by Colette Gale
The very thought made his cock strain harder against his breeches, and he nearly lost track of what she was saying. “It seems . . . ?” he prompted with a little laugh. “Come now. . . . Am I distracting you, my love?”
“Oh . . . indeed, you are . . . ,” she sighed, “but you must take care, or I shall do the same to you.”
Her voice carried a rare note of mischief in it, and Maximilien felt a fresh wave of desire and love course through him. Beautiful, bewitching, and lighthearted. What more could a man ask for in a wife?
“It just seems that if he is friends with her, and she does not care for me . . . then they’re too much alike. I know that you’re very fond of the count, but ...”
“I respect him more than you can know,” he replied. She’d pulled her fingers away, leaving Maximilien straining for more . . . another taste, a deeper one, a longer, more erotic one. But then he noticed what she was doing and he felt faint. “Valentine!”
She’d begun to tug at her bodice, pulling it down low over one breast so that . . . mon Dieu! . . . so that more of that beautiful swell was revealed . . . and then the upper edge of her dusky pink areola. . . . Maximilien thought he might faint, but she stopped and looked at him. “Are you distracted, my love? Please . . . continue.”
“I . . . he . . . the count is a good man, he is intelligent and kind, and he loves me—I’m sure of it.” His words seemed to be forced between two very swollen lips and around a tongue that could not move properly. Suddenly her nipple popped out from the tight bodice, and there it was: her whole glorious, beautiful, plum-sized, pearlescent, blue-veined breast. There. There.
“Valentine . . . ,” he groaned. His hand went to the iron bars, trying to reach through, but she stood just far enough away that he could only just brush over the tip of her nipple. His brief, bare touch caused her to snatch in her breath and straighten up.
“Go on,” she said. But her voice was breathy and seductive, and when he glanced up, he saw that her eyes were focused down where her breast shone virginally white in the shadow of the wall and surrounding foliage.
“And . . . I cannot remember what I was saying, Valentine. Please! Have pity on me. . . .” He sagged to his knees before her, fairly hanging from his fingers on the grate, so that his face was even with her breast . . . and when she pressed herself against that very gate, her soft pink nipple and most of her areola poked through one of the holes . . . . Maximilien thought he would spend his seed right there in his trousers.
He didn’t wait for an invitation. . . . He moved, putting his mouth on that luscious pink tip. At first, tentatively, like a first kiss, he pressed his lips to it, then swiped his tongue around. She caught her breath, then gasped, and she pulled away and he nearly cried out . . . but then, as if realizing that she’d aborted her own pleasure too, she came back, pressing herself even harder against the iron grate.
“Valentine,” he sighed, drawing that delicate pink nubbin into his mouth as if he were a babe . . . all the way in, gently but firmly, delighting in her little gasp of delight, her little surprised sob . . . and he felt it grow hard in his mouth as he sucked and licked and mouthed against her. His own passion throbbed in the form of a cock raging against his trousers, pressing into the iron bars for relief.
“Oh, Maximilien . . . ,” she sighed, shuddering against the grid so that it rumbled quietly in its hinges and against its chains. “Please . . .”
She could have no idea what she was asking for, but Maximilien did. “Come closer, love,” he whispered. “Your hips . . . closer . . .”
He reached through the diamond shape where her quim would be, trying to push through the layers and layers of fabric there to find the place where her legs separated, and she helped by spreading them in a most unladylike manner, moving her feet apart. Maximilien looked up and saw that she was clutching the grate with her little fingers, sagging against it as he sucked at her breast and tried to find the way to her sex. The weight of skirt on top of crinoline on top of shift was too heavy for his fingers to move, levered as they were through the damned small hole.
“Please . . . ,” she whispered again, and the grid clinked again as she pressed harder against it.
“Lift up your skirts,” he whispered, his mouth dry, his voice raspy. Dear God, it was broad daylight, in the back of Villefort’s garden. . . . The roof of the house could be seen in the distance, over the trees. . . . They could be discovered at any moment . . . but . . . oh Lord, he didn’t care.
