by Colette Gale
The hassock surged around her, soft under her, as Christine knelt into Raoul's lap. She opened her mouth and formed a soft O with her lips, sliding down along the full length of him as he gasped in pleasure.
Rocking gently up and down, Christine fondled and licked, sucked and stroked, her breasts jolting and swaying enticingly. He dripped from the end, and she tasted the bare salt, closing her lips tightly, then loosening them as she closed her eyes and thought of Erik.
Suddenly, she felt someone behind her, kneeling at her feet. Two hands cupped her breasts and squeezed them back up against her ribs, and began to roll her nipples between thumbs and forefingers. Sharp pleasure surprised her, shooting down to her engorged pip, as the nimble fingers teased and taunted expertly while she matched the strokes of her mouth with the curl of her fingers around Raoul.
The weight against her back was not heavy; she knew it must be Delia who now curved over Christine’s spine, her lips against the side of her neck. Her consciousness narrowed down to one of sensation and rising need. Raoul moved his hips beneath her and she rose and lowered faster to match his rhythm as the teasing of her nipples made her sex wet and slick, made her want to grind it into something…anything…for relief.
A sudden jolt behind her shoved Delia into Christine, sending her forward and nearly gagging her with Raoul’s ready cock. Delia's sudden moan of delight just behind Christine’s ear sent more peals of need coursing through her; she felt a different rhythm behind her now as Philippe stroked inside his wife while she fondled Christine from behind.
Delia's lips opened and her tongue slipped out, curling into Christine’s sensitive ear, sending a hollow roar down her neck and spine as the four of them jolted together in mismatched rhythms, with Christine trapped between them all.
She felt Raoul stiffen, ready, and the little tingle move along his cock before it splurted into her mouth, echoed by his groan of release. At last she could close her sore jaws, pull away, and slip to the side. Delia rolled with her, and suddenly Christine’s head was against Raoul's chest, and she was looking up into Delia's flushed, glaze-eyed face as her husband pumped her from behind.
Raoul was beneath Christine, the rhythm of his breath shifting her up and down as his hands slipped around from behind and cupped her breasts. Delia’s red mouth, open, panting, her dangling nipples just in front of Christine as though insisting she touch them. And Philippe, behind his wife, his handsome face taut with concentration and lust; his eyes, not dull with pleasure, but sharp and black, pinning Christine there as if it were he who held her instead of his brother.
He watched her and she watched him, their gazes connected as his pupils tightened, his breathing came faster, his mouth narrowed cruelly…and when he finally gave the last thrust inside his wife, his expression told her it was Christine he wanted, and Christine he would have.
And as soon as he rolled away from Delia, Philippe was reaching for Christine. His hands grasped at her, crumpling the skirts and underskirts as they slipped up beneath the heavy material.
“No,” she cried, twisting against Raoul's chest, flinging one ankle up and narrowly missing Philippe’s head as she clamped her knees together. His hands were hard and clawing as they pulled up her thighs, dragging her toward him. “Raoul!”
At the invocation of his brother’s name, Philippe stopped, his face just above hers, panting, his shirt gapping open, his fingers loosening on her legs. His dark eyes settled and his breathing edged into normal. “No, Christine? No?”
She tried to turn, to curl into Raoul’s bare chest, but his brother’s grip held her still. He looked up at Raoul; she could see the expression passing between the brothers.
“See how she plays coy, brother?” Philippe said, easing back, not hurriedly, not as if he’d been reprimanded…but as if he’d changed his mind.
“Philippe…” Raoul said, stroking Christine’s hair. “She is not ready for this. She must be willing.”
Her heart rammed in her chest. Willing. She would never be willing to spread her legs for Philippe. Christine pressed a small kiss to Raoul’s warm skin, but said nothing. She felt as though the very moment was tenuous.
Philippe gave a low, easy laugh. “Then I—we—shall do our best to ensure her willing participation.” Christine felt his gaze fall to her again, and she found herself looking back at him, caught. “I do not think it shall be a great hardship…for any of us.”
EIGHTEEN
* * *
"Raoul, please,” Christine told him, her hands braced against his shoulders. “Promise me.”
He’d escorted her to her bedchamber in an ironic gesture of propriety, and now they stood in the hall outside the room as though it were imprudent for him to breach its threshold. Christine's knees trembled with exhaustion and relief, and her breasts had been tucked back into her gaping bodice enough that her nipples were hidden.
As though he’d been spared her lips all night—which couldn’t have been further from the truth—Raoul bent to her again, covering her mouth with his like he could never get enough of her. “Christine,” he sighed her name, slipping his hands over her bare shoulders. “You belong to me…only to me.”
“But Philippe—”
“My brother knows that,” he said, grasping her shoulders more firmly. Now he was looking down at her in the dimly lit corridor. “He knows you are mine. Only mine.”
Christine sagged back against the wall, held upright by his grip, as he bent to kiss and suck along her throat. Warm prickles skittered over her skin, and the tension of pleasure and need balled up in her belly, tightening again.
