by Colette Gale
But until then…
“Where is your comtesse this evening?” asked Christine, her voice rusty. She sipped the golden sherry, surprised at how warm it felt cascading down her throat, burning gently into her insides. But then, when had she ever had anything better to drink than cheap wine or ale? This was even better than the wine she’d had at dinner after her debut. She drank again, a larger sip this time.
“I am glad you like the sherry; please, drink. It will help you to…shall we say…relax. And Delia will be joining us shortly. She is not one to keep to her rooms, unless there is a reason for it. Ah, and here she is now,” Philippe added as the door to the drawing room opened.
In walked the comtesse, and Christine nearly dropped her glass. The blond woman was tall and beautiful, her hair piled high on her head with corkscrew curls brushing her bare shoulders. But her gown…if one could call it a gown…it was enough to make Christine blush.
The gown had no bodice. The woman’s breasts sat perched in two gentle cups of corset, edged by lace, completely bare to the air and anyone who cared to look. The sides of the corset hugged her breasts, rising to just under the arms and then around low in the back. Her nipples jutted dark pink and pointed, jouncing delicately as she glided across the room to her husband, who waited with a glass of the same golden liquid he’d given Christine.
“Ahh, my lovely. You look delicious this evening,” he told her, handing her the drink. “Delia, meet Christine, Raoul’s…guest. I’m certain you two will become intimately acquainted during her stay here.”
When Delia turned to look at her, Christine felt her belly tighten. The woman’s gaze passed appraisingly over her, her lids half hiding her expression. “I look forward to it,” she replied in a throaty voice that left no doubt about her meaning.
Christine did not care to contemplate that thought, and she put down her drink. “I must excuse myself,” she said, starting toward the door. “I find that I am not feeling so well.”
“Oh, no,” Philippe said, barring her way firmly. “I think not. After all, you are a guest here, and we must ensure you are properly entertained. In fact, I do believe—ah, yes,” he added as he tipped his head toward a faint chiming sound, “dinner is served. This way, please.”
“I find I am not so very hungry—”
Philippe took her arm, and suddenly Delia was at her other side, grasping her other elbow. Christine’s bare arm brushed against the side of Delia’s bare breast, and the woman turned to smile meaningfully at her.
“You will join us for dinner,” Philippe said, “or I shall find myself very offended. I am certain Christine does not wish to offend me, does she, Delia?”
“Indeed not,” Delia replied. “Although I rather hope she does…so I can watch.”
Christine was thus prodded toward an ornate door at one end of the parlor and, taking deep breaths, decided she was better off in the dining room with servants about.
She could force herself through a meal with the comte and his half-clothed wife, and their lascivious looks and unsubtle double entendres.
She expected to be led into a dining room as vast as the other chambers in this massive château, but to her surprise, the room was not at all what she had expected. In fact, it hardly looked like any dining room she’d ever seen, or imagined. Instead of chairs lining a long table, illuminated by a crystal chandelier and a multitude of candles, the seating choices appeared to be large cushions and hassocks. There were several of them, perhaps a dozen, of all shapes and sizes. Some of them surrounded a square table set low to the ground, so that one sat on the large pillows in order to reach it. Candles burned in sconces along each of the walls, and a candelabrum was perched on the center of the table. Some odd scent hung in the air; it was nothing that she’d ever smelled before, but it permeated the room in such a way as to be not too cloying, yet impossible to ignore.
Her heart began to beat faster when the doors were closed firmly behind them, and the comte paused to look at her with an odd smile that made her heart lob awkwardly to one side.
“Have a seat, my dear. Anywhere you like.”
Christine stepped reluctantly into the room.
The comtesse had chosen a generous blue velvet hassock in the shape of a flattened ball. Her breasts jounced as she settled herself next to the table, arranged on one hip and propped on an elbow. As Christine watched, she selected a small purplish fruit from the table and bit into it.
Philippe noticed her interest, and steering her firmly toward another cushion near Delia's, he said, “That is a fig, my dear. Very soft and velvety on the outside, and moist within. I find them quite delicious…as they remind me of other, more earthy delights.”
