by Colette Gale
Then, wide, dark fingers slid from behind, covering her breasts. Lifting them, thumbing over the stark-hard nipples. Squeezing.
Christine jolted, her hips moving, and Erik saw the shadow behind her. Her head tipped back, her long, white throat convulsing as she cried her pleasure. He watched as those rough hands fondled her, covered her smooth white skin, sliding over her belly, her ribs, her hips…everywhere. One hand on a breast, pinching at the nipple, while the other slid to cover her mound.
Erik’s mouth dried when that thick finger slipped down into the fluff of hair, jimmying there between her lower lips. Christine’s hips moved frantically, tipping and twisting, trying to slip that finger in farther…but she was as helpless as Erik.
His cock was screaming; he probably was too, but nothing filled his ears except Christine’s cries of pleasure. “Please, please,” she moaned, “please…”
He could tell just when the man’s cock slipped inside her from behind. She lifted, rose, and her eyes fluttered. Her chin lifted even more, and the delicate bones at her throat became shadowed as the man’s head bent to her shoulder, covering her neck with his mouth as her head dipped to one side. Her long black hair fell like a curtain behind her outstretched arm, swaying as she undulated with pleasure.
The tendons in her arms tightened as she fought with her restraints, fought to gain the movement she desperately needed, the freedom to pump her hips, to push herself closer into his fingers. Her mouth opened into a dark, silent oval, her lips red and wet from biting them. Christine’s hips moved faster, Erik’s cock surged harder, he pulled futilely at the bonds holding him, and he watched those dark hands…those rough hands, holding her hips, pulling and pushing them until she screamed her orgasm, shaking and shuddering from her spread-eagled position.
And then suddenly, she was falling…falling from her mount. Her soft, wet body landed on him, her face just off his chest. Her hips at his knees. Her torso next to his needy cock.
He saw the man behind her.
Philippe de Chagny. Not Raoul. Philippe.
He advanced, his face a mask filled with mockery and pleasure. Christine's arms lay limply across the bed, across Erik’s helpless body.
And then she was on her hands and knees, over him, just over Erik…but not…not where he wanted her.
One leg between his, her knees straddling his thigh. Her breasts hung in front of him…moved closer as she shifted forward, over him, still over him, now her belly high above his chest. Her nipples teased, her breasts bumping against each other, just over his face. He could see them, could almost reach up to taste those jutting, red nipples.
Her face rose behind him, above his head, so he could not see her expression…but when he looked down along the line between her breasts, to her curving belly and the black nest of hair at the end, he saw another set of thighs behind her. Thick, hairy thighs, and then the edges of thick, dark fingertips, grasping her waist. Just above him, just above Erik’s own belly.
Christine's cry of pleasure pierced his ears as Chagny's cock slid inside her. Erik could see his ballocks dangling behind her spread thighs. They moved above him, Chagny swift and sure, in and out, jostling Christine so that her hands, placed on the mattress above Erik's head, brushed against his hair as she shifted to keep her balance.
He watched in horror and fury as that thick dark cock worked inside her, teasing him with what he could not have, and what Chagny took, and took…A long, turgid column sliding into dark, wet lips…faint suction sounds, slipping, slick noises…in and out, long and short, her lower lips moving together, then apart, as he moved in and out. Those heavy hands moved, covering her ivory breasts, dark and rough, squeezing them, just above
Erik’s face. He struggled, kicking at his tight ankles, pulling at his wrists, his hips jostling the bed…but nothing put Chagny off his stride.
Christine’s body shone above him, moist with sweat and with her own juices, both sliding down her thighs to pool onto Erik’s own belly. He was wild, pulling, thrashing, fighting…and still, Chagny pumped away, moving those hips teasingly above him, those breasts nearly close enough to touch…and then the end, the shuddering, quaking, heaving…and the last, worst ignominy…when Christine’s knees collapsed and she and her lover fell atop him.
Trapping him.
His aching cock dripping and surging, his face wet.
His heart pounding.
