Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (4 page)

No, she did not place Raoul in the same category as those pudgy, false-fatherly gentlemen who scanned the dancers and singers and actresses as if they were clusters of horseflesh…but neither did she dismiss him. Not at all. For he had been handsome and charming, and quite obviously pleased to see her.

Now, Christine should have been hurrying along the passageway toward the back door that led into the side alley, where Raoul would be waiting for her…but instead, she found herself moving back toward the stage. The place of her triumph.

She had rarely had occasion to be on the stage when the room, with its vast rows of seats and high, domed ceiling, was empty of everything but…echoes. Echoes of performances past, echoes of smoke from the doused lights, echoes of perfume and applause.

She wasn’t sure what drew her, but she heeded the innate call and walked out onto the stark wooden-planked stage. Her footsteps, nearly silent in slippers, took her to the monstrous stage’s center, and Christine stood, facing the invisible audience.

A whisper of air stirred, raising the hair all along her arms and at the base of her neck. She resisted the urge to look behind her; instead, she smoothed one hand up along her arm, then down, over her long glove, and then back up again. Waiting.

A sudden beam of limelight shot down from above, circling her in its white glow, cutting her off from the darkness around her. The sphere was compact, just large enough that she might walk two small steps before moving out of it and back into the empty black if she chose. It was warm; even though it had not pounded on her for long, the heat from the light above played across her bare shoulders and bosom, and over the upper parts of her arms that were not covered by her gloves.

The light dulled her eyesight as it did when she performed. She could not see the shadowy seats in the theater, nor could she see the red velvet curtains swagged at the edge of the proscenium. All she could see was the white beam of light; all she could feel was its increasing warmth.

“Christine…”

The sound of her name, faint, hollow, erotic, came from behind. Or perhaps above. She wasn’t sure.

“Ange?”
she managed to ask. Her heart was suddenly thumping madly.

Before she could turn to look, she felt him behind her again, just as he had been in her dressing room. He had spoken to her, taught her, sung with her…but he had never appeared to her before. And now twice in one day.

His hands closed over her shoulders, the supple, tacky leather
of his gloves grabbing at her delicate skin as he moved his palms down over her arms, pulling at the low, sweeping neckline of her gown. The fabric tightened over her breasts, uncovering her suddenly hard, sharp nipples, baring her skin to the heat of the light above.

“You pleased me greatly tonight,” he murmured in that low, melodious voice. It burned in her ear and sent waves of sharp prickles along her neck, down her arms, over her breasts and nipples, to her belly, and lower.

Christine dared to look down, and she saw black, gloved hands dark on her white shoulders and the deep, dark vee between her breasts lifted and pushed together by her corset, and the hint of pink from her areolas above the dark crimson gown. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching up to cover one of his hands with hers. She felt the faintest tremor in his fingers, beneath her own, and wondered suddenly…was it from anger?

Or was it the same sudden trembling she felt over her body?

Now her white-gloved fingers splayed over his wide black ones, and she could feel the heat from him burn into her skin beneath. His free hand moved, threading fingers up into the back of her coiled hair, combing gently through it and then grasping to pull her head back. The beam of light struck her gaze and blinded her; she closed her eyes as sudden tears stung them.

From behind, his face moved against her; she felt warm flesh brush against her right jawline and then hot, soft lips press against her skin. Her head held immobile, her eyes closed against the searing light, Christine struggled to draw in a breath and succeeded only in shuddering and faintly sobbing as pleasure burned where he kissed her, drawing on her flesh, slowly, insistently.

His lips, warm, moist, gentle, inched along her jaw, down the side of her taut throat. Her neck ached; her lips parted; her knees
weakened. Her fingers closed around his hand at her shoulder, while her other hand reached up to touch him behind her. She needed to feel him, to know him.

“No,” he snarled against her skin, and, releasing her hair, snatched at her questing fingers and pulled them away from his face. He moved quickly and imprisoned both of her wrists in one leathered hand, above her head.

He moved. She could feel him reach up, behind her, and then suddenly she felt something wrapping around her wrists. She gasped, and tried to pull her arms free, but he was too strong. Before she knew it, he’d secured her hands above her head, wrists crossed, elbows bent gently.

“Did you not know that curiosity killed the cat?” he murmured gently into her ear, his sudden anger seeming to have defused. He circled around so that he stood just next to her, but still slightly behind so that she could not see any part of his face…only the gloved hand and the long, black arm to which it was connected, the strong black leg that crossed in front of her skirt, and the shiny black shoe that stepped in the pool of light below.

She tried to move her hands down from the top of her head, but something held them there, something from above. She could do nothing but tug and pull and feel the sway of the rope as it swung from the catwalk above. Her heart beat faster; she could not seem to draw in a full breath.

“Now…,” he sighed, moving close to her, one hand in a vee at the front of her neck, cupping her throat, the other at her nape. “I shall show you how well your performance pleased me tonight.”

“
Ange
, please…” She could scarcely form the words…and for what she was pleading, she did not know.

His chuckle was quiet, but he did not respond with words. Instead, she felt his hand moving down her spine. The heavy weight
of her gown loosened, gapping and falling away in the back where his nimble fingers undid the buttons Madame Giry had fastened only a short time ago.

His other hand slipped under the steel ribbing of her corset, sliding under her left breast and to lift it from the cup of her stays. His leather-covered thumb moved over her stark, hard nipple and she felt a jolt of pleasure spear into her belly, and then to the place between her legs. It flooded moist and hot there, and she pulled, trying to bring her arms to touch him, forgetting that she could not. The rope held, and she succeeded only in straining her arms and causing her
ange
to chuckle again.