She was feeling very warm, and suddenly aware of every one of her five senses, and what they were experiencing: the sight and texture of the luxurious, low-lit furnishings; the incense that made her want to draw it in more deeply as it pervaded her being; the spread of food over the low table—everything from fruit to wine, cheese, and bread, and even rich pastries and dishes of crème.
Christine’s knees gave out and she sank slowly onto a soft, plush pillow that seemed to embrace her. With her heavy skirts wrapped around her legs, and the malleability of the cushion, it was difficult for her to move and she feared she would be unable to rise out of the deep hassock without assistance.
Philippe, who selected a firm square-shaped cushion between the two women, seemed to understand her predicament, for he sent her a knowing smile. “There, now…is this not cozy? As I said, the sherry helped to relax you, for it was laced with something special…as is our incense as well. Now, I am sure you are hungry. Please, eat. You will need your strength.”
Although Christine’s belly lurched at his comment, sending an uncomfortable queasiness and apprehension barreling through her, she recognized that she was hungry. And that, as disconcerting as his words were, Philippe was right…She would need her strength.
Because, Christine decided at that very moment, though her mind was a bit dim while she watched Comtesse Delia’s generous breasts lift and sway as she reached for another fig, she was going to escape from the Château de Chagny. She must escape and somehow find Erik. And they would be together again.
Until then, she would have to take care of herself…and she would have to suffer the hints and innuendos…and, please, God, nothing else…from the comte.
And Raoul. Mon Dieu…she did not know how to feel about him. He loved her, she believed that…but he had forced her to come with him to this place. He claimed it was for her protection—perhaps he truly believed it. He was a kind man, a gentle one; she cared deeply for him.
Or, at least, she had cared for him.
If she thought Raoul might have gone along with the comte's plan in the underground house only to allow Erik to escape, and to assuage his brother's taste for vengeance, that thought had dissolved earlier today when he’d kissed her in her room. He had no intention of letting her go back to Erik.
What if Erik never found her? What if he never came for her?
The pit of her stomach felt deep and empty. No. He would come. Erik would come…He loved her; nothing would keep him from her.
But until he came, or until she found a way to escape, what would she have to endure?
Her thoughts swirled, her senses heightened; she felt sluggish and aware at the same time. Philippe watched her, his attention heavy and obvious, and Christine felt the upswing of her heartbeat as it jolted through her body.
She forced her attention to the table in front of her and reached for a stem of grapes. They were crisp and juicy, and slid sweetly down her dry throat. The comte offered her the plate of figs, and Christine took one of the odd-shaped dark purple fruits, lifting it by its stemlike protrusion. It was indeed soft, soft as velvet, and the skin slightly shriveled. She felt as though she were holding a heavy, yet delicate, organ. A male organ, for though it was the wrong shape, it had the same weight, the same heavy, velvety feel.
The thought startled her, and when she looked up, her face warm, she found Philippe watching her, his dark eyes glittering beneath heavy lids.
“I see you find the same intrigue in these little fruits as I do,” he said, lifting another fig and cupping it in his palm like a small breast. Christine felt her nipples tighten as he gently rolled it around in his palm, tilting and tipping it, and then lifted it by the stem to bring it to her lips.
Her heart pounding, Christine opened her mouth enough to take a small bite, surprised at how smoothly her teeth cut through the velvety skin. She hadn’t expected it to yield so easily, but it was just as delicate as it seemed.
“Now feed me,” Philippe commanded.
Christine lifted her own fruit to his lips, and could not draw her eyes away from his teeth as they surrounded the fig and then gently bit. She felt as though there were nothing in the room but his mouth and that fruit and the way it crushed between his teeth.
She offered the fruit again, and this time, his mouth moved along the edge of her palm as he took in the rest of the little fig. The warm touch of his lips on the side of her hand sent an unexpected tremor along her arm. Philippe let off a soft groan as he chewed, and his eyelids dropped farther.