Erik dragged his eyes open at last. Perhaps he could have crawled out of the dream earlier…but instead he had forced himself to endure. To feel the pain.
Christine had meant pain to him. Only pain.
He’d given her everything, and she had killed him.
His eyes, adjusting to the dim candlelight, saw the parchment curling next to him on the bed.
Maude had written, and he had yet to decide whether to respond.
The Vicomte de Chagny has moved Christine to a new dressing room…one where you cannot visit through the mirror. She is never alone, for the vicomte fears that you will visit her again. She is to move with him to Chagny House tomorrow, Erik. The count has insisted upon it, for he says she is not safe from the Opera Ghost.
To that end, they have laid a trap for you should you attempt to interfere, which, I believe, is exactly what the count anticipates. Whatever you do, have a care for yourself above all.
Erik closed his eyes. His dreams were about to become his life.
FIFTEEN
* * *
Christine had not sung onstage since her abduction by Erik, but tonight she returned, singing the role of Scheherazade for the first—and last—time.
Her dark hair had been gathered at the crown of her head, wrapped with gold and purple, and then left to fall in thick corkscrew waves to her shoulder blades. One long curl hung from each side of her temples, wrapped with jewel-laden cords so that they sparkled amethyst and carnelian and topaz. Despite the harem setting, her costume was more French than Persian, with silky, flowing skirts of sheer material that slid sinuously about her legs and brushed her bare feet. The bodice of her gown was heart shaped, the vee cutting well below and between her breasts. The rounded tops of the corsetlike bodice curved down around her breasts, cupping them like the hands of a lover, leaving only a narrow strip of boning thrusting up to cover each of her nipples.
When she stepped onstage alone for the first time, after the scene in which she had married King Sharyar, Scheherazade sang her most poignant aria, knowing that if her stories did not entertain him, he would put her to death. As she sang, Christine stared out into the sea of faces, remembering the way it had felt when she’d sung for Erik…when she’d known he was listening for her.
Was he listening tonight?
She sang as if he was, knowing it would be the last time.
It was her farewell to him…her last good-bye to the man she loved, but who had rejected her.
The spotlight shone down, sending a faint sheen of perspiration over her bare skin, trickling down between her breasts. Yet she could still see into the crowd…She could see the outlines of gendarmes waiting at the alcove of every entrance and exit of the Opera House.
They waited in the wings too, and in the backstage hallways…She had seen them.
For Erik. They waited for Erik, expecting that he would snatch her tonight.
This would be her last performance, for she would leave with Raoul tonight. He had told her they were to elope. The fear and loneliness Scheherazade must have felt rang deep within Christine as she raised her arms, beseeching the Persian gods to save her.
Her breasts rose as she looked up into the blinding light, her voice true and sweet. Tears spilled from her eyes from the light, and from the loss within her.
The music changed, portending the entrance of Sharyar, her murderous husband, and Christine held her final note, standing alone on the stage.
Suddenly, there was a soft pop, and the stage—the entire chamber—was plunged into utter darkness.
Shouts and screams erupted f
rom all around and Christine froze, afraid to move and take the chance of falling into the orchestra pit. The air shifted above, and she felt something whump down behind her, just barely behind her…Had she been a step farther back, she would have been crushed under the weight of…
Erik!
There was no mistaking those hands, that brush of his face against the side of her jaw, the smell of him, his presence…
His arms closed around her from behind—strong, welcome—and then she felt the whiplike motion of his hand, and then a short step, and then they were falling…
She screamed in spite of herself, as her skirts blew up around her and the cool air rushed over her bare thighs. She saw the faint glow of lights above as they slipped through a trapdoor in the center of the stage, a door that closed immediately behind them, leaving them bundled together in a smooth chute of darkness.
They slipped easily down some sort of slide, Christine caught up against Erik’s long, strong body, held against him with one arm. Her heart raced madly in her chest…He had come for her! And he had bested the gendarmes; he’d foiled the comte's plans.
