Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Marguerite

Montpellier, France, 1700

"You realise they're staring at us," Marguerite said, her eyes twinkling.

Edmond Dantès glanced to their left, at the older couple that Marguerite was talking about.

They weren't even pretending not to look.

"We could really give them something to stare at," Marguerite suggested, biting her lip.

Edmond needed no further encouragement.

Pulling Marguerite into his arms, he kissed her, fiercely and passionately, until she let out the breathy little moan that he loved so much.

When he pulled back, the older couple were still staring, both of them looking faintly amused.

In the years that he'd lived in this city, Edmond had developed something of a reputation. People knew him as polite and charming, if a little distant, and there was much social speculation as to why he seemed to avoid mingling with other members of the aristocracy. Tongues wagged even more when he started courting Marguerite – a common factory worker.

But he and Marguerite had been seeing each other for months now, and everyone seemed to have got used to it. They probably assumed an engagement was forthcoming and –

Edmond shoved that thought away.

He wasn't ready to address it.

"Maybe we should go somewhere more private," Marguerite suggested. "Unless you're planning to take me here in the gardens?"

Edmond's blood heated. "Tempting," he murmured, nuzzling her lips.

The city's botanical garden, the oldest in France, was Marguerite's favourite place to walk. She worked during the day, so she and Edmond took walks in the evenings sometimes, or on Sunday afternoons, and there were always other courting couples enjoying the olive trees and architectural ruins and glittering water features. Many of those couples were not shy in publicly displaying their affections for each other – Edmond had lost count of how many times he'd seen young men with their hands up their partners' skirts. But no one seemed to care.

Sometimes Edmond wondered whether there was a limit to what was considered publicly acceptable. He'd never test it, of course – though that was less out of a sense of propriety and more because a fully naked Marguerite was for his eyes only.

Her hand deliberately brushed against him, a teasing smile on her lips. "Shall we go?" she said.

"I think that's an excellent idea."

Edmond's house wasn't far from the garden, and they barely made it inside before Marguerite was eagerly tearing open Edmond's breeches. Her hands were slightly rough from years of factory labour, but Edmond arched into her touch as if it was silk.

He undressed her as quickly as he could and the sight of her, beautiful and bare to him, almost sent him over the edge. He was too impatient to undress himself – instead he lifted her, setting her against the wall and supporting her weight with one arm as he sank deep inside. His other hand slid behind her head, stopping her from banging it against the wall.

She moaned his name as he bucked his hips against her, faster and faster until she broke apart with a raw scream. Marguerite sagged in his arms, gasping, exhausted, and Edmond stroked her hair.

Six years had passed since Charlotte had broken his heart by bringing a mob to kill him, and sometimes that still woke him up at night. Sometimes he still saw those faces, contorted by hatred, and Charlotte herself, cold and contemptuous, and sometimes those memories became tangled with the mob that had killed François.