That was when Christine realized that the comtesse had somehow moved from her own hassock and her hands were busy in her husband’s lap.
Christine started to pull away in surprise after she glanced down and saw a flash of dark red flesh in Delia's slender white hands…but Philippe caught her wrist before she could move away and pulled her face to his.
His mouth, tasting of fig and wine, closed over hers. She was trapped by his warm, slick lips as they ground onto hers, held in place by strong fingers jammed into the back of her hair. Her mouth opened and she was invaded by the full sensuality of the moment: the taste of sweet fruit, the erotic scent on the air, and, suddenly, hands on her breast, lifting it free from its bodice.
One of them had grasped her other hand, and she had no way to prop herself up; she half fell against Philippe, who held one wrist, and felt her other hand being directed down, down between them…until her fingers brushed against something turgid and warm. The fingers that held her were small, but strong, and through the haze of sensation—at her mouth, at her nipple, now, suddenly, tingling between her legs, deep beneath her skirts—she realized Delia was forcing her fingers around the hot swelling length of the comte's erection.
Christine couldn’t pull away; she wrapped her grip around him, her fingers beneath Delia's, and together they stroked up and down, using the gentle drip from the head of his cock and from the comtesse's mouth to lubricate their way. Philippe had released Christine's lips and in a sort of dizzying shift, she found herself half-fallen between the comte and comtesse while he had turned his attention to his wife’s breasts.
There in front of her tilted world, as her fingers rose up and down the length of his erection, Christine saw those same lips that moments before had devoured her own, open and close around the entire tip of Delia's breast. She could not look away as he sucked and licked and bit, drawing her thick red nipple long and straight into his mouth. He pulled and tugged until it must hurt…but her own breasts were tight, and her own nipples throbbed as though they too were being teased. Her sex pounded and she felt the moisture between her legs as Philippe breathed faster, and she and Delia stroked harder and longer, and the little juices from his head leaked wetter.
Faster, faster they stroked, and through the rhythm she heard ruptured breathing, slippery suction, quiet moans, and felt the jolt as someone pulled at her own nipple…the room shrunk to those sounds and sensations. Suddenly Philippe jerked his face away with a groan and Christine felt the warm, wet spill pour over her fingers.
Delia released her and Christine fell back onto her cushion, wiping her hand on a piece of cloth from the table, her heart pounding, her forehead moist, the room spinning, her arm aching from the unrelenting back-and-forth motions.
When she pulled herself back to a sitting position, hefting awkwardly up on an elbow, Christine was confronted by Philippe’s complacent expression.
“A most delightful repast,” he commented, his dark eyes scanning lasciviously over her. He reached suddenly toward her, and before she could react, he’d plucked at her breast, where it sat, exposed, from her drooping bodice.
She jerked away, but her movements were sluggish, and did not save her from the practiced tweak of his fingers…which sent a chitter of pleasure-pain into the pit of her stomach. Christine quickly tucked her breast back into her bodice as well as she could, but somehow it would hardly stay put. Her gown, corset, and chemise had been loosened during the fray, and they all gapped in the front, leaving her nearly as exposed as the comtesse.
“Delightful, oui, and her reluctance is just enough to be endearing. But it won’t be long before she is begging for you, my lord,” added Delia. The nipple on one of her breasts was bright red, and swollen, and thrust up at an angle, hard and sharp, from where it had been fed upon.
“Or you, my dear. Do not underestimate your own appeal.”
Christine’s throat dried as she found her gaze caught in Delia's snapping blue one. A sly smile on her face, the other woman slid her attention back to the table before them. “I look forward to that opportunity. But for now…I find that I am hungry again.” She reached for a small block of cheese as if their dinner had not just been interrupted by sex play.
Just then, the door opened.
“Raoul!” Christine couldn’t hold back her relieved greeting. She would have struggled to her feet, regardless of her confining, twisting skirts and the quicksand-like cushion, but Raoul came to her side immediately.
