Master

by Colette Gale

  Once Haydée was finished with that, she had to wait a bit longer for the effects of the drug to wear off. She helped the process by holding a little vial of eucalyptus and mint under his nose. It was perhaps ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, later that he began to stir.

  She sat and watched with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation as consciousness and awareness returned to his face. When he realized he was restrained, she actually held her breath for a moment as he struggled against his bonds.

  His muscles bulged as he pulled at the leather cords, and Haydée swallowed hard . . . partly because of the fury in his face, and partly because . . . dear heaven, but he was beautiful and frighteningly powerful.

  “I’m sorry, Ali, but I had to do this,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him. “I don’t want His Excellency. I want you. Only you. Forever. You.”

  He moved so angrily, with low, guttural grunts from his voiceless mouth that she thought for a moment he might pull the chaise into splinters. It jolted and shifted and lurched on the floor, and she watched in trepidation.

  If he got free, would he kill her?

  She should have tied him to a wrought-iron chaise instead of this one. It was made of bamboo, which she knew was used for houses and roofs in the Orient . . . but it was creaking a bit under his movements. . . .

  Haydée’s heart pounded in her chest and she swallowed hard, looking at his bulging eyes, dark and furious, his firm-lined mouth, no longer so thick and sensual, the incredible swells of his biceps and pectoral muscles—even in his neck, where the tendons were taut and throbbing and there was a tiny red dot from where she’d punctured him. Regret stung her for a bare moment, but she pushed it away. It had to be done if she was going to have this man for her own, forever.

  For that was what she wanted.

  “Please,” she said, smoothing her small, olive-skinned hands over his gleaming ebony chest, “let me pleasure you, Ali. I want to touch you. I want to feel your skin against mine. And I knew this . . . this was the only way.”

  And with that, she pulled off her loose tunic with one smooth motion and flung it. That left her completely nude, her breasts tight and lifted from anticipation, her nipples jutting up, her quim swollen and tingling.

  No.

  His mouth formed the word; she could almost hear it in the exhale of breath, low and deep and heartfelt. His head thrashed against the cushion beneath it, and he ended by turning away from her as his powerful legs jerked in futility.

  Haydée’s mouth was still dry, and her heart thumped madly. She wanted him. She knew he wanted her—he was just afraid to take her if she belonged to Monte Cristo.

  But she didn’t belong to Monte Cristo; he didn’t want her. He wanted the Comtesse de Morcerf.

  No matter what he said or how he acted toward the beautiful golden-skinned woman, Haydée knew the comtesse was the only one on his mind. The only one who could take that tension from his face, the emptiness that lurked in his eyes . . . the brittleness from his body. If he would let her.

  And that night at the theater, His Excellency had told Haydée that she was free to choose her own lover. True, he had intimated that his choice for her would be Maximilien Morrel, but he had made it clear that she could seek her lover from any of the men in Paris.

  Thus, Haydée pushed away any guilt she might have, any fear of consequences, and she slipped her hand beneath the loose waist of Ali’s trousers, easing his immense cock from its dark, warm confines. Once free, it stood proud and hugely thick and ready, fairly vibrating with need.

  Haydée cast a glance at Ali. His face was still turned away, but she could see that his eyes were closed. His breathing was rough, but steady, and she could see a shift of movement in his proud cheeks, as if he was gritting his teeth.

  She placed her hands on that warm, pounding chest sprinkled with those unusual dark curlicues, like a scattering of small black circles over the upper part of his torso, beautiful, wiry, crinkly, and warm. She tumbled her nails through it, lifting the hair experimentally. Then she hoisted herself gently onto his body, which had begun to tremble faintly beneath her fingers, and settled herself just behind his massive purple-red-black cock.

  “Ali,” she said, stroking her drenched quim with her fingers until they too were dripping, “I am a virgin, and I want you to be the first.”

  He turned his face toward her and opened his eyes. She’d arranged the chaise and its pillows perfectly so that his head was in a raised position and he could see her without lifting his head. No, he shook his head. No.

