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As the Count’s carriage comes to a stop in front of the opera house, Albert shrinks in on himself in fear. This beautiful structure that Albert has been dragged to since he was a child has never felt more imposing than it does now from inside The Count of Monte Cristo’s carriage.
There is a massive crowd in the courtyard, all the glittering upper class of Paris gathering for Die Walküre . They always come for Wagner, but Albert wishes they could have waited for a less reputable opera to do this.
“Are you having cold feet?” The Count asks, his voice turning to smoke as it curls around Albert’s ear. They’re seated across from each other, but they may as well be in each other’s arms for how Paris will take it when they step out of this carriage together.
“Everyone’s going to see us. They’re going to know…” Albert sighs miserably. He can’t stop himself from looking for familiar faces in the gorgeous crowd, never more terrified at the thought of running into his own friends and family.
“Yes, they will know.” The Count pulls Albert’s hand off the seat and cradles it in his own, warm even through his fitted gloves. Albert looks at the Count, eyes wide, heat in his face. “Even if we delayed the announcement, they will find out eventually, one way or another.”
Albert hates how final this all sounds, but there is fondness in the Count’s face that never fails to make Albert’s heart constrict, even when he feels so small and helpless.
“Would you prefer to be the one who tells the story? Or would you rather spend your time running from rumors?”
His hands are so large, Albert’s fingers are frozen between the Count’s palms. Should he move to reciprocate the gesture? Is he allowed to do that now? Things are so different than they were a few days ago, and he has no rulebook to guide him. He hasn’t even really decided if he wants to reciprocate.
“Your father’s actions don’t have to be your shame,” the Count says, and Albert shies away from his gaze as blood rushes to his face. Those mismatched eyes have always brought a thrill with them, but now that thrill comes with a very real consequence for Albert.
With a few simple words exchanged between Albert’s father and the Count, Albert now belongs to this man. It happened so quickly, no hesitation from either party. General Morcef was desperate for financial leverage in the face of a threat to his reputation, and his upcoming campaign. The Count of Monte Cristo was there with open purse strings, and no questions. Albert still isn’t entirely sure what happened—he wasn’t really conscious through the explanation—but what it boils down to is that the Morcef name is being threatened leading up to the election, and the Count has generously promised to help.
“I ask you, Albert.” The Count draws Albert’s gaze to his once more, moth to flame. “Do you want the city to see you living in fear and regret, at the mercy of your father’s whims? Or…”
The Count raises Albert’s hand up higher, studying Albert’s knuckles as if each peak and curve of his skin has some delicacy threaded through.
“Do you want all of Paris to see you reforged into something stronger?”
Albert’s breath catches at the cold press of the Count’s lips on his own feverish hand. He’s dizzy, snared by the way the Count’s mouth looks in the shape of a kiss, a man who has no doubt kissed countless others who don’t hesitate to bend to him. The Count raises his gaze back to Albert’s, holding Albert’s fingers against his jaw.
“Leave this carriage as your father’s castoff, or take my arm, as my wife. The choice is yours.”
All too soon, the Count takes his hands back, and Albert’s heart leaps into his throat. The Count moves so quickly, pushing open the carriage door and stepping down so he can hold his hand out to Albert. This is the moment. Albert can scorn him, and take to the crowd like a hostage who pines to be let back into his father’s household. Or, he can prove to his father that Albert will be just fine on his own.
Albert has no idea who is standing out there, but he knows that if his parents can see him, the last thing he wants is for them to pity him now. The Count is right. Albert doesn’t want his parents to think they have such power over him. That is what guides Albert to the Count. He wants to be his own person. He wants to stop needing his father’s calloused hands.
So he takes the Count’s instead.
Quickly, the Count pulls Albert from the carriage and under his arm. The bright lights shining from within the opera house seem to blind Albert as the two of them approach the steps up. Albert can’t focus on anything other than the weight and the heat of the Count’s arm draped over his shoulder, the way each of his five fingers squeeze the top of Albert’s arm through his sleeve.
Albert can feel the breeze of the night air on his chest through the sheer shirt that was provided to him. He barely remembers dressing. If he’s being honest, he hasn’t been fully conscious since the Count escorted him from the house he grew up in and into the Count’s own mansion. For as many times as Albert entertained silly, shameful fantasies about walking out on the Count’s arm for everyone to see, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be his father trading him to the Count like an item at auction.
