Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo by Colette Gale

Author:Colette Gale [Gale, Colette]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2008-05-06T04:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

At the Theater

The next morning

Paris

Mercédès stood in a cascade of water, and it poured down on her, hot and pounding over her shoulders and on the sensitive tips of her nipples. She raised her face and let the waterfall prickle against her cheeks and lips, and she smoothed her wet hair over the top of her head, feeling it slap against her back.

Suddenly, large tanned hands slipped around her waist, pulling her back up against a solid chest . . . and a thrusting cock, prodding below the crack of her ass. With a sigh, she rested back against his solid chest and felt wet, hot kisses on her bare shoulder as his hands moved up to cover her breasts.

She turned her head under the spray of water to see Edmond behind her, his handsome face taut with desire, young and lean, his lips full and moist from the cascade. As she looked at him, he merged into the older, harsher Monte Cristo, his hands pinging her nipples, making the sensation sing down into her belly.

Her desire rising, mingling with the steam, she tried to turn to face him, but a second pair of hands appeared, sliding over her shoulders to tangle in her sopping hair, and another tall, dark-haired figure was suddenly before her. Sinbad bent forward to kiss her mouth before she could protest, and she felt the bristle of his short beard and mustache as he fit his lips to hers, hands gripping her shoulders, molding his long body to hers.

Trapped, crushed, between them, Mercédès felt every inch of her body pressing into hard muscle and warm flesh. Between the beat of water, and the rise of steam, she could see little. Everything was a maelstrom of sensation: teeth nibbling gently beneath her ear, strong hands over the front of her nipples, fingertips tracing tiny little circles on them that made her squirm . . . sensual lips molding to her mouth, fitting, pulling, tasting . . . long legs behind hers, a cock raging against her from behind . . . and another one teasing at the front of her sex.

Mercédès tried to pull away, to escape from the delicious torture, but Sinbad held her shoulders while Monte Cristo cupped her breasts, their strong arms embracing her so tightly she could barely catch her breath. Wet flesh slipped and slid against hot, wet flesh, smooth curves crushed against firm, ropy muscle, limbs tangled and bent, her long black hair plastered everywhere.

Then Sinbad, with his dark-lined eyes and smooth, queued hair, pulled out of the kiss, and she drew in a deep sigh, struggling to push him away, hands splayed on his bare, smooth chest . . . but Monte Cristo caught at her wrists, and pulled them behind her back, holding them there with one strong hand as Sinbad knelt before her.

The water rained down, choking her as she opened her mouth to protest—or perhaps to sigh her pleasure—as firm fingers drew her thighs apart. Sinbad bent to her swollen pearl, his hands cupping the underside of her thighs as her knees buckled.

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