despite the fact that the chamber had shrunk and darkened alarmingly, Mercédès did not miss the glint in his eyes. Cold. Furious. It made her heart ram in her chest, and her mouth feel as though she’d stuffed huge wads of cotton into it.
Fernand, who still stood at the door, closed it behind him. Mercédès heard the ominous sound of the key grating in its lock. Then he turned, still carrying the bottle and glasses. “Please,” he said to Monte Cristo with a gesture that encompassed the two chairs angled next to a small table.
Mercédès forced herself to gather her wits and her composure as Monte Cristo selected a chair while her husband removed his coat. The air thickened with tension, the mood starkly silent, waiting, as if for an execution.
Her uninvited guest stripped off his neckcloth with deliberate motions, his dark eyes flat and focused on her. The expression on his face remained unreadable as he shrugged out of his own coat and folded it over the arm of his chair. Then he sat down, stretching his legs indolently into the center of the room.
Standing straight and proud, her torso outlined by the fitted ivory lace of her night rail and its plunging neckline, Mercédès noticed the count’s eyes watching her. Her hair, thick and full and dark, fell down over one shoulder, and when she took its weight in hand to push it back, her breast lifting, he watched. His jaw shifted ever so slightly.
Her heart pounded as she stood there, the silk skirt hot and cloying against her legs and over her hips, a trickle of dampness suddenly rolling down her spine. A soft clink of glass broke the charged silence, followed by the quiet shush of pouring liquid.
She felt as if she’d been thrust into a contest of nerves, and Mercédès realized with a rush that that was indeed what had happened. They were both waiting, measuring the other, as if Fernand wasn’t even there. An intimacy stretched between them, sizzling in the space from chair to bed, man to woman, desire to pride.
But Fernand was there, and that was what made her palms damp and her stomach spin unpleasantly.
“Take off your gown,” said her husband suddenly, standing next to his chair.
She saw the subtle movement of shadow over the count’s face, and it told her what she needed to know. If this were to be a battle of wills, she knew Monte Cristo’s weakness . . . and she also knew Fernand’s.
As for her own . . . she firmed her lips. She would not beg or plead. Never again.
Tipping her head to the side, she fastened her gaze on Fernand and allowed a seductive look to creep into her eyes— something she’d never done to him before. Ever. “Perhaps you should assist me, husband,” she said.
The shock and delight that came into Fernand’s face surprised her, almost distracting her. He slammed back his drink, emptying the small glass, and leaving it on the table, stepped toward her.
Mercédès lifted her hair, pulling it over one of her shoulders as she turned away from Monte Cristo . . . presenting her back to the count, and to her husband, so that he could unbutton her nightgown. Her heart still pounded; she could barely stomach Fernand’s touch—sweaty, heavy, hot. Whatever his plan, surely Monte Cristo would not be able to watch them together for very long. She hoped.
The night rail began to loosen, its lace bodice shifting slightly.
“Stop” came Monte Cristo’s smooth voice. “Let her do the rest.”
The weight of Fernand’s hands moved away, and Mercédès drew in a long, slow breath. Rough lace scratched the sensitive tips of her taut nipples. She felt two pairs of eyes boring into her spine, bared by the split halves of her gown.
She turned around slowly, feeling the sensual swish of silk against her legs and brushing over the tops of her feet.
“Drop it, madam,” said Monte Cristo sharply. “I wish to see what I’ve purchased.”
As an offensive strike, his comment was effective enough to freeze Mercédès for a moment. Purchased? She felt ill, but kept her face impassive. True or not, he’d said it to startle and wound her in this battle of wills—it was his parry to her thrust.
“I fear,” she said smoothly, “that whatever the cost, you have grossly underpaid, my dear count.” She let her nightgown fall in a sudden swish of lace and silk, pooling over her feet.
The quick intake of breath came from Fernand, but Monte Cristo wasn’t immune—she could see that tiny shift in his jaw, and the subtle movement in his throat. After all, even Sinbad hadn’t seen her fully nude, in full light.
And though her forty-year-old body was no match for that of Haydée and her taut, firm flesh, if Mercédès knew one thing, it was that a woman who was comfortable in her own skin, who knew its perfections and imperfections, its pleasures and capabilities, and who knew how to use it . . . who knew passion . . . could make a man cry with desire. Especially one who already desired her.
She put trembling hands behind her, artfully lifting her hair away, aware that the movement raised her breasts with their tight, chill-taut nipples. Keeping her attention from Monte Cristo, she focused on Fernand as she bent slowly, her breasts swaying, and picked up the pile of silk and lace.
She flung it casually toward Monte Cristo without even the flicker of a glance, and walked toward Fernand. Though every muscle, every sense in her body rebelled, she knew it was the only way. She had to make Monte Cristo angry—angry enough to intervene.
From the corner of her eye, she saw
that he’d caught the gown, and held it in his lap. A brief, full glance told her that he watched her, even as his strong, dark fingers filtered the silk through them in a thoughtful rubbing motion.
Mercédès looked back at Fernand, and saw desire in his face. That was fortunate, and probably had something to do with the fact that she was more accommodating than she would normally be. Flashes of memories—of her arguing, fighting, crying, struggling—sideswiped her for a moment, threatening to paralyze her, but she pushed it away.
Not tonight.
Not tonight, for she was counting on the fact that Monte Cristo—who’d been so determined to rid her of Salieux, so openly annoyed when she was with Hardegree, so unwilling to share her with Neru when he was Sinbad—would never watch her copulate with Edmond Dantès’ rival.
Never.
It was just a matter of who would break first.
The silk in his hands was still warm from her body, and when it had wafted toward him, he sensed her spicy, floral scent. Nothing as sweet and feminine as the jasmine Haydée favored, but muskier, spicier, mixed with what had to be lily-of-the-valley overtones.
Monte Cristo sipped his brandy and watched her smooth golden body, curvier than he remembered, in the hips and slightly rounded belly, and the full sway of her breasts. Despite the heat of the liquor, his mouth was dry and his throat tight. He relaxed his fingers, loosening the silk and forcing them to open slightly in his lap.
Beneath which raged his hungry cock.
He glanced over at Morcerf, and his skin prickled with abhorrence, but he kept his face blank. He would watch, perhaps even participate, in tonight’s events from an impassive perspective. It was a means to an end, and he could stay removed enough as he watched—and enjoyed—her humiliation.
She surprised him for a moment, when she paused in stalking the prey of her husband, and suddenly turned to him. One moment, she was watching Morcerf, pinning him with those deep, dark eyes, and the next, she was there, in front of him.
Slender arms angled on either side of him as she closed her fingers over the arms of his chair and leaned forward, over him. Her long hair fell in a dark pile onto the white silk and lace in his lap, brushing over his hand. She surged forward, catching him by surprise when she covered his mouth with those sensuous red lips, slipping her warm, slick tongue over the front of his teeth until he opened and let her in.