Haydee had given him these clothes, along with such an empathetic look. Albert knew what she was thinking while he put on a dress shirt as thin and lovely moonlight. We are the same . But Albert hadn’t had the presence of mind at the time to throw the tantrum he wanted to about that.
And now, they are walking the same path that Albert had once seen Haydee and the Count walk, weeks ago, to the shock of everyone in Paris. What will they say? No one knew the Count or Haydee at that first performance. Since then, the Count has made quite the name for himself in high society, and everyone knows Albert. He is on display at the Count’s side for all to see, like a piece of gold jewelry lovingly padded in velvet.
His hands are clammy as the Count guides Albert up the stairs and toward the open doors of the opera house. There are camera flashes, and people talking all around them, but the Count doesn’t stop to entertain any of it. Eugenie or Franz could be watching them at that moment, and Albert would have no idea. He certainly doesn’t want to tell them about this arrangement.
The Count marches them straight inside and comes to a swift stop in the widest part of the lobby, turning to face Albert with his hand gentle on Albert’s shoulder.
“Your parents have seen us. Do you wish to speak to them?”
Albert meets the Count’s patient gaze, realizing with a drop in his stomach that this means his parents saw them and did not approach. Already distancing themselves from their own choices, and from Albert. Straightening his shoulders, Albert shakes his head.
“We’re not here for them,” he manages.
When the Count smiles at him, Albert feels the old thrill he got when he first began talking to this man. A rush of wind at his back, elevating him so that he can stand beside someone so powerful.
The Count slips his hand down the back of Albert’s tightly fitted jacket, resting his gloved fingers dangerously close to Albert’s hip in full view of polite company.
“Shall we take our seats?” The Count asks.
Albert is burning up so close to him. “Yes.”
“I am very glad you agreed to this,” The Count says, speaking low for Albert’s ears as he sweeps them around the narrow halls in search of their box. “Of course, I am no monster. I would never force you to do something that you didn’t want to do. But I admit, I’m eager for you to officially join my household.”
Albert keeps expecting to trip on his own feet for how dizzy this all makes him. He is hearing everything on a delay. The Count is sweeping back the curtain to his personal box by the time his words catch up.
“You want me in your household?” Albert asks dumbly.
The Count responds with a quiet laugh that makes Albert glad they are nearly done walking. That voice still makes him weak. Letting the curtain swing back to block the rest of the audience from view, the Count raises his hand and softly touches his gloved knuckles to Albert’s cheek.
“Forgive me, Albert. Sometimes I am too quiet for my own good.”
Blood rushes to Albert’s face at the contact, entranced as the Count speaks to him.
“I didn’t want you to think poorly of me, so I have kept some distance between us. After all, you were engaged to someone else only a short time ago. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but the reason the negotiation with your father went so quickly was because there was nothing else I wanted aside from you.”
Albert’s heart has never raced like this, so dangerously fast, he’s sure he’ll lose his balance if someone doesn’t stop it soon.
“I didn’t agree to this to save your father’s finances or his name. I agreed so that you would be mine.”
No amount of fumbling kisses in the dark or stolen alcohol could ever compare to the rush Albert gets in that moment, and they aren’t even touching with their skin.
“You must think I’m an animal.”
The Count once again parts the curtain for Albert, gesturing with his hand for Albert to step through, but his smile says something different.
“This way.” The Count gently nudges Albert forward with his hand on Albert’s back, and Alberts startles forward into full view of the audience. He’s never had a fear of heights, but today, he may as well be miles up from the ground, and everyone knows it.
“I don’t…” Albert’s voice leaves him in a hush, so quiet that the Count doesn’t hear him.
“Sit.” The Count puts his hands on the back of an ornate chair. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
Albert’s throat is dry enough that he complies, thinking that, yes, he would like something to drink if only to be able to speak again. Already, the Count is taking care of him. Sinking down on his chair, Albert tries to focus on breathing as the Count goes to place an order with one of the staff. The entire opera house is full of the hush of voices, like a flock of birds fluttering their wings all around him.
He cannot believe he is sitting here. He cannot believe that the Count of Monte Cristo is taking a seat beside him, setting aside his walking stick and directing a waiter where to place a pitcher and two glasses so they can drink together. Albert cannot believe that the Count wants him .
Staring out of the corner of his eye, Albert furtively glances at the strangest, most handsome man that he has ever seen, the easy smile on the Count’s lips as he fills two glasses, and the undeniable darkness that Albert knows lives inside him. Maybe this means that the Count trusts Albert enough that he can start to unravel that too.