When that heavy mass of fabric—of lace and sky blue silk and the stiff crinoline and the finely woven chemise—when all were bunched up in her hands, pushed off to the side and held at bay as she sagged against the gate, her breast no longer poking through, he was able to slip his fingers through and find her.
Mon Dieu.
Oh! So warm and soft and wet . . . dear Lord, she was dripping and swollen and hot. He closed his eyes, pushed away the pain of his tight, shiny, purple cock and slipped his fingers around and through, into those secret, sweet folds and into her deepest part. . . . She caught her breath when his two fingers shot inside her, then eased out again, and then in again. . . . He used his thumb to find her tiny, hard pip; he couldn’t see it, but as he rubbed it between his thumb and finger, he imagined it peeping shyly out from beneath its little hood and nearly ruined his trousers right then.
“Valentine . . . sweet . . . Valentine,” he said, gently jiggling the little nub with the pad of his thumb, slipping around and pressing on it, and he felt her tensing, and her breath stopped and she seemed to wait. . . . He flipped his fingers out from inside her, around the hard, shiny pip, and suddenly she gasped and was shuddering against the iron bars, crying and shaking and laughing. . . .
His breath was heavy and fast, and when he drew his hand away from her warmth, he brought it immediately to his nose. . . . He had to smell her, to taste her . . . musky and sweet and feminine . . . Valentine . . . oh, Valentine!
“Oh God,” he said, and fell against the gate. He kept his moist fingers by his nose, breathing in her smell and struggling to subdue the insistent, angry erection that he smashed up against the iron bars.
“Maximilien,” she said at last. Her voice was a rough, surprised whisper, barely audible over the rustling breeze through the bushes around them. “I . . . that was . . . I love you.”
“I love you too, Valentine,” he said, bravely keeping his voice strong and steady. There would be time someday . . . someday for him to experience the release . . . but today was hers. “I will never survive eighteen months until we can wed,” he added in a sudden burst of desperation. “I pray God something will happen to change that.”
She looked through the grate, her eyes soft and glazed and hollyhock blue. “So do I, my love. So do I.”
The evening she’d met the Comtesse de Morcerf at the theater, Haydée rode home in His Excellency’s carriage alone. It had been no surprise to her when, after disappearing for a time during the first intermission, and then again during the second (after sending glowering stares across the stage at the comtesse), he elected to accept an invitation from the Comte de Morcerf instead of leaving for home at that time. And His Excellency hadn’t returned to his house on the Champs-Élysées until after dawn, at which time he was, from what Bertuccio said, in very foul spirits.
Thus Haydée had ridden home alone in the carriage—alone, except for Ali, who declined to ride in the vehicle with her and instead chose to sit outside, up next to the driver.
All because he was too damned afraid to be alone with Haydée.
Over the next ten days, he continued to avoid her at all costs. Haydée actually found it rather amusing when, if she entered a room where he might be, he would immediately find an excuse to leave.
Or, if she would summon him to her presence for some manufactured reason, he would take care to bring another of the servants with him.
But after a time, she’d had enough of his blasted honorable excuses for not letting her touch him,
and she set about hatching a plan to end this standoff once and for all.
If seducing him by making him a voyeur and watching her in the tub with her servants, or sneaking into his bed at night hadn’t worked, then Haydée knew she’d have to resort to the last of the feminine wiles: tears.
And as it happened, an unexpected event occurred that gave her the perfect excuse to do so: a man broke into the home on the Champs-Élysées one night when the Count of Monte Cristo had taken his household to his other residence in Auteuil. The intruder was killed during his escape, and no one had been in the house but the count himself, who apparently had chased the man away . . . but Haydée decided to use the incident to her advantage.