  She closed her soaking fingers around his cock and felt him lurch beneath her, then shudder violently, easing into soft trembling.

  “His Excellency has no interest in my maidenhead, and neither do I. I wish to rid myself of it. Now.” She gave a quick stroke down, then up, the wrist-thick column of his cock, causing him to jolt into little shudders again. Her mouth watered, as she thought about how it would feel when she fitted him inside her, and slid down deep and full. . . .

  His eyes moved furiously, his face and head and soundless mouth, as he desperately tried to communicate with her. He didn’t need to speak—she knew what he meant to say.

  “ ‘He’s my master. My virginity belongs to him. . . . You are but a slave. . . .’ Yes, Ali, I know your arguments,” she said, keeping her voice smooth and seductive. She lifted her breasts, cupping both of her hands beneath them, offering them to him. “What if he changes his mind?” she added, then looked down at her left nipple as she used her thumb to tease over the front of it, drawing it even tighter into a pucker.

  “But he has already given me leave to find a man to love,” she said, leaning forward to kiss the sticky, moisture-tipped top of his penis. “And you are the man I choose, Ali.”

  He drew in a long, deep, hitching breath, and closed his eyes.

  “You want me, don’t you?” she asked, leaning forward again, his cock pressing into the side of her belly as her hands pushed into his chest. She felt the ramming of his heart beneath her fingers, and she edged forward more, lifting her bottom so that his penis scooted stickily along her body toward her smooth, wet quim. It jerked to a little halt right at the juncture of her thighs, right next to her swollen labia, then beyond as she lurched forward to cover his mouth with hers.

  He twisted his face away, but she followed him, and suddenly those thick, lovely lips were open, devouring hers . . . taking her in, sucking and tasting and molding to her as she slipped her tongue into the wet warmth of his mouth.

  Haydée groaned into him when he opened, when he fully took her in, and she ground her slippery, throbbing sex into his belly as her teeth scraped the sides of his mouth, as she swiped her tongue as long and deep into his mouth as she could.

  Yes. Oh, yes.

  Her hands moved up along the powerful lines of his shoulders, over the swell of muscle and into his taut neck, over the deep, warm hollows of his collarbone when she curved her fingers over wide shoulders. He was dark and spicy and ready. . . . She felt the gentle prod of his cock at the back of her ass as she moved back, lifting herself, and then, settling over him. She held there for a moment, feeling the width of his head as it pressed into the deep fold of her labia.

  Ali’s eyes were closed again, his neck tight, his lips parted, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just run leagues.

  Haydée scooped her fingers deeply into her quim again, then rubbed her lubricant over the soft, velvety foreskin of his cock. Then she lifted herself, poised in a crouch, and fit him into her, just the tip . . . just the very tip of that massive erection.

  He seized up, his chest stopped, his nostrils flared, his eyes open now, staring at the ceiling above. Her breasts were trembling, her heart was pounding so hard . . . her mouth watered, and her pip surged, tingling sharply.

  And then she slammed herself down, as hard and fast as she could.

  Pleasure . . . oh, wonderful pleasure such as she’d never known . . . a sharp cut of pain, and then . . .
fulfillment. Fullness. Low, undulating, deep-within-her fullness.

  Ali’s mouth had opened in a low, guttural roar, and now she felt him beneath her, shuddering and vibrating. His eyes had sunk closed again, his teeth scoring into his lovely bottom lip, his nostrils wide, his skin glistening with moisture.

  The pain was still pounding there, quietly, deep inside, but that fullness . . . that feeling of rightness and that tingle of need brought Haydée back to her knees again, and she lifted herself up over him again, and then slid back down to his thighs.

  Oh, heavens, she thought she would cry at the pleasure of it . . . again. . . . She raised and lowered, raised and lowered . . . slammed and lurched, slammed and lurched . . . and the pain eased, replaced by the whirling, mellow, rising lust.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, her fingers clamped into his skin as she worked faster and faster over him, her pip round and hard, her insides tightening and slipping, until she heard him cry out, and felt the sudden jerk of his hips, and the uncontrollable shuddering and trembling inside her and beneath her . . . that low moan of reluctant ecstasy, the feel of him slamming himself up into her, even against the belt at his hips, drove her over the edge.