“Why bother stealing looks when I am offering them to you freely?” the Count asks, meeting Albert’s gaze.
“Ah, I didn’t mean to stare.” Albert’s shoulders tense, face painfully warm as he stares at the wall instead.
“I’m telling you that you’re allowed,” the Count whispers back, presenting Albert with a fizzling drink in a flute glass. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed to look at your husband.”
Albert downs half the glass just to give himself time to figure out what to say to that.
“You really don’t mind?” He turns toward the Count. “I thought. It’s just. Anyone in Paris would want to marry you!”
The Count looks at Albert’s half-empty glass and smirks. “You drank before we could toast. That’s bad luck, you know? Shall we try again?”
He moves so smoothly, refilling Albert’s glass to the very top before returning to softly kiss the rim of his own glass to Albert’s.
“Let this be the first of many,” the Count says.
That time, they both drink, and Albert actually tastes what he’s been served. Some kind of sweet champagne that reminds him of drinking honeysuckle as a kid. His chest fills with a pleasant warmth, and the murmur of the audience doesn’t feel quite as oppressive as it did before.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” Albert says, staring at the glass as he twists it by the stem. “And for the clothes. And for everything else. I don’t want to let my anger at my parents speak louder than my…”
His pulse roars as he realizes he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.
The Count sets his own glass back down on the small round table to his right, and surveys the crowd with a satisfied smile.
“There is no one else I would rather have at my side, I promise.”
Albert finally starts to smile back, even if it’s only to his glass.
“But before you go thanking me, allow me to admit to a little bit of selfishness.”
Albert looks up at him, curious despite his self-consciousness.
When the Count meets his gaze, there is no one else in the room.
“There is a tradition in Eastern Space, a practice for good luck that newlyweds engage in, as a way to strengthen the bonds of their relationship. I don’t want you to think I tricked you. Just because we could, doesn’t mean I expect it. It’s only a memory that I’m fond of.”
The giddiness of uncertainty drives Albert to take another gulp of his drink.
“It’s a proven tradition, though,” the Count explains. “That the person who accepts the proposal proves their devotion to their betrothed in a public place, for anyone to see.”
Albert’s eyes flash wide. “Prove their…devotion?”
“It’s easy to say yes in the moment,” the Count tells him with a conspiratorial expression. “It’s not so easy to give someone your body where others can see.”
Albert knows he’s blushing something fierce.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” the Count asks, unbelievably steady as he talks about something so vulgar. “The ability to stake one’s claim without caring who sees? To be so consumed by someone else that you could shut out anyone else’s wandering gaze.”
Albert can hardly breathe, so he finishes his drink instead. “I-is that why we’re here?”
With a laugh, the Count takes Albert’s empty glass from him to set aside. “Of course not, Albert. I only thought of it as we took our seats. I might entertain the idle fantasy, but I would never spring that on you and expect you to comply. It just felt deceitful not to tell you what was on my mind as we sat here.”
Albert feels the floor dropping out from under him as the house lights begin to dim. The Count lifts Albert’s chin up toward his, and then politely folds his hands over his own lap.
“It’s enough that you’re here with me,” the Count says.
The Count’s eyes practically fizzle like Albert’s drink—a potential energy that Albert never noticed, or maybe just ignored right up until this moment.
“Fantasy…?” Albert feels his lips moving before he realizes he let himself say that out loud.
The unmistakable tap of the conductor’s baton against a metal podium cuts through the air from the orchestra pit deep below, and the last of the audience murmurs die down.
The Count has Albert snared in his gaze.
“Who wouldn’t fantasize about their new bride?”
That time, when he says it, Albert really hears it. Bride. Albert belongs to this man now—not just through misfortune, but because the Count wanted this to happen. He wants Albert so much that he would offer to prove his devotion in public.
The orchestra explodes into a fast paced, urgent song that fills the house like steam, and Albert’s chest tightens as he watches the Count watching him. Albert knows his own fantasies well enough, but he never really allowed himself to think about anything as lewd as the Count has suggested. What kind of fantasies does he have? What does the Count think about in the dark hours of the night?
Deep bass pours out from the orchestra, and Albert feels it on his skin. Someone else is pinching his tongue as he asks, “What exactly would you have to do?”
The Count inclines his head further toward Albert, inviting Albert to clarify with a quirk of his brow.
