He had not always been a priest. Indeed, she had her doubts that he was legitimately a priest at all. How many priests knew so much about criminal activity... about lying and thieving and swindling? But he taught her well. With his own hands and mouth and prick, he showed her what men wanted from a girl, and taught her how to offer it with a skill far beyond her years.
Her face and body, he told her, were her greatest assets. In addition, though, she was blessed with a sharp and intelligent mind, so she could take full advantage of her marks... with his help, of course.
And so it was that the two of them lied and cheated their way across France, stealing enough money to live on and to make it to the next town, the next village where their faces were not yet known. Only once were they caught, subjected to branding as criminals before she seduced the guard and convinced him to let them escape. The fleur-de-lys scar on her shoulder was a bitter reminder of the price of failure.
They had been staying in La Fére for longer than she was accustomed to, posing as a country curate named Gabriel de Breuil and his sister, Anne. When she finally confronted her companion, demanding to know the details of his current scheme, he rubbed his hands together in glee.
She was to seduce the second son of the elderly Comte de La Fére, he told her, and lure him into marriage. In this way, they would both be assured of a secure future, no longer on the run from the authorities. The La Fére boy would doubtless leave within a few years to become a soldier and join one of Louis XIII’s more prestigious regiments, leaving her at the family’s estates to enjoy the privileged life of the nobility. She would support Gabriel with money from the family’s coffers and remain his lover, and they would all live happily.
As far as she was concerned, this sounded like paradise. She felt no love for her mentor, merely a sort of twisted gratefulness that could perhaps be mistaken in an uncertain light for affection. He was not cruel, however. He did not hurt her, and he taught her whatever he could of both criminal and intellectual pursuits. To carve out such a place in a respected family was, she suspected, the best she could ever hope for from life.
A few nights later marked the beginning of the summer fête. Anne de Breuil attended with her brother as expected of a young, marriageable woman. Wearing a stolen dress that was of barely adequate quality and that she had taken in to fit herself with uneven, inexpert stitches, she circulated amongst the merry crowd, charming all that she met and keeping a sharp eye out for the appearance of the Comte’s younger son.
However, it was not the younger son she found first, but the elder. Olivier, Vicomte de La Fére, was perhaps a year older than she was. He was of slightly less than average height, but beautifully proportioned. His face betrayed a dignity and sober temperament unusual in one so young, with high cheekbones, eyes the color of a gray, stormy sea, and long, dark hair that fell over his shoulders in soft waves.
When their eyes met by chance across the village green, they locked together and held fast with a jolt that she felt deep in her belly. It was Olivier who wrenched his gaze away first, in response to the approach of an older gentleman from the village who drew him into conversation. Anne, on the other hand, could not look away. So it was that she saw the way he continued to throw distracted glances her way, even as he conversed with his father’s elderly tenant.
It was only when Gabriel startled her with a hand on her shoulder that she came back to herself, suddenly aware that her target—the younger brother—had just passed by her close enough that she could have reached out and touched him. She hadn’t even noticed him, nor made any attempt to catch his attention and speak with him.
“You seem preoccupied, dear sister,” Gabriel said. His voice was that of the mild country curate, but there was anger hidden behind his eyes, and she quailed beneath it. “What is it that holds your attention so?”
She swallowed, forcing herself to play the role she’d been given. “Forgive me, brother. I’ve just seen the Vicomte. He was staring at me in a most distracting way.”
“Well, now. Was he indeed?” Gabriel asked, possibilities and schemes playing out behind his eyes faster than she could follow. Gabriel’s eyes followed the direction of her earlier gaze and lit upon the young nobleman, still deep in conversation. As they watched, the Vicomte’s attention strayed to her once more, only to dip away again upon noticing the priest standing with her. A slow smile spread over Gabriel’s lips. “How very interesting.”
Still wrapped up in her earlier failure to gain the attention and interest of her mark, she said, “I should go speak with his brother. I can still—”
“No, no, my dear,” Gabriel interrupted. “You should go speak with young Olivier right away, I think.”
“But, our plans?” she asked, confused.
“Dearest Anne,” he said, his tone condescending, “one should never steal a bag of gold dust when one can steal the deed to the entire gold mine instead.”
And so Anne de Breuil, formerly Sister Therése, formerly Charlotte Papineau, found herself seducing the Vicomte de La Fére under the approving eye of her current lover, who was posing as her brother. Happily, the Vicomte in question appeared positively eager to be seduced. Less happily, Anne was finding it increasingly difficult not to be seduced by him, in turn.
For that would never do.
As evening fell and the clouds turned from pink, to orange, to dark gray, she strolled arm in arm with Olivier. Around them, bonfires burned merrily, and the sounds of revelry carried on into the night. They had spent hours, it seemed, speaking of everything and nothing, ignoring the curious glances of the townsfolk as they passed. Now, she knew with a woman’s sense of such things, it was time to make her move.
“Olivier,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes, “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I find myself growing weary after such a long and exciting day.”
“Of course,” said Olivier. “Please accept my apology for detaining you so long with my wittering. I should allow you to return to your brother, and retire for some rest.”