  An orgasm such as she’d never known crashed over her, hot and wringing and long and deep. . . . She collapsed forward, her hands sliding on his slick chest, her heart stampeding in her chest, her mouth open and gasping and crying, her pip throbbing and undulating there against the side of his cock.

  After a long moment, she pressed a kiss to his salty throat, lifted her head, and saw his face.

  It was shadowed, sweaty, and blank. Devoid of emotion, shuttered, empty.

  And she froze, the last vestiges of pleasure scattering like seeds on the wind.

  What had she done?

  TWELVE

  The Insult

  The next day

  Paris

  Satisfaction and gut-level pleasure washed over Monte Cristo as he looked down at the list of four neatly printed names and the final off-kilter scrawled one.

  Only one was eliminated, by a single, neat line drawn through it, but his satisfaction came from the knowledge that the web was weaving tighter. It would be mere days before the worlds of Villefort, Danglars, and Morcerf disintegrated, collapsing upon them like the houses of cards they’d each built up to hide their greed and deceit.

  Caderousse had been a fool to break into the home of the Count of Monte Cristo; of course, he could have had no idea that he was also Edmond Dantès, a man he’d helped betray twenty-four years ago by standing aside and letting his arrest happen. But the old thief had sown the seeds of his own fate: once he recognized Monte Cristo as Dantès, and he realized that the man had come back to haunt him, Caderousse fled the house . . . falling to his death from the second-story window.

  There had been no need to worry the household about the attempted thievery, for Monte Cristo had been fully aware of Caderousse’s plans to steal from him. In fact, he’d purposely planned and publicized the fact that his household would be in Auteuil in order to give Caderousse the opportunity to burgle his home, as a sort of subtle challenge to see if the man had given up his dishonest ways.

  Clearly, Caderousse had not changed from the self-serving, thieving man he’d been since his betrayal of Edmond Dantès, and thus his demise was fitting.

  And Monte Cristo had not needed to lift a hand in violence or anger against Caderousse; like Danglars and Morcerf and Villefort, his disaster was the result of his own choices, his own secrets, his own greed.

  One of five. Eliminated from the list.

  And soon, he would have a lasting vengeance on the rest of them—the ones who had actively plotted against him. A revenge longer and more lasting than a simple moment of execution, one more public than imprisonment.

  Yet . . . Monte Cristo looked at the scribbled name at the bottom of the list and felt the satisfaction turn to a low beat of anger. Smoldering fury, deep within . . . a dryness in his throat . . . a maelstrom of remembered images, sounds, scents, textures.

  Unlike the others, his plan for her had not materialized in the way he’d anticipated.

  He’d had expectations, images of her crying and pleading for understanding, for sympathy, for mercy . . . begging for forgiveness . . . gasping for release.

  His cock, the blasted traitor, lifted a bit, swelling in his trousers as he thought about those nights . . . the unexpected results and his own bloody weakness. His palms dampened, his mouth dried.

  He knew it was a purely physical reaction, a bodily need, a simple function that made him respond to her the way he did . . . lose his head, forget his purpose, tumble into the moment.

  But it didn’t matter any longer. In a matter of days, his Campaign of Vengeance would be completed. He would leave Paris with Haydée, he would free her and release Ali from his vow, and he would never rest his eyes upon Mercédès Herrera de Morcerf again.

  And despite the fact that his plans to dominate her physically, to break her, through humiliation and the betrayal of her own body—in the same way she’d betrayed Edmond Dantès, the man she had sworn to love forever—had not been fulfilled in the manner he’d expected . . . he had humiliated her. He had dominated her.

  And he would yet be revenged.

  For the sins of the father would also be visited upon the son.

  And so would the sins of the mother.

  Yes, indeed, Albert de Morcerf would feel the sting of vengeance for the wrongdoings of his parents. The disruption of his intended marriage to Eugénie Danglars was only part of the scheme to destroy Albert’s father, pain that the young man would suffer as well.

