by Colette Gale
Someone moved behind her—everything was a luscious haze of warmth and wetness, pressure and tug, rhythm and stroke—and strong, masculine hands came around, covering her tight, ripe nipples from behind. He pulled her back against him, supporting her spine with his torso, his taut arms bracketed around her, holding her breasts as he nuzzled sleek whiskers against her neck and shoulder. His long fingers slipped in and around her nipples, plucking at them, tweaking, caressing the very tips of them as his thumbs made light, sensual circles on the sides of her breasts. The hot length of his cock pressed between her spine and his leg.
Somehow, Sinbad’s long, dark hair, smelling like cardamom and other spices, had come loose, and it mingled with hers, falling over her shoulder as he kissed and nibbled along her neck. She arched and shivered when he found that sensitive spot, just below and behind her ear, letting her eyes close once more as she fell into the rhythm of his fingers and the pulse of arousal.
The hands between her legs stopped their languorous strokes, settling firmly, fingers gently pressing into the tender flesh there. Then Neru’s lips—it must have been Neru kneeling before her as Sinbad caressed her from behind—slid over one side of her labia, and his tongue snaked out in a surprise swipe over the seam of her quim. Mercédès startled, jerking under his hands, lifting her hips to press her sex to those full lips.
Did she hear a gentle chuckle in her ear? Her world became a maze of sounds—of deep sighs, and gentle moans, the soft suction, the faint lapping and rasping breathing; and Mercédès knew her own sounds of pleasure filled her ears most loudly.
Sinbad gently caressed her breasts, relentless with the teasing of her nipples to a point of near pain, but ultimate pleasure . . . and then easing a bit, just a bit, so her breathing could catch up. . . . Neru bent between her legs, his lips and tongue sliding in the deep, wet crevices of her quim, lapping through the pool of her juices slowly, so slowly she thought she would scream with the frustration.
She moved her hips desperately, feeling the orgasm come so close only to ebb away as Neru and Sinbad seemed to know just when to slow or ease back. Her body was tight and stretched, ripe as if to bursting—her nipples, her lips swollen from biting back the sighs and pleads, her quim lips, her pip . . . full, glossy and plump, ready . . . so ready . . .
And then Sinbad’s fingers shifted away, and Neru’s mouth stopped its lovely taunting, and Mercédès jerked restlessly, her hips lifting and rocking to the side, trying to find it again . . . but firm hands held her thighs steady. Sinbad’s dark breath in her ear teased and infuriated her.
“Not yet, Countess,” he said. But his words were harsh and forced, hot against her earlobe. She felt the rampant throbbing of his cock against her, the little swipe of moisture that had slipped from its head and stroked along her hip. He was ripe and ready too.
Before she could respond, grasp that cock and show him a little torture of his own, he moved like an eel, sleek and fast, and his mouth was on her breast, and his hand between her thighs. Mercédès gasped when his skillful mouth feathered over the sensitive, pebbling skin of her breast, arching up into the warm, wet cavern. She felt the movement, the gust of warm air over her damp skin when he breathed his own lust over it, and she reached, trying to find his sex.
He captured her hands, pulling them above her head, straight over and down into the furs, settling himself directly over her, hip to hip, breast to chest, mouth . . . oh, God, mouth to mouth with that strong tongue swiping deep and sure around hers. Limbs entwined, mouths smashing together, his cock throbbing against her quim, they kissed and touched and ground their bodies together.
She pulled her hands free, pushed away the mess of heavy, clinging hair plastered to their faces and bodies, and closed her fingers around his shoulders. Dragging her nails down, deeply into his skin, she lifted her hips, capturing his turgid penis between her thighs. He grunted and moved away, dragging the length of his dripping cock over her thigh, scooting to settle between her legs.
His tongue was flat and slow . . . oh, so slow . . . up and gently over her pulsing labia, up and down, slowly, excruciatingly slowly. Mercédès tried to sit up, to pull herself toward him and touch, but strong black hands closed around her wrists, holding them above her head again.