Albert is dizzy—must be the glass and a half of alcohol he drank in one minute flat—but he feels light, bolstered by the Count’s steadfast confession.
“How do you prove your devotion?”
The Count smiles, and the music breaks, silence swelling through the room once more, only to be picked up by a much quieter string section. Albert likes this smile on the Count’s face. It looks like they’re sharing a joke, and even as the Count turns his face toward the stage, Albert can tell this isn’t over yet.
The Count always gives him an answer.
As the opera begins in earnest, a grey wolf darts across the stage and the Count moves his hand across the space between their chairs, resting his fingers lightly on the top of Albert’s thigh.
“Have you seen this opera before?” The Count asks.
Albert doesn’t know where to look. The Count still has his gaze anchored to the stage as actors begin to reveal themselves, bursting out in song, but Albert is magnetized to the sight of the Count’s gloved hand spreading lightly over Albert’s tightly fitted pants.
He was asked a question. Albert sputters to answer, “Only once.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
The Count keeps his voice at a perfect whisper that fits between the singing and the silence. Albert can hear every word when he’s paying attention, but his focus splits as the Count smooths his hand down the length of Albert’s thigh to trace his knee.
“I didn’t pay much attention last time,” Albert admits, unable to look away from the white glove cupping his knee as though it were a scandalous thing.
“It is a tragedy of forbidden love,” the Count says, turning his head back to catch Albert’s gaze. “A man and a woman fall for each other, only to realize that they are twins, separated in their youth.”
The Count squeezes Albert’s knee, nearly stealing the words from Albert’s mouth as he tries to ask, “Do they separate again when they realize?”
“No,” the Count replies, drawing his fingers back over the top of Albert’s leg. “They both realize the truth, and they both decide to ignore it.”
Albert doesn’t care about the opera, or the story, or the music engulfing the house. The Count’s gloved hand is around the widest part of Albert’s thigh, inching ever closer to Albert’s pulse thrumming wildly between his legs.
“Watch,” the Count commands, and Albert jumps, his gaze snapping to the Count’s face, and then to the stage where the actors are swirling around each other. “They’re about to fall in love.”
Albert realizes with his chest about to burst that they are in the highest box in the entire room. Everyone can see their faces. He can’t keep staring at his lap like this, but as soon as he resolves to keep his head up, he feels a finger passing over the button, and then the zipper, of his pants.
It’s a light touch, barely any pressure at all, but Albert’s skin reacts like he’s been struck by lightning. His mouth falls open, his own hands clenching around the edges of his chair, but the Count only moves past to rest his fingers on Albert’s other thigh, as if he never meant to get that close.
“It’s a beautiful story,” the Count goes on. “A love so profound that it can’t be ignored by those swept up in it.”
His hand goes still as Albert tries to breathe again. The pulsing between his legs is so loud, it almost hurts. It takes effort to keep his head turned toward the stage, especially as he’s bracing for the Count to do something else—but all he does is run his thumb back and forth, every little movement lighting Albert’s nerves on fire.
“The twins decide that, even though it’s wrong, their love is too deep to ignore.”
His hand remains still, but his thumb still draws softly on the inside of Albert’s thigh. What is he waiting for? Albert swallows as his anticipation starts to turn to dizziness thanks to his racing heart.
“They even conceive a child,” the Count says, and Albert takes a deep, shaking breath.
Why won’t the Count do something? Is he waiting for a moment on stage?
Or is he waiting for Albert?
As Albert grapples with himself, his gaze wanders from the actors and over the audience. The lighting is ever changing and the people in the room slowly come in and out of focus as the Count lightly squeezes Albert’s thigh again. Albert has never been touched like this, and it’s intoxicating—like the time Franz and he stole a bottle of his father’s hard liquor and barely remembered the evening once it had finished.
Albert is dizzy, but he’s also alive. He can taste his own heart as he wonders how many people are glancing at their box seats. Does Albert really want to risk anyone in high society being able to see him succumbing to the Count like this? His vision refuses to settle, or maybe he’s just afraid to see anyone looking back at him, so he closes his eyes and swallows. The Count said it was his choice, after all.
He’s so warm. Albert wants to take his jacket off, but he doesn’t want the Count to think he’s nervous, and the jacket is also the only thing providing any kind of shield between his chest and wandering eyes.
The Count must have wanted to see Albert in this outfit. Maybe he wants to see Albert out of it too.