“He…he wants…” She could barely form the words during the sensual movement of his lips along her tender skin; any touch, any slip-slide, any gentle squeeze, brought back all of the tension, the built-up lust, she’d kept under control, tried to ignore, through the evening…but it burned to be loosened.
Her sex pulsed with every step she’d taken up the many stairs and along the hall, and now burgeoned between her legs. Her breasts, nipples taut and free again, jostled against the boning of her corset, aching in permanent arousal. Her fingers trembled as she pressed them into the wall behind her as Raoul sipped along her throat.
“He wants you…” Raoul murmured against her skin. “Of course…who would not, Christine?” His mouth formed the syllables as his teeth closed over the edge of her neck. “Who…would…not?”
Just when she would have allowed her knees to sag, he moved back and looked down at her. “He will not force himself on you, Christine. And I do not wish to share you…in that way. You have nothing to fear. I will keep you safe. Always.” He kissed her full on the mouth, no tongue, just a gentle buss of lips that—had it come from Erik—would have brought tears to her eyes. But from Raoul…it was just a reminder that her response was as superficial and automatic as the contraction of her heart, the blink of her eyes. “Always, I will keep you safe.”
Christine slipped away from him, her hand on the doorknob. “Good night, Raoul,” she said, her voice trembling. For how could he say such things after what had happened tonight…and last night, when they were in Erik’s lair?
She wanted to believe him, but she could not trust him.
“Good night, Christine.”
He didn’t follow her and she closed the door quickly.
Pressing her palms against it, Christine bent her forehead to the solid oak door and let her lids close in relief. Her knees shook; her belly felt tight and empty. Tears burned the corner of her eyes.
What was to become of her? How could she stay here, even one more day?
Raoul’s promise that his brother would not force her held little weight; she saw the look in Philippe’s eyes and knew it would be only a matter of time before he got what he wanted.
And the light in Raoul’s eyes…the glinting, sparkling odd one that appeared whenever he looked at her, whenever he spoke of his love for her…it was nearly as frightening as the cold, calculating one in his brother’s.
It frightened her in a different way.
Christine pushed herself away from the door; her body was so weary, taut and tight as though strung from the ceiling to the floor.
When she turned into the chamber, lit only by the coal fire in the grate, she realized with a start and a drop in the pit of her stomach that she wasn’t alone. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover the gasp, and she saw that the figure wore a gown, and not trousers.
“Madame Giry?” Christine whispered in disbelief, recognizing the woman’s profile.
Madame moved from the shadowy corner of the room and into the orange glow from the grate. “Be silent,” she said, her words barely audible.
“But what…how…?” She let herself be tugged by two hands toward the bed.
Madame Giry sat, and pulled Christine next to her. “You must be silent. They do not know I am here,” she whispered into her ear. Her voice was low and her breath warm, the brush of her lips moving against Christine's skin. “The Opera House has been greatly damaged by the fire; the officials are looking for the arsonist. They believe it is Erik.”
“No,” Christine told her. “No, it was the comte."
“So I thought.”
“But how are you here, in the château?” Christine asked, her voice rising enough that Madame shushed her, pressing three fingers to her lips.
“Erik sent word that the vicomte had taken you.”
“Erik? Have you seen him? Oh, mon Dieu…” She began to sob silently, her face suddenly burrowed into Madame’s bosom. “Mon Dieu, I had to leave him…I…had…to…”
“I have not seen him myself,” replied the older woman gruffly, her hands smoothing along the sides of Christine’s face. “He came looking for me, but I did not see him. He left word that I should meet him nearby. What has happened? Tell me all and stop your weeping.”
Christine clutched at the ruffled silk of Madame’s bodice, which, instead of covering her bosom, inexplicably left a large expanse of skin exposed. She sniffled and composed herself enough that her voice, rusty and rough, at least came out audibly as she explained what had occurred since Erik snatched her from the Opera House stage the night before. Mon Dieu, only one night ago!
“Raoul claims he loves me, but this is not love.” She began to sob again, scraping her hand across her nose and eyes. “He will keep me here. And—and the c-comte…”
“Yes, I know of the comte. He is a nasty one.” There was relish in her voice that Christine could not understand; but somehow, with Madame present, she felt as if things were no longer so hopeless.
“How did you come to be here in this house?” Christine asked again.
“The third upstairs maid was once in the ballet corps,” Madame told her quietly. “Pansy, but she goes by ‘Rose’ now. She injured her leg almost two years ago and could no longer dance, and the comte's housekeeper offered her a place here. I came here on the pretense of visiting her, and seeking employment. She writes to me of the happenings here, and I have given the news to Erik over the years.”
“But surely they do not believe that Madame Giry, the famed ballet mistress, would seek household employment!”
Madame’s soft laugh brushed her ear. “No, indeed, they would not…if they knew that I was the dance mistress of the Opera House. No, Rose has merely said I am an old friend of her mother’s who is in need of a position. How should they know otherwise? None of the staff here has ever seen me at the theater; even the comte himself would not notice me when he comes backstage, for I am no longer one of the young, beautiful dancers who would capture his attention. And as a low-level member of his staff, I can assure you, he would pay me no attention at all. Thus, my position here is quite secret. But on to more important matters, Christine. Surely you know by now that Erik is the comte's brother, which was what I was sworn not to tell you before. But now you know.”