And again the tongue, and again, slowly up and over her quim . . . and then, with his thumbs, Sinbad pulled her lips apart, opening her swollen pip to the gentle lashing of his tongue. Mercédès was thrashing now, her hair over her face and shoulders, her lips parted and breath coming in desperate gasps as he played and teased and brought her to the edge again, and again . . . always stopping just before she went over until she was ready to scream.
But even through it all, she didn’t ask. She didn’t beg. She closed her lips on the words, biting them, knowing that it would come. . . . She was close, so close . . . ripe and ready, and at last, with one last teasing swipe, he steadied, settled, and used his tongue to lap and lift and jiggle her sex into madness.
She burst at last, her whole body arching, then convulsing against the hands that held and caressed her, against the mouth that ate at her and the furs that embraced her, pleasure hot and hard and strong trammeling through her body in a haze of flashing lights and satisfied groans.
Mercédès fell into a langorous darkness for a moment. Then she felt movements, shifting around her and short, sharp words . . . then the long, slow slide of a moist, hard body next to hers. Sinbad kissed her again, pulled her over as he rolled so that she sprawled, a sack of sated bone and muscle, over him. His cock rose strong and ready between her splayed thighs, and he said, “Ride me, Countess.”
She pulled herself up, focusing at last, and saw no one else on the divan. They were alone, and her body hummed and prickled, and her mind had lost some of the dullness of desire. She looked down at him, but his face was in shadow; someone had extinguished more of the candles, leaving only a few across the room.
He moved his demanding hands to her hips and lifted her over him, easily. She spread her legs, settling his cock’s head into the entrance of her quim, looking down as she placed her hands on his smooth, hairless chest, covering the gold ring jutting there.
She felt the slam of his heart beneath her fingers, the deep, desperate need of his breathing, and teased his cock with her slippery quim. He would have none of it; he grasped her hips and slammed up into her with the groan of a dying man. Mercédès matched the sound, her own gasp of pleasure riding into a long moan as he held her hips to thrust in again.
That was it. . . . He surged up a third time and let it go, and she felt the undulant pulsing inside her quim as he froze in the throes of release.
She collapsed on his chest, her mouth near that fascinating gold ring, and his hands fell away onto the fur. Their hair was plastered and tangled, and her legs ached from being spread wide, straddling him and holding herself up.
It wasn’t long—not long at all, for her breathing had barely eased—when she felt him move against her, inside her. A little jolt of his hips, the change in breathing, the return of his wide hands to her torso, raising her.
He was growing hard again, inside her, and Mercédès felt her own response as her sex throbbed gently between them.
“Ride me, Countess,” he said again. His voice was strained and flat, and she couldn’t see his eyes—they were too shadowed. His fingers bit into the sides of her hips as he shifted her over him.
She moved, feeling the sweet swell of desire building again, rising and lowering on her thighs, her hands flat on his chest as he helped her shift back and forth, up and down.
“Reach up,” he commanded. “High.”
She did, settling back on her haunches, taking his thick length inside her, releasing it, lifting and falling, jolting back and forth in an increasing rhythm. Her breasts tightened, her nipples puckered and thrust, and his palms closed over them, warm and solid. She lifted her hands in the air, reaching toward the olive branches above from that day in the sun.
S
he reached and tipped and tilted, faster and faster, Edmond beneath her, the sun beating down on her, his hands on her breasts, the olive leaves just out of reach.
His hips thrashed below, his hands tight on her flesh, his breathing harsh and the shadowed planes of his face stark and hard. He was saying something, muttering it as if delirious, but she couldn’t hear him, it was lost in the whirl of sensation and memory. Tears spilled from her eyes as she worked, and he worked, and they slammed into each other, hard and angry, grief-stricken and regretful and desperate. So desperate.
