by Colette Gale
Philippe had allowed her to maneuver him toward a quiet corner of the room. Her obvious interest was very unlike the Carlotta he had observed, albeit briefly, from a distance. Normally, the woman required the men to come to her—and she did not appear to have any great dearth of male companionship. His curiosity piqued, he waited for her to sit, and then chose a ridiculously uncomfortable cushion near enough to her that they could speak without being overheard.
“And how do you expect to prevent it?” he asked, taking the opportunity to slip his fingers into the prominently offered bosom. The neckline, which plunged down nearly to her navel, was so tight that it cut across the tops of her areolas. When he pulled the boned material away from one melon-sized breast, it pulled taut against the other, flattening her breast even as the other was exposed. “Do you have some influence with this Opera Ghost of which they speak? Or do you simply plan to touch La Sorelli’s lucky horseshoe before your next performance in order to stave off the misfortune brought by the Phantom?”
“Opera Ghost! Pah!” Carlotta replied, leaning forward. When his finger and thumb found her jutting nipple, Philippe gave it an experimental squeeze and was gratified to see the response in her eyes. “I do not believe in any Opera Ghost. Ridículo! He sabotaged my voice tonic, which I leave in the wings to gargle with between songs. Ghost or no ghost, whoever he is, he wished to embarrass Carlotta, and he traded the tonic for something that made my voice do that—that horrible thing. I recognized it immediately when I tasted the tonic again. It was no ghostly effort, but a man-made one.”
“You seem to be in the minority,” Philippe said. Her skin was soft and warm, and Philippe tasted it at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Greasepaint and powder flavored his lips at first, but then he found sweet and salty flesh and sucked hard. Carlotta purred under his mouth, and his hand slipped fully under the band of her neckline and cupped her breast. “Why is that?”
Carlotta pulled away, and he saw the calculation in her eyes. “He is no more a ghost than you or I,” she told him. “I have heard things.”
Philippe cared much less for what gossip the singer had heard than for the generous mounds of flesh offered beneath that cabernet gown, but in the public eye, he was a gentleman and would wait until an appropriate time. “Things?” he murmured, raising her plump white arm for the simple pleasure of seeing its corresponding breast lift.
“The daughter of the ballet mistress, she speaks of the man they call the ghost. She is a particular friend of Miss Daaé, and somehow, this girl, she knows other things that have been said about him. This ghost who is not a ghost but a man with a horrible face, who hides it under a mask.”
It took a moment, but the cant of her words fell away and left Philippe with a shock at their meaning. He paused, his fingers closing over her wrist perhaps a bit too tightly. But when he looked up, she did not show pain in her eyes…but only pleasure. And satisfaction. “A man? In a mask?”
Was it possible? Could it be he? Here, all this time?
Philippe sat back and released Carlotta, his mind sifting through the possibility. “What more do you know about this man? How long has this ghost been here? What does he look like?”
Carlotta's face took on an even slier, craftier expression. “There have been rumors of a…presence…here since the Opera House’s inauguration ten years ago, and perhaps even longer, while it was being built. I do not know what he looks like, but he must move with the agility of youth in order to clamber about as easily and quickly as he seems to.”
“Indeed. I believe we might have several things to…discuss,” Philippe told her, his mind still working. It had been nearly ten years ago that all of those disagreeable events had happened, events that he’d taken great care to sweep under the carpet, so to speak. It was fortunate that it had been during the unpleasantness of the war, thus making it much simpler for him to obliterate any evidence of what had happened.
Still…Erik had disappeared during that time, and…“It took many years for this Opera House to be constructed, did it not?”
“Many years,” Carlotta purred, making the words sound like a seduction instead of a mere statement of fact. “And it is my understanding that the construction stopped during the war, when this building was used as a hospital during the Siege of Paris.”
“And were there rumors of the ghost during that time as well, do you know?”
“I do not know…but I can find out. Sí, I shall ask one of those ouvreuses estúpidas. All they do is gossip.”
Philippe thought privately that it would be gossip enough if the great Carlotta should stoop to speak to one of the lowly female ushers, but he was willing to have her do so.
Just then, he heard the rumble of a commotion across the room and saw his brother enter the salon with a wild look in his eyes. When Raoul saw Philippe, he immediately started toward him, pushing blindly through the clusters of other mingling dancers, actors, and their admirers.
“She is gone!” Raoul said when he was upon them. “Christine, Miss Daaé…she is gone. The opera ghost has taken her!”
Philippe raised one eyebrow and looked up at his brother, whose eyes had a half-mad light in them. Then he turned his attention back to Carlotta. God forbid that a woman ever lowered him to such a state. “See that you find out what you can on this Opera Ghost and I shall be most greatly…and creatively…appreciative of your efforts.”
“It shall be my greatest pleasure,” she replied, her lashes fluttering and her breasts quivering.
“I hope it shall be mine as well.”
She looked at him, all cunning and promise. “I shall ensure it is so."
EIGHT
* * *
Erik gripped Christine’s arm and propelled her in front of him, down a short hallway. He kept her at a distance, as if trying to avoid any accidental brush of her body against his.