Dizzy, spinning, hazy. When Albert opens his eyes to try and ground himself, he is staring directly across the opera house, to the box on the other side of theirs. The Morcef box, where his parents are seated. He takes one look at each of their faces angled toward the stage before ripping his gaze away, for fear that they will find him staring back. He can’t have his parents seeing him like this, flushed and panting with the Count’s hand in his lap.
A singer on stage is keening as Albert remembers that they came here for a reason. It wasn’t the opera. He took the Count’s arm so he could prove that he didn’t need his parents. He has someone else—his hand is so large—and if Albert isn’t proud enough to prove it here, then why did he bother coming at all?
The Count caresses Albert’s thigh, never moving closer to the inside of his leg, but Albert feels every ounce of pressure sinking through him nonetheless. Albert was hoping he wouldn’t have to do anything, that it would just happen to him and he could figure it out later, but the Count is a man of decisive action. He won’t want a passive partner.
Albert’s hand shakes as he peels it off the edge of his chair and raises it to his own hip. The singers are so loud, the orchestra now a softer sound to support the vocals filling the room. Paranoia makes Albert hesitate until one of the singers holds their note, long and loud, before he pulls open the button to his trousers.
The Count wastes no time. Albert doesn’t get a single second to pretend it wasn’t intentional as the Count immediately draws his fingers over the opened button, and all Albert can do is grip his chair again as his body thrums. He doesn’t know why he’s so scared, or why he’s so dizzy , but as the Count nudges Albert’s zipper open, Albert’s entire body tenses.
Shoulders up to his ears, fingers clenched tight around the wood of the chair, the balls of his feet pressing hard into the carpet, Albert feels like he’s going to get electrocuted. The Count touches the hem of Albert’s underwear and slowly slides his finger lower until Albert’s back straightens.
Eyes wild, Albert looks at the Count, but his face is still turned politely to the stage even as he brushes his finger over the swell of Albert’s clit. He moves slowly but steadily across the front of Albert’s lacey underwear—also provided to him by the Count. Albert starts panting, glancing down to see the Count’s white glove half shoved down his dark pants.
“You’re missing the show,” the Count reminds him.
Albert tears his gaze away and the Count presses the lace up against the mouth of Albert’s cunt. Panic constricts Albert’s heart, but his body is molten as adrenaline rushes over him in goosebumps. He can’t figure out what he wants when his skin is singing for more, and his mind is screaming out in terror that at any moment, his parents could look over and see his face.
This must be part of the tradition the Count was describing. Albert has to prove that he wants this enough to push through the horrible shame of letting someone do this to him in public. He doesn’t know what to do. Don’t the people who usually do this have more time to get to know each other first?
The Count traces Albert’s slit through the fabric, and Albert is struck with searing embarrassment at how wet he is. This doesn’t usually happen. Even when he’s fooled around with people, it never escalates like this. And besides, usually Albert is the one doing the touching. He thought he liked girls…
When the Count pushes the edge of Albert’s underwear aside, his thick gloved finger teasing through the mess of fluid, Albert’s stomach flips. He forgets where he is as he lets his legs spread apart. It’s like he’s been dropped from a great height as his brain empties of every useful thought and his body takes over. He can’t even hear the actors and actresses singing their lungs out.
He wants the Count to put his finger inside. His eyes can’t focus on anything, and the world is a dark blur. When the Count pulls back, Albert whines, “ No, no, come back .”
He looks over at the Count, wondering if he made a mistake, and Albert’s eyes go wide at the sight of the Count’s face haloed in light. The impossible blue of his skin looks like stone and Albert’s mind spirals to a story he heard as a child about gargoyles that came to life at night and turned to stone in the sun. The Count smiles at the stage, a satisfied smirk that looks like he has been given something he’s selfishly wanted for a very long time, and Albert’s heart pounds louder and louder.
Albert starts panting, his body breaking into a sweat as he thinks that he would let the Count do anything if that is the kind of satisfaction it brings.
“Keep quiet,” the Count murmurs.
Albert only kind of hears him, so focused on the movement of his lips while he speaks. Will he kiss Albert when this is over?
The Count runs his fingers back over Albert’s clit, and Albert’s breath is punched out of him. He can’t see the room, only blocks of color and light from the stage bleeding over his eyes. He’s never wanted anything as badly as he wants the Count to keep touching him.