She fancied she saw a flash of annoyance in his eyes when he looked at his brother, but she was not certain, for the room was not well lit. When he turned toward her, there was nothing there but delight. “Have I interrupted your meal?” he asked, sinking onto a hassock next to her. “You look beautiful, as always, tonight, Christine.”
Before she could reply, Philippe spoke. “We have just begun. I am so glad you are here to join us. I believe Christine was becoming lonely.”
Raoul flashed him a glance as he reached for a thick slab of bread. “And am I to assume you made her feel welcome in my absence?”
Delia giggled and sipped her wine as her husband responded, “But of course. However, to my dismay, I do believe she would have preferred you to join us before now. She seemed a bit…reluctant to fully engage in our…meal.”
“I’m certain Christine will feel more at ease now that I am here. Of course, I would have been here before now, but I was detained in the city,” he replied, reaching toward Christine.
At first, she thought he meant to tug her bodice back into place, but when he slipped his fingers down and inside to smooth over her breast, she didn’t know how to react. Little tingles lifted the fine hairs on her skin and her nipple tightened again; she wanted to ease away from his touch, yet she did not want to antagonize him. She was certain Raoul was the only reason Philippe had not been more forthcoming with his advances thus far.
“I was meeting with Le Rochet, of course,” Raoul continued.
“Ahhh…yes,” Philippe replied in a knowing voice. “And have you completed the arrangements?”
“We have nearly done so. I am quite pleased with the way they are progressing.” Raoul's fingers continued to stroke over Christine’s breast, easy, sensual, nonchalant. Her skin tingled and tightened, and she took a deep breath. “But enough of business.” He used his other hand to lift Christine’s chin so that she looked bashfully into his eyes. “You have missed me, then?”
An odd light of desire burned in his gaze, and she tried to look away.
“Christine?” His voice tightened.
“I did miss you,” she said, forcing herself to look at him. “I…”
But the rest of her words trailed away as he moved toward her, swallowing up everything in the room but himself, and the way
his mouth took over hers. Christine was overwhelmed by the intense onslaught of his lips and teeth and tongue delving into hers as his fingers grasped her bare shoulders.
She struggled to breathe, to keep herself from being pressed so far down into the depths of the plush cushion that she smothered under the fabric and his weight. She was drowning, caught in a whirl of sensation. Warm lips, slick, probing tongue, questing fingers…the heavy, hard prodding between her legs, through her skirts, where her sex was already swollen and wet…the bursting feeling of her nipples under the pads of his fingers…suddenly, somehow, her reluctance faded into something altogether too familiar. Her breathing became soft gasps and little sighs around his mouth…Her eyes closed.
Raoul knew how to kiss her. She might not agree with what he’d done, but in this frightening place, he was familiar to her. An oasis.
She might not love him as she deeply, painfully needed and adored Erik…but he was strong, and handsome, and he knew her body; he loved it, loved her…
There was an edge of obsession to his touch, but Christine, already titillated by her experience with Philippe and Delia, and half-aroused from the aphrodisiac sherry, could match it. She had her own desperation, her own obsession.
Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, where sanity and clarity still reigned, she knew that in order to preserve herself, she needed to keep Raoul happy. To make him believe she would be content with him…all the while holding back from giving him everything she’d given Erik.
She kissed him back, biting the edges of his mouth gently with her teeth as she lifted up, closer to him, openmouthed, to let him know she was with him. Her hands moved awkwardly between them, and when he realized what she was after, he shifted his weight, pulling her half up toward him so that she tilted sideways on the cushion. Her breasts were free, falling to one side, suddenly cool in the open air. Her thrusting nipples brushed deliciously against his shirt as Christine fumbled blindly with the buttons of his trousers down where her gown mingled with his legs.
She drove her hand into the heat of his drawers, this time willfully seeking the hard, heavy cock buried there. He sighed next to her mouth when she lifted it free, sliding her fingers over the fig-velvet skin and through wiry hair, cradling the heavy sac below it. Raoul moved away, pulling her with him, tipping back so that she came with him, up on her knees.
