Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo Read Online Free PDF Page B

bodice—that she could barely sense the thumb that tried to stroke over the top of it, yet she felt the tightening and heaviness grow, the surge of sensation gathering in her nipple. She arched, bowing her back, pressing up into his palm, pushing away everything but the beautiful, living sensations channeling through her, all centering into the moist throb of her sex.
    Mercédès pulled at the tiny silk knots that acted as buttons on his shirt, looking up as he raised his face to the ceiling and released a long, shuddering breath as if recognizing her final acquiescence. Beneath the silk she found warm, smooth skin, the muscles there flexing beneath her fingertips as he held himself up on trembling arms.
    “Let me,” he said, rolling to the side, then off the bed, his shirt flapping with his sudden movements. He shrugged it off, and it fluttered down into the darkness beyond the bed as he came to kneel next to her. She saw his chest, the dark tan marks from rolled-up sleeves and the vee of an unbuttoned shirt, and the pale white of the rest of his skin, fairly glowing in the faint light. He was lean and rangy, with wiry muscles roping along his arms to the gold bands at his wrists, and boxy shoulders, and a flat belly with only the narrowest trail of hair leading down to his trousers.
    Pulling her to sit upright, he moved around behind her, and again she felt the tightening and loosening of her bodice . . . but this time she didn’t hesitate. Mercédès pulled off her slippers and unrolled her silk stockings as she felt the final give of her bodice. As it opened and fell away from its high neck and the covering of her shoulders and bodice, she was aware that he was already unlacing her corset, tugging and jolting urgently as if unfamiliar with such trappings.
    Suddenly, two warm, raspy hands slid around, cupping her breasts from behind. The chill of his golden armbands was a shock to her as they brushed against the sensitive skin beneath her arms, and she gasped . . . but then she forgot everything but what he was doing.
    The brush of long whiskers—softer than Fernand’s short, bristling mustache—and a warm mouth on the side of her neck, sucking and licking just beneath her ear, just at her most sensitive spot. . . . How could he have known? How could she have forgotten?
    He nibbled and sucked and licked, and she gasped and closed her eyes, feeling her pip swell even further, knowing that her legs were getting damp from its moistness. He caught each nipple between a thumb and forefinger, gently tweaking and caressing, teasing them into hard points and making her breathing come faster and harder.
    She twisted in his arms, her sagging dress and corset a bundle of confused fabric and lace and boning. Their mouths met again, and she slipped her hands down between them, grasping his heavy cock where it strained through the silk.
    Dios mio , she thought. . . . How could a man hide his arousal in trousers such as this? It was almost as if he were naked. She could feel the ridge of his head, slide her fingers along the sweet curve of the erection that jutted freely. The silk made warm friction, and he tensed and stilled as she thumbed over the foreskin of his cock’s head, down over the front, where she felt the smallest dampness, and back up and over.
    His breathing was heavy and raspy, and hers matched; the room was tight and close again, and suddenly he had her back on the cushions, pulling away from her teasing hands and lifting her skirts. He wasted no time, bringing his hands up her thighs, under the layers of skirt and crinoline and chemise, finding that pulsing wetness of her sex. She let her legs splay open and felt the weight of her dress and its undergarments lifted from her hips and piled on her belly. His hands were gentle but firm on the insides of her thighs, spreading them just at the juncture where her sex was now bare to him, to the open room.
    He used his thumb to slide up along the front of her sex,