If she hadn’t seen the way he was looking at her, experienced the heavy, proprietary gaze, she would have thought he found her distasteful. But no. It was definitely not distaste in his eyes.
Down the hall he prodded her, to where it ended in a room…a space clearly designed for a working genius spurred by creativity. To her surprise, overhead a small glassed-in dome allowed the night sky to shine through. Apparently, he did not live in complete darkness.
As they stopped, she looked at him again and saw him try to hide the flinch from her direct gaze. Perhaps he lived in a different kind of darkness, intense and complete in its own way. Pity stirred within her—pity and desire. Raoul’s touch had been nothing but a poor shadow of the one that sent her emotions reeling…and fool she had been to allow it to go so far.
The room was larger than her dressing room, and dominated by a sleek black piano, a mahogany harp, and a viola, violin, and cello. A dais built perpendicular to the instruments held a long, wide table that appeared to be nothing more than a working desk. Papers were scattered over it, and leather thongs to bind them, and pens, inkpots, and books.
She had barely taken in these aspects of the room when he moved up behind her and captured both of her wrists at the base of her spine. Then he slid an arm through her elbows, imprisoning them behind her, and crooked his other arm around her neck, pulling her back against him.
“I saw you with that boy,” he said in her ear. His melodious voice didn’t sound angry as much as it sounded full of promise. Hard promise. Her throat dried. “Christine, do you not understand that you belong to me?”
“Erik, I…I—”
“Quiet!” He wrenched his arm tighter around her neck—not enough to cut off her air, but enough that her head snapped back against his chest. She could feel tremors moving through him; whether they were from his bare control or from some other emotion, she did not know. “You will experience the agony I have endured.”
He released her arms, keeping her throat in his strong grip, and slipped his hand around to feel her breast. He cupped it, rocked it gently in his palm, flicked a thumb over her nipple. Her bod
y had learned well; it responded by tightening and jutting, and the nervous flutterings in her belly turned into twinges of desire.
She arched her breasts forward into his hand, her hips and rear pushing into his groin. The buttons from his shirt imprinted on the skin of her back as he continued to toy with her breast, and hold her immobile against him. When he pinched her nipple, she sighed from deep within and felt the welcome moisture gathering between her legs. She could hardly wait to feel his thick, hard cock slip inside her, and she relaxed against him.
The arm around her neck loosened so that he could brush his fingers along her jaw from his position behind, combing them into her hair and stroking her earlobe, gentle and sensual. Christine closed her eyes, reveling in his touch, allowing the pleasure to build inside her, simple and unhurried. Unlike the other times they’d been together, when he’d commanded and controlled her, she felt as though they were balanced, matched.
When he drew in his breath deeply, she felt his chest rise against her back, taking her with it, and she tipped her head, letting it fall against his shoulder. The hand that had been rubbing rhythmically over her nipple and sending jolts of desire into the pit of her stomach left its place and skimmed down over her belly to her mound, where she ached for him to touch her.
He combed his fingers through the wiry hair that grew there, teasing and lifting it, lightly tickling over her sensitive skin while he continued to play with the softer hair that grew on her head. Erik shifted behind her and she felt his mouth on her shoulder, warm and full, smoothing along the slope of her skin.
He released her neck, moving his hand to cover her other breast while he kissed her neck, and slid his fingers into the folds of her swollen labia. Christine sighed, and reached around behind her to feel the erection pushing through the front of his trousers. When she touched him through the fabric, he jerked, his breath snagging, and he pushed himself forward, into her palms, rubbing harshly against her hands.
Her pip was throbbing just as hard as his cock, and her wetness caused Erik’s hand to move in and out with ease, sliding with soft slick sounds broken only by their tandem breathing. He rubbed her nipple, stroked her nib, sucked on her skin, drawing the pleasure from her so that the rhythm of her breathing surpassed his.
“Erik…” she sighed, rolling her hips back against his cock, feeling his warm breath near her face.
He released her and, with both hands, stroked up from her hips over her breasts…pausing to cup and squeeze them…and then along her arms, capturing them in place over his cock behind her.
Then, suddenly, she felt something…odd in front. She opened her eyes. The harp was there. Somehow, in the turbulence of her pleasure-fogged mind, he’d inched her right up against it.
The instrument was taller than she was, its gilt neck curving as beautifully as a woman’s body. The longest strings reached to her cheeks.
“Hold on to it,” Erik commanded from behind. His voice was tight and sharp, yet barely audible.
Remembering her similar experience with the mirror, Christine felt a surge of lust as she reached out, one hand toward the tall, straight column, and the other stretching over to grasp the opposite end of the curving neck. Her arms were spread so far that her nipples brushed against the cold strings; then they shifted so that the taut nubbins slipped into spaces between them. The fit was snug and tight, with her nipples jutting between the wires.
“Spread your legs,” Erik said, and she complied. Now she was juxtaposed over the front of the harp, her hands positioned at the top, her nipples imprisoned by the wires, and her feet positioned on the floor with the base of the harp between them.
Behind her, she heard the soft swish of movement, but when she would have turned to look, he snapped, “Don’t move.” And suddenly, something dark went over her eyes. A blindfold.