Christine nodded, smelling lily perfume as her nose bumped Madame’s throat. Her tears had dried. “Yes, they are brothers. How can that be?”
“The old comte, of course, had the same wandering lust that his sons do—oui, even Raoul, Christine, for all of his naive ways, he cannot resist a beautiful woman and expects to have what he wishes— and he got my cousin Amelie, who was working here on the estate, with child. Thus was born Erik, with all of his imperfections.”
“So he was born with his face like that?” Christine asked.
"He was. The moment the comte laid eyes on the poor babe, with his horribly twisted cheek and sagging eye, he vowed never to look on him, never to recognize him. But shortly before Amelie died, he changed his mind and found a use for him. There are times I wonder whether it was heartbreak for her son and his future that caused her death.”
“Was he raised here, then? At the château?” These were things Christine could perhaps have asked Erik…but he seemed so reluctant to answer her questions about the past. And talking about him now made her feel as if she was doing something for him, even if she was only assuaging her curiosity.
“Yes, after Amelie died, and not as a brother, you understand. Erik knew he was the old comte's son, but Philippe did not until later. They were of an age, you see, born within a month of each other, if you can believe the fate of it.” Madame sighed, and beneath their bodices, Christine felt the press of her breasts against her own.
The strangeness of being breast to breast, bare collarbone to bare collarbone, reminded her all too much of Delia and her plump little hands on Christine’s nipples, and she moved away. “Why does the comte hate Erik so?”
“I do not know all of it, only that the two were often together when they were young men, and that the comte and his friends would allow Erik to come with them when they went out in the evenings, only his face had to be covered, and he must do what they ordered. He lived with ridicule and castigation by them and by the entire household. He slept in the corner of the stables and was brought slop from the kitchens.”
“But why would Erik go with him?” Christine’s heart squeezed in her chest as she thought of the terrified, repugnant young boy he must have been, how he must have tried to be normal.
“Because his father ordered it. Because he required Erik to be Philippe’s shadow, to follow after him and to clean up any untidiness the young comte might have left in his wake. And Philippe resented Erik’s presence, of course, and so he created increasingly foul and disturbing predicaments for his half brother to attend to.”
Christine was shaking her head. “I do not understand, madame.”
The older woman gave the gust of an exasperated sigh. “I am not speaking of the messes of a young boy when he tears his trousers, or steals off to ride his father's best horse without permission and causes the beast to strain his leg—although that is how it perhaps started. Philippe has always been a man who likes his pleasure, and fine expensive things at any cost. Even as a young man, before the age of twenty, he took what he wanted and left behind what he did not.”
“And the old comte required Erik to clean it up?”
“Indeed. To dispose of the young girls his brother deflowered, or injured, or worse. To pay for the damages wrought by him and his friends when they had drunk too much wine and cavorted throughout Paris or here in the town of Chagny. To hide the evidence or to provide another scapegoat for the crimes. Even to try and force him to ravage the girls that Philippe liked to play with. He thought it great fun to watch them scream and cry when he threatened to let Erik touch them. And Erik had little choice in the matter if he wished to live at all.”
And at last it all became clear to Christine. “As he has done now, at the Opera House. Erik is the scapegoat, not only for his brother, but for anything terrible that happened at the Opera House.”
“At last you understand. He has spent his last ten years in hiding because he has been so often implicated in the comte's actions. He dares not show his face, not only because of its hideousness, but also because he is held to blame for much of what Philippe de Chagny has done.”
“H
is face is not hideous!” Christine cried, louder than was prudent. “It is not. It is not.’’ She was sobbing again; perhaps she would never see Erik again. Perhaps she might never touch that beautiful mouth, nor feel the raggedness of his deformed skin, nor the comfort of his embrace. She could not bear the thought of it.
She could not bear the thought of his pain, his never-ending pain.
“It is not so hideous as Erik has been taught to believe, Christine, that is true…but you see it now with real love, and nothing will naysay your opinion.” All trace of annoyance was gone from Madame Giry’s voice now, and it sounded kinder than it ever had. “Perhaps I have misjudged you. Perhaps you are worthy of the love of a great man like Erik de Chagny. He is a brilliant musician, you know, for even though Amelie was with him such a short time, she recognized his talent and encouraged it. If only she had not died so young, and he had not been made to live with the comte, and then to hide away.” She sighed. “If only.”
Christine sucked back her sobs and straightened from the huddle she’d slipped into with her tears. “How long has he—”
“Shhh.” Madame stiffened, and she slapped her fingers over Christine’s lips again. They sat in silence for a moment, and Christine felt her companion strain as though listening for something, but Christine herself heard nothing. “I must go; I have been here long enough,” Madame said at last, her words barely audible, with none of the whistling hiss of a whisper. “Do what you must to stay in Raoul’s good graces. He is your only chance.”
“My only chance—” Christine started, but the other woman clapped her palm over her mouth, shaking her head so vehemently that Christine saw it in the dim light.