Anne stopped, pivoting him around by their linked arms so she was looking up at him. She allowed a slow smile to tilt the corners of her lips. “Ah, but I did not say that I wished to return to my brother. Merely that I was weary after being on my feet for so long. Perhaps there is somewhere we might retire... together?”
Olivier gazed down at her with eyes that instantly grew wide and dark, his expression that of someone who could not believe his luck. His answering smile was beautiful to see, and she had to tamp down on the feeling of euphoria that tried to bubble up and swallow her heart.
This was business, she reminded herself firmly. Business.
“I know the perfect place,” he said.
The barn was just slightly beyond the edge of the village. The moon rose as they walked, illuminating their way once the light from the bonfires faded behind them. It was utterly silent except for the distant sounds of celebration from the green. No animals were housed here, only hay and fodder. The first hay cutting of the year had only recently been laid in, and the smell inside the structure was as sweet as a meadow in late afternoon.
No sooner had Olivier ushered her in and closed the door behind them with a creak of rusting hinges, then they were on each other, lips clashing together and hands grasping at clothing.
Olivier kissed like a man who had been born to command, taking possession of her mouth effortlessly and demanding entrance. She yielded under the sweet onslaught, bending backwards in his arms, letting him take her weight. When they parted for breath, she nuzzled at his jaw, pressing butterfly kisses down the length of his neck.
She unbuttoned his doublet and unlaced his shirt with clever fingers as he began to pick at the laces of her corset, his youth and inexperience showing for the first time in his somewhat clumsy attempts. Once she had freed the clothing above his waist, she turned slightly to give him better access to the lacing on her right side, while she loosened the laces on her left side. Before long, she was able t
o shimmy out of the stolen bodice. Untying her skirts, she let them fall, and stepped back into the circle of his arms dressed only in her chemise.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, bending her head to one side to gain access to her neck, so he could deliver a biting kiss at the junction of her shoulder.
To distract him, she ran her hands over his chest, inside his shirt. She could not allow him to follow the curve of her shoulder down and discover the lily-shaped scar of a convicted thief, after all. He moaned as her palms slid over his nipples, grabbing her hips and pulling her lower body forcefully against his own. She could feel his hard length through his breeches.
Letting her lips follow her hands, she kissed her way down his breastbone toward his navel. When his shirt got in the way, she pushed back far enough that she could pull it free from his breeches and lift it up, crouching to continue her slow path downward.
Olivier breathed out sharply and let himself fall back to lean against the rough oak boards of the wall behind him, his eyes falling closed for a moment as he divined her purpose. She continued to trail her lips lower until she reached the barrier of his breeches, and paused to run her fingers along the row of buttons holding them closed.
Ever so slowly, she slipped the first one free, her hands brushing against his hardness more than was strictly necessary. She repeated the action with the next button, and the next, and the next, until the trousers slid down around his hips and the only thing separating her from his naked skin was the flimsy barrier of his linen smallclothes.
Taking her time, she returned her lips to the trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. Letting the tip of her tongue peek out, she lapped and nuzzled a trail downward, kissing him through the thin material of his braies. Moisture was already leaking from the tip of his cock, soaking through the linen in a small patch. She mouthed at the damp material and the rigid shape beneath, sucking at the saltiness she found there.
Olivier drew in a noisy breath, and his right hand rose to tangle in her hair, fingertips massaging her scalp. She did not allow herself to tense, instead looking up the length of his body to find him looking down at her in wonder, his face all silver in the moonlight that filtered through the windows of the barn. She gave him her best seductive half-smile and untied the laces holding his smallclothes closed.
Anne despised sucking cock. She had vowed, after fleeing the convent and becoming Gabriel’s lover, that she would put all memories of her vicious rape behind her. She learned everything Gabriel could teach her about her own body, and to a large extent, she had been successful in taking back control of her sexuality. She was good at fellatio... very good... but it was the one thing that never failed to propel her immediately backwards to that terrible day when five angry men had destroyed her life and future.
The violent deflowering as they pounded into her cunt had been painful and terrifying. But the stench... the taste... the inability to breath as they choked her, fucking into her mouth until tears and snot and drool dripped from her face... that was the violation that she could never seem to overcome. Gabriel told her over and over as he coached her, guiding her along his own cock with a reasonably gentle hand, that women soon learned to love being taken by a man in such a way.
She held her breath, and hummed agreement around his prick, and didn’t believe a goddamned word of it. She would learn to loosen her jaw and take a man deeper and deeper inside her until he convulsed, lodging in her throat and spilling his seed into her belly in hot, salty gushes. She would let him grab her by the hair, controlling her movements as he took his pleasure from her mouth. But she would never, ever enjoy it.
It was a bitter irony that cock-sucking was usually the fastest, most effective way to gain access to a man’s heart.
And so she reached into Olivier’s braies and drew out his generous, slightly curved prick. Gazing up to meet his eyes from under her lashes, she poured every bit of acting skill she had into pretending enthusiasm as her lips explored his sensitive flesh.