“Erik!” She started to remove her hands from the harp, started to tell him he didn’t need that anymore…but strong hands grabbed her wrists and held them in place.
“Don’t move." He tied the blindfold, and a lock of her hair got caught up in the knot, pulling tightly. “And don’t speak. Except…to beg.’’
Those last two syllables, hissed deep and low into her ear, sent a sharp pang of pleasure laced with trepidation jolting through her. Christine drew in her breath and her nipples slid up between the harp strings along with her rising chest. They tightened and grew harder at the strange sensation of the narrow openings lined with metal…and when she released her breath, letting her forehead rest against the smooth wood of the harp, her clamped nipples slid back down. And grew stiffer still.
Then she felt him…behind her. Warm and solid, pressing up against her again, tall and jutting…his hot, bare cock pushing into the curve of her bottom. His hands on her hips, his mouth—oh, please!—on her shoulder. She moved her forehead against the harp, and the blindfold jacked up enough so that she could see down to his legs lining hers, his feet, bare, long, brown, on either side of her narrow white ones partly obscured by the cuffs of his dark trousers.
But his cock…he grasped her hips, holding her, and slid his burning cock beneath the vee of her buttocks and through the juices of her sex, and she saw the red purple of its head just poking from beneath her bush. She felt him trembling behind her, holding her steady; his thighs pressed at an angle against her bare ones, his knees and ankles bumping against the outsides of her same joints. They were locked together…yet they were not.
He slid one hand across her belly to finger her sex, dip into her juices, and smooth them around her swollen labia…stroking, petting, teasing. Christine moaned and pressed back against him, then up and into his hand, trying to grind herself into an orgasm. But he moved his hand from her greedy pip, taking her wetness to rub it on the underside of his cock while he pushed the top of it through her pool. Its head peeked again beneath her dark curls, and Christine tried to jimmy her hips, to make it hit her nib just right…or—mon Dieu!—to slip inside her where she needed him.
But he was grasping her waist again, breathing hot and hard into the top of her head, rubbing his cock back and forth in the cradle of her quim, and then finally, he cried out…one long, low, agonized groan, and jammed his body against her so hard she slammed into the harp with a twang.
She saw the thick white spurt of his seed as it shot from beneath her lower lips, between the strings of the harp, and onto the wooden floor. Christine sagged against the instrument, aware of the lines marking her flesh, but unable to push away with his solid weight behind her.
Her pip throbbed, her quim burned, and her nipples ached, and she wanted her turn. Her arms were tired of holding on to the harp…
His hands were on her again. He’d recovered, pulled away, and removed the warmth of his clothed body from her back. The sudden rush of cool air…and anticipation…made the fine hair on her back lift, and when he traced the sides of her body from breast to hip again, she shivered. Smiled into the wires with anticipation.
And then…nothing.
“Erik?” Her voice came out breathless and pleading.
“Are you begging? So soon?” he asked, his voice mild and mocking. “If you are not, then remain silent. And…let me fix this.”
And the blindfold came back down over her eyes, then tightened at the back of her head. The pain of her hair caught in the knot distracted her momentarily from the pulsing between her legs.
She realized she could move her arms; why did she hold them up there?
But again he seemed to anticipate her. No sooner had she thought to move than something powerful gripped her left wrist. “Allow me.”
He lowered her hand, smoothing it along the straight column of wood carved with some ornate design her fingers did not recognize, and positioned it at the level of her hips. Tied it there. Then he did the same with her right hand, attaching it to the harp on the other side.
“Why can I not touch you?” she cried, turning her face and grinding it into the wires, trying to loosen the blindfold. �
�Or see you? Why, Erik, why?”
“You really must be taught how to plead more prettily,” he said, and she could hear that he had moved and was no longer behind her. “You must not want it badly enough. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
Something brushed against her right arm, and then she heard the gentle tinkle of notes near her face…the brush of his fingers over one, then the other nipple as the music twanged to a dull halt.
“You are standing too close,” he said, his voice deceptively gentle. “Step away so that the strings may still move…ah, yes.” He leaned closer to her again; she could smell him, feel him, and the brush of air as he played a scale against her.
And this time, when the strings moved against her nipples, their touch was so bare that they kept their tone…and brushed against the front of the sensitive nubbins in a rough, scraping way.
Then, quick, questing fingers slipped up her thigh, between her labia, and scooped out her wetness, then slid back in and around in a quick tease over her thick outer lips, sending her hips thrashing and her forehead into the wires. The blindfold jarred loose again at the expense of the hair at the back of her neck, and she found that she could see more of the room.
He rubbed her wetness all over her nipples—”For lubrication,” he murmured into her ear—and adjusted her blindfold; then she felt him return to his place at the harp.
Erik played in long strokes, plucking the strings in a sensual, rising melody that made her think of soft blues and violets. His fingers skimmed over the strings, brushing the underside of her breasts, and leaving the lines to score against her nipples in their wake. As he played, and she felt each note sink into her body, her nipples became more and more sensitive. Needy. The back of his hand occasionally brushed against the sensitive bush of hair at her sex, causing needles of awareness to zero in on her pip…so close, yet ignored.