When they reached the bottom of the slide, Erik’s feet planted abruptly on something hard, jolting their slide to a sudden halt. Then he was pulling her to her feet, dragging her after him. He had said nothing, and she did not know…She did not know if he had taken her in anger, or because he loved her still.
But it did not matter to her, for she was with him.
She was not going with Raoul.
Christine stumbled after him, her hand captured in his. When he spoke, he said only, “Hurry.”
They ran and ran, through dark, damp twisting and turning corridors, taking first one branch and then another. Even in total darkness, Erik moved unerringly, one hand gripping her wrist none too gently, and the other brushing along the wall for guidance.
Suddenly, as they came around yet another corner, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back up against the wall. Her panting breath gusted out of her, but she had no time to catch it, for his lips crashed down onto her…her jaw, her chin, finally, her mouth.
Warm and sensual, Erik’s kiss was nevertheless relentless and demanding, mingled with his own panting breath. Anger and need colored the way he devoured her mouth with his own, pausing long enough to drag in a deep draft of air, then back tasting her again. The deep, familiar flare of lust coursed down to her belly, unfolding and uncurling into tingling heat.
His strong hands pressed her shoulders against the harsh stone wall as her breasts rose and fell behind the confining corset. Gritty dirt and chill dampness bothered her bare back as she was pushed up against it, yet Christine lifted her chin and met his lips eagerly. Slick and hot, deep and strong, they kissed as though starving, legs twined, hips positioned against hips.
Her breasts burst free of the flimsy corset confines, pressing bare, hard nipples against his clothed chest in a slower rhythm and her breathing settled. She shifted her face away, found her mouth on the rough, unshaven side of his face…kissed along his jaw in between warm, hard breaths, and slid her hands over his shirt, feeling for skin beneath.
It was so dark, she could see nothing…Her world was nothing but a maelstrom of sensation. The cool air on her skin, the heat of his body in front. The brush of his crisp, woven shirt against her arm. The scraping of brick against her shoulder blades. The dank, musty smell of wet stone. A trickle of perspiration between her breasts, matched with a line of moisture from the wall, sliding down her spine. Her being filled with his presence, his musky, masculine smell. Hot, slick sensations from his mouth. The firm grip of strong fingers at her shoulders. The brush of his eyelashes over her cheek.
“Erik, oh, Erik,” she cried, tears leaking from her eyes. Trembling overtook her. “You came for me.” She could not see his face, still could not tell if he was angry or resigned, pleased or subdued. But his mouth…it ate her; she felt as though it would devour her in the most gentle all-consuming fashion.
He released her shoulders and closed his hands over her breasts, one warm palm covering each. Pinning her against the wall with his hips, he shifted his torso away, leaving her skin bare and cool except where his fingers played with her nipples. Spikes of pleasure jolted through her and she sighed, closing her eyes, tipping her head back. A drip of water seeped into her hair, cold and sharp, contrasting with the deep, pitching arousal in her belly.
“Christine,” he murmured into the darkness. “I could not let them have you. You are mine.” He brushed his thumbs over the tips of her sensitive nipples, sending her shuddering and her breath jittery, then squeezed and lifted and squeezed again. Christine’s labia swelled, moistened; her pip lifted and her hips nudged against Erik’s most evident erection. Sharp heat coiled in her belly, the burning, tingling sensation of lust grew, and she reached blindly for his face.
Her fingers brushed his mask, and she felt him still for a moment…then breathe again as she combed through the thick dark hair behind it. “Erik, I love you. Mask or no, I love you. I did not mean to hurt you.”
She felt his fingers trembling against her, sliding over her skin, pulling the corset away. When he bent, she felt it, and arched her back to bring her breast to his mouth. He kissed the side of it, his lips warm against her chilled skin, his eyes—one masked, one free—brushing over her flesh, wet with warm tears, gentle with fringed lashes. She cried too, relieved at last to be with him.