When she finally reached that last pinnacle, the hardest, most draining one yet, Mercédès slipped over, crashing into brightness, and she felt the tears pouring down her face.
She fell to the side, sobbing silently, and slipped into oblivion.
FOUR
The Return
Four months later
Paris
"Maman! I am so glad to be home,” Albert said as Mercédès pulled him into her embrace. Instead of waiting in the parlor for him to be brought to her, she’d rushed to meet him in the foyer of their home on rue du Helder.
“At last,” she said, burying her face into his neck, smelling the scent that had been her comfort since he was but an infant. She barely managed to keep the tears of joy from turning into ones of fear. Fear that she had almost lost the one that she loved above all else in the world. “Those bandits, they didn’t hurt you?”
She stepped back to look at him, just to make certain. He certainly appeared unchanged, except for a more worldly, experienced air. His dark hair was combed neatly, his clothing was fashionable and pressed, and if his face looked a bit more mature . . . well, that wouldn’t be particularly unusual after his experience.
“No, maman. They were unfailingly polite and even apologetic once it was made known to them that they had made a mistake.”
It was March, four months after Albert had left to tour Switzerland and Italy. While in Rome for the Carnivale in February, he had been lured away from the festivities by an attractive woman, and then captured and held for ransom by her associates, a gang of brigands.
But by the time Mercédès and Fernand had received word of the demand, Albert had been set free, unharmed, and without his parents having paid the ransom. And then, to Mercédès’ distress, an unconcerned Albert had continued his tour of Italy for another three weeks before returning to Paris.
“A mistake?” Mercédès asked. She knew her son would prefer to protect her from the sordid details, but she would not be stopped from knowing all of them. Could it be a coincidence that Sinbad had imagined the possibility of her son being attacked by brigands, and then for it to actually happen?
Albert seemed to realize how disconcerted she was, and holding her hands, he drew her to one of the pink-and-gold brocade sofas in the small parlor, settling himself next to her on a plump cushion. He even helped her to arrange her wide skirts so that they wouldn’t be crushed, and he continued to clasp her fingers. “Mama, it was a mistake. Once the bandit realized I was a friend of the Count of Monte Cristo—”
“Monte Cristo?” Mercédès breathed, feeling the color drain from her face, and then return with such a force that her cheeks felt very warm.
The name of the very island on which she’d been taken and kept in such a decadent, lush state by Sinbad the Sailor . . . and then abruptly and unceremoniously banished the day after her arrival. Indeed, Mercédès remembered only vague details from her time on Monte Cristo, deep beneath the rough, rocky surface—but what she did remember was enough to make her face flush even now. And to filter into her dreams in the night, waking her and leaving her hot and restless and confused.
“Yes, Mama. Franz and I had the pleasure of meeting the great Count of Monte Cristo while we were staying in Rome during Carnivale. In fact, if it weren’t for him, we would never have had such a fine time, for he allowed us to use his carriage while we were there. He was staying in the same hotel, and learned that we had not—well, Mama, you know that Franz and I do not always make our plans in advance,” he said sheepishly.
“When he learned that we had not found a carriage to rent, he offered us the use of his. What a grand gentleman he is, Mama! So learned and intelligent and very well-dressed and very, very rich. I have never seen such grandeur.”
“And how did it come about that the Count of Monte Cristo saved you from the bandits?” she asked, her face having cooled to its normal temperature. “Surely we must pay him back for your ransom.”
“But no, mama. You see, this bandit leader is indebted to His Excellency the count. When Franz learned that I had been taken, he was trying to find the money for my ransom, for we didn’t have enough between the two of us, and there was no time to send to Father for it. He had to do it quickly, for the bandits insisted that if the ransom was not produced by the second day, I would be—well, Mama, it is of no consequence now.”
“What? He would have killed you, wouldn’t he?” Mercédès’ fingers convulsed over Albert’s, and her stomach squeezed anew.
Thank God. Thank God, her son had been spared.