And he does, methodically drawing his middle finger over Albert’s swollen skin again and again until Albert’s entire body goes numb. Goosebumps shoot down his chest and arms as he squirms in his chair. It’s so unbearably hot in this room, he wishes he could take his clothes off, but that would mean he’d have to close his legs and he can’t—not when he’s so wet, his underwear is damp with it.
Albert’s hands are losing their grip on his chair, so he presses his palms into his own thighs. His blood is roaring even while the Count continues his leisurely stroking over Albert’s clit. Every time the Count’s glove passes over the tip, Albert melts a little more. He reaches blindly to his side, pawing at the Count’s coat until he has his fist around a hunk of fabric.
The Count finally turns to him with the smile of a concerned and perfect gentleman. “Albert. You’re in a state. Do you need something?”
It’s not fair how handsome he is as he slips his glove under Albert’s underwear. The fabric is dry as the Count presses hard into Albert’s clit.
Albert’s mouth falls open and his voice leaves him in a strangled whisper. “Count…”
“Did you have too much to drink?” The Count angles away from the stage, and toward Albert, placing his other hand on Albert’s pant leg. “You look flushed. Perhaps if we cool you down.”
All it takes is a slight tug of the Count’s hand, and Albert starts desperately pulling his own pants down his thighs. The Count read his mind after all. Someone on stage is singing so loud, it seems to penetrate Albert’s brain. He’s losing track of movement, only sensation as the Count slides his other hand between Albert’s legs. A thick gloved finger presses up against his slit, and Albert immediately tries to spread his thighs again, but they’re stuck on the waist of his tailored pants.
“This is my fault,” The Count muses as he buries his finger inside Albert’s cunt, so tight it takes Albert’s breath away. “I should have been watching you closer.”
As soon as he starts rubbing Albert’s clit again, stars explode in Albert’s vision. He is shaking from head to toe as the Count works his clit faster and faster. Albert’s legs are so hot they’re losing sensation. His heart is surely going to shatter his ribs.
“It would be rude to leave in the middle of the performance,” The Count whispers, his breath on Albert’s ear. “Just stay still, and this sickness should pass.”
Albert really loves this deep, rumbling voice in his ear. He wants the Count to talk to him more. He wants the Count’s mouth where his fingers are. That’s what he thinks about when his body finally gives in, and he can’t stop himself from looking back into his lap to watch the Count play him until he’s spilling hopelessly onto his own chair. His mouth hangs open, entranced by the movement of those white gloves over his clit, and the ones sheathed deep inside his slit.
Albert’s head is full of cotton. He’s surprised to see his own hand reaching toward the Count’s. He’s doing that, isn’t he? Yes, he wants to touch too. He wants to feel what the Count feels. It’s nice that he put on music for them to do this. Albert likes the opera.
The Count pulls on Albert’s clit, and a shudder passes over him.
“Good boy,” The Count tells him.
Albert is fixed on the folds of bright red skin against the Count’s pristine white gloves. He touches himself lightly, shocked all over again when he feels pleasure spearing him so deep. His cunt clenches around the Count’s fingers, more fluid pulsing out of him. Albert watches the gold brocade chair steadily staining darker with his mess.
Albert slides his fingers lower, his face igniting as he touches the Count’s hand shoved between his legs. Trembling all over again, he follows the Count’s fingers to his own slit, and gives an awed moan as the Count parts his gloved fingers inside Albert. There’s so much more space inside him than he thought.
“Right here,” The Count says.
Albert takes the invitation, sliding his finger between the Count’s to nestle between leather and the walls of his own cunt. He feels himself shiver from the inside, his body gripping at his and the Count’s fingers as the Count begins to move them both in a slow and deliberate thrust inside Albert.
Throwing his head back, Albert closes his eyes as a pleasure unlike anything he’s ever felt cracks open deep in his cunt. The Count’s fingers tied up with his own, fucking Albert with beautiful music washing over them—he couldn’t ask for anything better than this.
“Look at that smile.” The Count sounds so pleased with him, Albert twitches at the reward of more pressure on his clit, and more cum on his chair. His hand is a mess. The Count’s gloves must be filthy. Albert has never felt this good in his life. He didn’t think it was allowed to feel like this.
“We are surely blessed now,” The Count whispers. “Nothing will pull you away from me.”
Albert dissolves at the Count’s lovely words. He knows he’s loyal. He would never give this up. If this is what it means to belong to the Count of Monte Cristo, Albert would do anything to stay with him.
Man and wife. That’s all he needs.