Then…with his head at her breast, she reached down and covered his hair with her hands. He sucked, licked, swirled, his nose huffing hot breath on her skin as she arched against him, breathing in his smell. She stroked her palms down over his ears, brushing the leather mask and warm, stubbled skin. She framed his face, jaw moving as he pulled at her nipple, and she held it there, while he sucked as though he wished to swallow it.
And then…holding him, she slipped her fingers under that mask and culled it away.
At her first touch under the formed leather, he stopped, froze, snatched in his breath as though to howl…but her insistent hands held his face.
“No, Erik…” she murmured, raising his head from her breast, holding him so he could not pull away…Of course he could, if he’d chosen; he was so much stronger…but he did not. He breathed shallowly, carefully, as though afraid to do that, letting her lead him.
The mask skittered to the floor at their feet; she felt it tumble against her skirts as it landed. “Erik…I love you…all of you. You don’t have to hide from me.” Still cupping his face, she moved her fingers over the bifurcated halves…one warm, covered with the texture of an unshaven chin…melding into smooth, moist skin…
. . . and the other rumpled and mangled, twisted like plant roots, hard, brittle, smooth.
She covered his face, there in the dark, learning it with her fingers, gentling him to the sensation of being touched by another human. Touching his shame.
Christine was crying for him, sobbing silently for his pain, as she pulled his face to hers, met his stiff, parted lips with her warm ones, and covered them gently. With her mouth, she closed over his upper lip, drawing it in, sliding her tongue over it in a slippery, sensual dance. He trembled in her arms, his own hands moving around to pull her close. He kissed her back, eating again at her mouth as though released from some great restraint. Her tears mingled with his, dripping down to where their mouths met in softer, gentler kisses. Loving kisses. Understanding and forgiving ones.
“Erik, please, I want you inside me,” she whispered, aware of the growing throb of her sex. She fumbled with his trousers as he yanked up her flowing skirts, and there against the cold stone wall, he lifted her onto his raging erection.
When she slid onto him, her legs wrapped around his waist; he filled her, nudging that inmost part where the pleasure grew. Erik shifted slowly, so slowly, there against her, his breath ragged, measured…his movements matching. As though he wanted to take the time to savor every stroke, every inch, in and out, slowly…excruciatingly slowly.
/> Christine’s nipples pinched; her pip ached as the pleasure built…so slowly and deeply. It was like a pit in her belly, growing larger and sharper, tingling and burning and sweet. She sighed, tightening her legs around him, pushing him into her with her heels, feeling him bump against the top of her vagina. His fingers gripped her hips; the wall shifted up and down behind her in their easy rhythm there in the dark.
Slowly…her slick quim closed around him, opening as he moved back out. Their breaths rose; the shivers pebbled her skin; more tears leaked from her eyes. In and out…slippery and hot…slowly, easily…thick and hard…sliding along her bursting pip, sending shivery sensations radiating from her center.
The orgasm, when it came, was long, slow, undulating. She caught her breath, then let it go, trembling, ending with a jerk as the full force of pleasure peaked and withdrew.
And with that, he let himself go mad. Deeper, harder, faster…pumping madly inside her, there, against the wall. In and out, faster and faster…his breathing loud and noisy, his muscles trembling, and a sharp wave of lust returning to Christine’s sated pip. He thrust and moved and finally slammed into her one last time with a low, long groan that matched the coursing she felt inside of her.
“Christine…” he murmured, his face against hers now. “Never leave me. Never leave me.”
“I'll never leave you,” she sighed into his ear. “Never.”
~*~
When the Opera House plunged into darkness, Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard were standing in the offstage wings.
“The ghost!” cried Firmin, grasping the jacket sleeve of his partner. “He has come again.”
“We shall be ruined!” replied Armand, stumbling out onto the dark stage. He felt the whoosh of air as something heavy moved and swung past him, and turned back to see three of the gendarmes rushing onto the stage from different directions, torches in hand. The gas lamps at the edge of the stage were suddenly reignited, casting warm yellow light over the pandemonium in the theater.
