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

that settled below her navel. A large sapphire had been set in that small hollow. Her smooth coffee-colored skin was bare from hip to just below her breasts, which were bound with more strips of silk that wrapped around her neck, leaving her arms bare but for numerous golden bangles and bands. Her black hair hung in thick, springy coils from the crown of her head, where they were captured by a wide gold band studded with emeralds. Her feet were bare, but she wore gold rings on her ankles and toes.
    Neru, a young man of approximately the same age as Omania—perhaps twenty—was garbed similarly to Sinbad. However, he wore no shirt under his short jacket, which hung open to display part of a well-muscled, hairless chest, and all of a flat belly, ridged with muscle. His arms were well defined and gleamed sleekly, as if they and the rest of his espresso skin had been oiled. His strong, broad feet planted themselves on the rug of leopard fur.
    A drum began to beat low, drawing Mercédès’ attention to an as yet unnoticed corner, where the other female maidservant who’d helped her bathe was sitting. The drummer’s attention was trained on Omania and Neru as her sure hands beat an exotic rhythm.
    “Countess.” She heard the voice and turned to look at Sinbad. His shadowed eyes held hers.
    Suddenly, the room felt soft and warm. And small. It shrank as he moved toward her, uncurling his legs and easing himself closer with the smooth stepping of his palms on the fur pelts. She watched his hands, tanned fingers spread wide and solid, sinking into the furs, and found herself unable to look away as they moved nearer. The drumbeat pounded low and steady in the background, deep enough that she felt it in the depths of her body.
    Her heart rammed in her chest, and her own fingers trembled in her lap, crushing and dampening the silk. When his hand brushed against her silk-covered leg, she closed her eyes. Her breathing was unsteady, and she thought she heard raspiness in his breath.
    When he kissed her, at last, the bristles of his mustache were the same soft ones she remembered. They brushed against the dry plumpness of her lips, a gentle tickling as if to invite them to open. And they did.
    He was still on his hands and knees, their faces even and his head tipping to the side to better fit his mouth to hers. His arms bumped against her legs, and his weight on the divan cushions caused her to lean gently toward him, so she reached out to steady herself. Her fingers clashed with his among the fur.
    The slick tangle of tongues, the sucking and nibbling and sliding of lips, the heat of his proximity, a spicy smell in his hair, the sweetness of mango and wine threaded through the kiss . . . a ferocious kiss, saved up for ten years. It was as if a door had opened and sensation burst through her body, awakening it.
    Sinbad pulled back. “Enjoy,” he told her, gesturing at the younger man and woman standing before them.
    He moved back to his place, and Mercédès stared at him in the dim light, her lips parted, her eyes fastened on him, her breath still coming in little surprised pants. Dios mio , what he’d done with a mere kiss!
    Turning away, Sinbad clapped his hands again, and Neru and Omania began to dance.
    Mercédès watched as the couple’s bodies began to undulate sinuously, gliding, shifting, rolling. At first, they stood next to each other, facing the divan, toes pointed toward their audience. Neru was in front of Mercédès, close enough that she could smell his musky scent and see the fine hairs of his brows, and Omania moved opposite Sinbad. Neru’s eyes were closed, and his body moved as though drawn by the drumbeat, easily, sensuously . . . moving to the low throbbing that began to match the drumming of Mercédès’ heart. His arms rose, his hips shifted sensually, and his belly rolled like the waves of the sea.
    The mirror movements of the two dancers were beautiful and arousing, even before they turned to each other.