The night following the incident, which she’d only heard about from Bertuccio and the other servants, Haydée selected her trap’s settings very carefully. She was aware that Ali often prowled about the gardens late in the afternoon when the other servants were busy preparing for His Excellency’s evening plans, and she arranged herself in a small gazebo in the very farthest corner of the grounds.
It was perfect for her use, for heavy vines and thick bushes grew around the small building, and it was tucked away just off the pebbled paths. But to ensure that her plot wouldn’t be interrupted, she’d given strict orders to Bertuccio and Marie, the housekeeper, that no one but Ali was to come into the gardens for any reason.
Thus, when the sun was halfway back to its resting place, warm and yellow but not bearing down with its strongest blaze, Haydée settled herself on one of the large, plump chaises that occupied the gazebo. An odd thing to have in a garden house, really . . . but perhaps she was not the first one to choose to use the little structure as a trysting place. It really was perfect.
She checked to be certain everything was in readiness, including the special ring she wore, and then she began to cry. Loudly. Heartbreakingly, wrenchingly, forlornly.
Instead of burying her face in the cushions, she pitched her cries away, into the open, concentrating on making real tears and even turning her face blotchy and red. Ali was not easy to fool.
That was only one of the things she loved about him.
Another thing was the thick, dark length that he refused— unlike other men—to allow to lead him around and to influence his decisions. Damn him for being so insufferably honorable.
It wasn’t long before, between gasping sobs, Haydée heard the soft skitter of pebbles in the distance, and she let a particularly heartrending wail sally forth. And then she buried her face in her hands, ensuring that her shoulders were heaving convincingly.
Since he couldn’t speak, Ali always made certain to create some quiet noise to announce his presence, and this time was no exception. A scuffle of feet on the dusty wooden floor of the building—along with the anticipatory prickling at the back of her neck—told her that he’d fallen for the bait.
Now it was only a matter of clinching the deal.
She felt him behind her, and imagined that he stood there, helpless and uncertain, confronted with a sobbing woman, opening and closing his fingers, beginning to step toward her, then hesitating and stepping back. So, after a moment, she lifted her head and gave a realistic start when she saw him standing before her, just as she’d imagined.
Haydée’s mouth went dry as she looked over at him, big and bald and black, wrists cuffed in gleaming gold, looming there next to her chaise. Gorgeous. Inhumanly beautiful and powerful—yet looking as uncomfortable and out of place as if he were being fitted for a corset—and he was going to be hers. All hers.
What is it? he signed.
Haydée bravely held back another sob and used the hem of her tunic sleeve—a loose-fitting one-piece garment she’d chosen for just those reasons as her garb for this seduction—to dab at her eyes. Her hair she’d collected loosely in a long, low tail that fell down her spine, and she wore only a simple cord around the crown of her head, wrapping across her forehead where a single pearl dangled above the place between her brows.
“I . . . didn’t know anyone was here,” she said, ducking her face as though embarrassed. She waited until he touched her, featherlight, at the top of her head. Featherlight and fleeting, and she looked up again.
What is wrong?
She gave a few shaky sobs and then appeared to pull her wits about her, and sat up on the chaise. With a gesture to the other one—the one she’d prepared specially for Ali—she said, “Please sit down. You . . . it’s hard to talk when you’re looming over me.”
Looking abashed, but with concern in his dark eyes, he sank down on the chaise, feet planted on the floor and arms akimbo over his knees.
Has someone hurt you? His hand motions showed subtle fury, as if waiting for some ugly confirmation before bursting free.
“No,” she replied, sniffling a bit for good measure. “It’s just that . . . last night, that man who broke into the house . . . Caderousse was his name, wasn’t it?”
Ali gave a sharp nod, and she noticed that his large hand relaxed a bit.
“If he had come into the house while we were here, he could have . . . he could have murdered us all,” she said fearfully.
No. I—Here Ali stopped, his hands slapping nonsense for a moment before they picked up again. His Excellency, and all of us, would not let that happen. You’re safe.
“But he could have killed the count! And that”—she dabbed at her eyes again—“is what I fear the most! That he would be taken from me.”