  Monte Cristo looked up at the knock on his door and bade Bertuccio to enter. He folded up his well-creased piece of paper and slipped it back into the large cabochon garnet pin he wore as his servant entered.

  “Your Excellency, all has been prepared for our departure to Normandy. Monsieur Albert de Morcerf has arrived, below, and we await your pleasure in the carriage.”

  Monte Cristo nodded briefly, a renewed stab of satisfaction sending over him a feeling of well-being and purpose. He and Morcerf’s son would be on holiday far from Paris when the world dropped away from Fernand’s feet.

  It had been more than two weeks since Mercédès had—for lack of a better term—entertained the Count of Monte Cristo in her bedchamber, and to her relief, she’d neither seen the man, nor heard from him. He wasn’t even in Paris at this time; Mercédès knew this because he’d invited Albert to join him at yet another of his residences, this one in Normandy, and they had already been gone for two days.

  She wasn’t certain whether she should feel as if matters had been settled between them—for whatever his goal had been, certainly he must have felt some measure of satisfaction, even if she hadn’t fully surrendered in the manner he’d demanded. After all, she’d been left there, humiliated and unsatisfied, for anyone to find.

  Nor, miraculously, had Fernand made any reference to the events of that night. Mercédès, while perplexed about his silence, wasn’t disappointed about his choice to ignore the events of that night. At first, he’d been furious about the humiliation of Baron Danglars’ refusal to finalize the betrothal of Albert and Eugénie Danglars, which had already been announced publicly—but in retrospect, it was Danglars who’d ended up looking the fool, as the man he’d chosen to replace Albert as his future son-in-law had turned out to be nothing but a common thief masquerading as a prince. This discovery, to Danglars’ embarrassment, had been made during the actual betrothal ceremony. Mercédès had heard that the prince had been sponsored by the Count of Monte Cristo, and considered how such a man as the count had made the error, mistaking a common criminal for a prince of Italy. Had it really been a mistake?

  Mercédès had begun to wonder, in the last weeks, about these friendships—or, at least, acquaintances between Monte Cristo and the three men who had all been part of his life before Edmond Dantès’ disappearance. Fernand had considered Edmond a
rival for Mercédès’ affections, although Mercédès had always loved only Edmond, and the men had had an uneasy friendship. Danglars had been purser on the Pharaon with him. And Villefort . . . Mercédès felt that familiar twisting in her stomach when she thought about Villefort and how she’d gone to him, asking for help and information about Edmond.

  Begging.

  She closed her eyes tightly, as if that would eliminate the memories, and turned her attention back to her original train of thought. Monte Cristo had ingratiated himself with those three men since his return to Paris, and now . . . odd things had begun to happen. Misfortunes.

  Danglars’ wife had lost a large sum of money on the exchange, and if rumors were true, the baron himself had lost even more money.

  Mercédès had been greatly relieved when the betrothal between Eugénie Danglars and Albert had been canceled. But she couldn’t help but wonder about it, especially since Danglars had gone ahead and betrothed his daughter to a man sponsored by the Count of Monte Cristo who turned out to be a common criminal. More embarrassment and humiliation for the baron.

  And as for Monsieur Villefort . . . there was rumor that the three deaths in his household had not been accidental, but had, in fact, been murder. And his own daughter’s betrothal to a wealthy young man had suddenly been canceled as well.

  All of this in the last six weeks since Monte Cristo had arrived on the scene.

  And now Fernand seemed to be very concerned with a newspaper story about Ali Pasha, whom he had helped protect when he was in the army in Janina. He was spending an inordinate amount of time in his private office, or at the upper house of parliament, and she’d seen very little of him.

  But Mercédès cared little for Fernand’s troubles or concerns and, as she’d been doing for more than two decades, stayed away from him as much as she could and occupied herself with her garden, and visiting with a few close friends. If Monte Cristo were involved in these misfortunes—and she couldn’t quite fully believe that he had that extent of power and resources—it was no concern of hers.