“Well, that is what he threatened—but it did not happen, so there is nothing to be worried about now, Mama. When the count learned of my situation, for he was staying at the same hotel, and the news reached him easily, and he learned that the bandit’s name was Luigi Vampa”—here Mercédès was forced to smother another gasp—“he immediately intervened. Not only did the count intervene,” Albert said, his young eyes shining with admiration, “but he actually rode to the hideout of Signor Vampa and insisted that he release me at once.”
“And you were released? And there was no ransom paid? And they didn’t hurt you?” Mercédès couldn’t stop herself from reaching to touch his handsome, beloved face. Albert was all she had left in the world that she cared for.
“No, Mama, as you can see, they didn’t hurt me.”
“And this Signor Vampa, he knows the man you speak of, this Count of Monte Cristo? What else do you know about this count?”
Albert’s eyes were still shining. “As I said, Mama, I have never seen such power and wealth. He is a fine fellow, very accommodating and agreeable, and quite magnificent when he came bursting into the hideaway where the bandits had kept me. This Signor Vampa is an infamous brigand who strikes fear into the hearts of many in Rome and along the coast, for when he calls for a ransom, it must be produced or he will execute his victim,” he said, seemingly unaware that he had just negated his earlier assurances. “But Monte Cristo had no fear of him at all, and there was no hesitation on Vampa’s part when the count told him that I was a friend of his. In fact, as I have said, he was most apologetic for offending the count.”
“What a debt we owe to this grand man,” she said, real gratitude swelling in her chest, “for if not for him, you would not have returned to me.”
“Indeed, Mama, I knew you would feel this way. And Papa too. And so I have invited him to come to Paris, and agreed to show him around the city, for he has never been here.”
“Then Morcerf and I will be able to thank him ourselves. How splendid!” Mercédès spoke with heartfelt enthusiasm. The man who had saved her son’s life would be more than welcome into her home, into her society, and she would show her gratitude in any way possible.
But she was still disconcerted about the connection with her own experience, of which Albert and Fernand knew nothing.
Could this Count of Monte Cristo have known that she was Albert’s mother, and somehow interfered in Signor Vampa’s plans for her as well?
For when he first abducted her, Jacopo had warned her it would take several days before the ransom request would reach Fernand, and then more days before the money could be delivered . . . and yet, she had been returned to Marseille a total of only five days after she had been kidnapped. She had spent a single night on the island of Monte Cristo, and when she awoke the next morning, she was already on the Nemesis being returned to Marseille. She hadn’t seen Sinbad again.
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There were days when Mercédès truly wondered if it had all been a dream.
Julie Morrel hadn’t even known she’d been gone, for a message had been sent to her that Mercédès had decided to travel back to Paris for a short time, and so her friend hadn’t worried about her absence.
But, no, this Count of Monte Cristo couldn’t have known of the connection between Mercédès and Albert, for he had not even met her son until February . . . and her abduction had occurred in November.
And she had never met a count called Monte Cristo; she had only been incarcerated on an island with the same name. Neither Sinbad nor Jacopo had spoken such a name either. Perhaps it was simply a wild coincidence. After all, how could anyone be lord over such a piece of rock?
Mercédès realized that Albert had continued to describe his plans for meeting the count here in Paris, and she said, “When he arrives, you must tell me so that your papa and I might invite him to dinner.”
“But, Mama, I already know when he is to arrive. On May the twentieth, exactly three months after we left each other in Rome. He will take breakfast with me here at ten o’clock in the morning.”
Mercédès looked at him. “And you believe that he will be here for this appointment?”
“Mama, if you had met this amazing gentleman, you would have no question in your mind. He will be here. And you will meet him then.”
She nodded, keeping her skepticism hidden. “An event I greatly anticipate.”
On the twentieth of May, just past dawn, a magnificent carriage rolled along the most famous street of Paris, and stopped in front of the grand residence at number 30 Champs-Élysées.