She saw the way Ali drew back, ever so slightly, stiffening. His Excellency is no fool. He is not easily killed, nor bested. He has survived far more than you can imagine.
“But it is possible . . . and then what would happen to me? Where would I go? What would I do? I am afraid to be alone.” Haydée began to sob heavily again, sagging in her chaise so that she was about to fall off . . . unless he caught her.
Which he did. Gently, as though afraid to touch her, he caught her shoulders in his large, powerful hands. Haydée gave him no chance to think, to retreat; she fairly surged off her seat into his lap, snuggling her face into the musky corner between his neck and shoulder. Ahh. She closed her eyes and drew in a long, deep, lovely breath of the man she wanted above all others.
She gave a few more gentle sobs to camouflage her deep breaths, her growing sense of comfort and joy. Of course, with her face buried into his skin, she couldn’t see any hand motions he might make, so after a moment, she raised herself from that most pleasant of positions.
Now she was sitting on his lap, her legs primly to one side of his thighs, his hands gingerly at her waist, barely touching her. The bulge in his trousers was a source of satisfaction to her rather than a surprise, but she took care to hide any evidence of that.
“He is like my father, Ali. . . . I cannot bear the thought of losing another father.”
If anything happens to His Excellency, I will take care of you.
A wave of happiness swept over her when she saw the truth, the naked emotion in his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, to deny it, he cared for her . . . as more than a body, as what he perceived as a forbidden body.
“Ali . . . ,” she began, but he stopped her with vigorous hand motions.
But nothing will happen to him, Haydée. I have seen him shoot a gun at an ace of diamonds, and put a bullet through the center diamond. His Excellency is well able to take care of himself.
Ali’s eyes had gone flat, as though to obscure his feelings, and Haydée was momentarily quieted by his long speech. She’d never seen him “speak” so much. . . . He must have felt it was imperative that she understand.
But she didn’t care.
She leaned forward without warning and covered his lovely, thick lips with hers, drawing in the dark taste of him gently but firmly. Her hand slipped around his neck, pulling herself up off his lap to delve deeply into the kiss . . . but then she settled back into place before he could end it.
He was breathing heavily, and those eyes weren’t so shuttered and f
lat any longer. Haydée herself felt out of breath . . . and unsatisfied. But it was too soon to dive back into a kiss.
“I don’t want His Excellency to take care of me,” she said, leaning into him. As she’d expected, he tilted away as if to keep some distance between them, and with a little lunge, she caught him off-balance and tipped him back onto the chaise. Then, with a quick twist, she turned her ring and released its little needle, then reached up to wrap her arms around his neck again, and shoved the tiny needle into one of the veins in his neck as she did so.
He started in surprise, but a little nick like that would hardly be noticeable to a man like him, and she pretended nothing had happened, for it would take a few moments for the sleeping drug to work.
She smiled at him, running her hands back down over his chest as he half lay back, and she saw the flare of surprise and desire in his eyes. Quickly taking advantage of it by running her fingers gingerly along his massive arms, she moved up his body. “You are so strong, Ali,” she said, close to his face. “I want you to take care of me. I would never worry if I was with you.”
When he raised his hands, she covered the underside of his biceps with her wide fingers and smoothed up along those mighty arms—from shoulder to elbow to wrist, guiding his hands back above his head. She leaned forward to kiss him again, and in that moment felt him begin to relax under her body.
Ali shook his head as if to keep himself awake, but he was fighting a losing battle. The drug she’d used was quick and effective, even for a man his size, and Haydée had to wait only another few breaths before he was sagging sleepily in the chaise, his eyes closed, his breathing easy.
She then found it simple to raise his heavy arms and tie both wrists together at the top of the chaise, and then lash his ankles, one at each corner of the end of the divan. She would never have succeeded if he’d been awake and aware, she thought, as she fitted a belt over his hips to keep him from arching and bucking too violently.