At least he didn’t stink. He evidently cleaned himself regularly—there was no disgusting buildup of smegma around the foreskin, only the smell of sweat and man. She teased the head with her tongue, making him hiss, and moaned around his flesh as she took the tip into her mouth and suckled it gently. She braced herself as the hand in her hair tightened instinctively, but he surprised her by immediately removing it, his palm slapping against the wall by his hip as if to hold himself upright.
Emboldened, she slid her lips further down his shaft, hollowing her cheeks on the way back up. As much as she might wish for something with him that she would actually enjoy, perhaps this would not be so terribly bad. She set up a rhythm, watching his face as best she could in the weak light as she bobbed up and down over his hard length.
At first, his head was thrown back in ecstasy, his beautiful features drawn tight against the pleasure she was giving him. Before long, though, a furrow appeared in his brow. He looked down at her through eyes slightly glazed by desire, his frown growing deeper by degrees.
When he reached his hand back to cradle the side of her head, she thought, now he will use me, like all the others. Instead, though he urged her back and off, leaving her staring up at him in open-mouthed confusion.
“Stop,” he said. “You’re not enjoying this.”
“I don’t—” she began, but he cut her off.
“I won’t have it said that I took advantage of a woman without giving her pleasure in return.” His voice was intense. Something in his words and his tone hit Anne in that same place as the first time their eyes had met, deep in her gut.
“You’re not,” she managed. “I thought you would like it...”
“Tell me what you would like,” he said, and drew her up to her feet. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his stormy gray eyes.
She floundered for a moment, completely taken aback. It seemed almost... wrong, that she might be able to have this for herself, to have him on her own terms—this handsome, charismatic son of the nobility.
“Come between my breasts,” she said in a rush. He pulled her in to kiss her again, licking into her mouth, heedless of the fact that her lips had just been wrapped around his cock.
“Show me,” he said. “Show me how you want it.”
She tugged him forward by the hand, half-giddy with the idea that this was real, that it could be hers. A moonbeam illuminated a pile of fresh, sweet hay in the center of the barn, and she led him toward it. Letting go of his hand, she laid back on the soft, fragrant bed, yanking the neckline of her chemise down until her breasts spilled over the top, the hard nipples pointing up at him brazenly.
She squeezed the soft mounds of flesh together with both hands, moaning at the sensation. Her breasts had always been sensitive, and were a part of her body that her rapists had not defiled. Olivier looked down at her with open want on his face.
“Please,” she said, aware that she was begging.
He came readily, covering her with his warm body and peppering her bosom with kisses. When he took one pebbled nipple between his lips and suckled, she arched and cried out in surprised pleasure, the sensation shooting from her breasts to her cunt like a bolt of lightning.
His hips flexed instinctively in response to her cry, hard prick dragging deliciously along the crease of her thighs through her linen underdress. He continued to worry at her nipples, switching from one to the other until she was shuddering beneath him, on the verge of coming from that alone.
When he reared up, straddling her torso, she spat into her hand and reached forward, dragging her wet palm over his cock and making him gasp. She spat a second time and smeared saliva over her cleavage as well, before once again pressing her breasts together to give him something to thrust into.
Olivier reached back and hiked her chemise up until it was hitched up around her hips. Her legs fell open of their own accord as he palmed her sex, rubbing the heel of his hand over her mons in slow, firm circles. Hitching his hips forward, he pressed h
is cock into the soft, slick place she’d prepared for him between her breasts.
His low growl resonated through Anne’s chest and lodged somewhere within her ribcage. He started to thrust, leaning his upper body back as though riding a recalcitrant horse. The position allowed him to keep his hand on her cunt, fingers slipping between her lips to slide over her sensitive bud with every roll of his hips.
She keened her pleasure, her body bracketed by his strong legs, feeling the muscles of his thighs surging against her sides. Within moments, she was at the precipice, and she squeezed her breasts together even tighter around him, thumbing her nipples roughly.
He grunted and came, hips and fingers jerking. His hot seed spurted over her neck and collarbone, dribbling down like a pearly white necklace. She threw her head back, exposing her throat to the final warm pulse of fluid, the strange, intimate sensation of it tipping her over the cliff’s edge of her own release.
“Yes,” she moaned, wanting it never to end.
* * *
“Yes... mmm, yes...”
A hand touched her forehead. Her cheek.
“Charlotte?” a voice said, sounding worried. “Come now, dearest. I think you’re dreaming...”
“It certainly sounds like a nice dream, though, wouldn’t you say?” A second voice. Female. Where was she? What was happening?
The hand patted her cheek. Gently, but still enough to startle her into complete awareness. Her eyes flew open, and everything came rushing back. Aramis. The salon. The brass seal.
An instant later, the artificial euphoria of the drug washed over her once again, drawing a moan from her lips. Her limbs were heavy. Her extremities tingling. Mortification of the sort she had not felt since she was a young girl flooded her as she became fully cognizant of her loss of self-control in the middle of a crowd of strangers—of Paris’ social elite, no less.
She was still tucked against Aramis’ side, with Ninon sprawled across her lap. How much time had passed? Aramis spoke again, and she latched onto the familiar voice murmuring words of reassurance. “It’s all right, Charlotte, you were just dozing. No harm done. Do you feel ill at all?”
Book 4: The Queen's Musketeers, #4 Page 10