“Relax,
ma voix
,” he murmured, his voice rougher than before. His thumb continued to rub across the sensitive part of her nipple, while the other hand slid down beneath the open buttons of her gown, down and around her buttocks.

Christine jerked when that hand found its way under her chemise and down into her drawers, cool leather fingers slicking down stickily, spreading the cleft of her rear. She tried to buck away, but he only pressed harder, his fingers sliding to cover the underside of one round buttock while his front hand slipped to the vee of her legs. His palm pressed there, into her sex, through her gown, and moved in a circular motion over the silk and lace that covered her.

Wrists bound above her, she was trapped between his hands, one set of fingers pushing her skirts down and between her legs, and the other urging her forward from behind, into his palm that cupped her. Her breasts were tight, her nipples painfully hard. Her arms were cold and prickly from lack of blood. The beam of light burned down on them and sweat dampened her face and shoulders and breasts, making her skin slick and heavy. She bucked her hips, trying to get free, or closer, or away—anything to relieve the pressure building inside her.

As he massaged her with his hands, pressing her between them, one warm leather finger slipped from behind, sliding through the wetness that pooled between her legs. Christine moaned when that finger, impersonal in its black case, slid inside her. He pushed her back, his other hand still in place at the juncture of her thighs, massaging just where the edge of her mound was.…How could he feel it, through all the reams of cloth?

Such thoughts fled when he removed his hand from her front and yanked hard at her corset, pulling it down and away from her heavy, tight breasts. She was poised, balanced, on the finger deep inside her, and her breasts were bare in the hot white light, pink nipples hard and pointing, aching when he brushed his hand over one, then the other.
Mon Dieu
, what if someone came upon them?

He pinched, tweaked, rubbed, and she moved her hips, swimming on that leather finger, trying to find something, some relief, some end. “Ah, yes,” he breathed into her ear. His voice was thick and deep. “You open yourself to me.…Yes,
ma voix
, yes, you may shudder and moan. It is a beautiful music you make now, on this stage. Performing only for me.”

Christine was no innocent when it came to pleasure of the body, but she had never felt the hot rush of lust combined with the inability to move as she wished, touch as she needed to. She’d never felt this rage of need she now felt, standing—no, dangling, for her knees sagged and she could no longer hold herself upright.

When he bent his dark head and closed his mouth around the nipple nearest him, Christine could hold back no longer. She cried out, felt the weight of her body straining on the rope above, dangling with her wrists held high and helpless. Wetness, moisture, liquid everywhere…between her legs, on her breast, sweat from the heat of the light—she was dripping, throbbing, panting.

She cried out, unable to hold back the frustration that built
inside. His lips sucked at her nipple, drawing it so tightly into his mouth that she thought she must scream from the pain, and cry from the pleasure.

The finger inside her slipped free, rubbing over her engorged pip, straining between her nether lips, as she circled her hips, trying to move it closer, harder, faster, in the rhythm she needed. He lifted his mouth. “Come for me, Christine.…Come…
now.
”

His other hand again pushed back on her, holding her hips in place as that nimble finger worked from behind, round and round, slipping and gliding through her, until at last the pleasure peaked and she shuddered, crying out her orgasm from deep within.

Then there was only the aftermath: silence, but for their twin breaths, harsh and needy. The dull throb between her legs; the ache at the breast where he’d sucked so hard. His warm leather hand as it glided up and over her ass, bringing her wetness along with it over the round swell of her buttocks. He drew away from her breast, moving back behind her before she saw more than the gleam of dark hair. His hands settled on her shoulders and he pressed into her from behind.

She felt his erection; it pushed into the base of her bare back, through his trousers, insistent and promising. Hard, and it sent a renewal of lust through her middle, stabbing into her stomach.

“I trust that your pleasure was as great as mine,” he murmured, back at her ear again and safely out of her view. His voice was not smooth; it was uneven but low, as though he struggled to keep it steady. He moved his hands up along her arms, moving from her bare skin to the fine cotton gloves that stretched from elbow to wrist.

“I believe mine was the greater,” Christine replied, her own words shaky. “But if you will untie me,
ange
, I would like to touch you…and see you.”

“My name is Erik. You may call me that, but now is not the time. Behave yourself this night,
ma voix
, and I will come to you again soon. Your tutelage has only just begun.” She felt his chest lift and press against her from behind as he drew in a long, deep breath, held it, then released it.

His gloves, fingers spread, ran down from her wrists, over her face, jaw, and neck, smoothly over her bare breasts, pausing to massage them…then close and hard over her belly and to her throbbing sex. Heat followed the leather, and she sagged again under the weight of desire, closing her eyes and tipping her head back into the blare of light.

And then suddenly, he left. He left her burning and aching for more, her nipples hard and pointed, one redder than the other from his mouth, and sore. Her sex throbbing again, in memory and need. Her back cold without him behind her, her gown sagging from her uplifted arms.

And then, before she could fathom that he’d left her stranded and half-naked on the middle of the Opera House stage, something fell from above. Her arms dropped, still tied, to her waist, the rope slapping onto the hard wood at her feet.

C
hristine was still struggling to untie the rope around her wrists when the limelight above blinked out and left her in total darkness, half-clothed and in the middle of the stage.

She heard the whisper of movement above and knew that it was her
ange
, Erik, who was making his way along the jittery catwalk above, which was normally the dominion of the tale-spinning Joseph Buquet.

Then all was silent, except for her ragged breaths.

She pulled at the ropes, her breasts jiggling against her loosened corset, her sensitive nipples rubbing against its lacy edge.

“Christine?”

Mon Dieu.
Raoul! She’d forgotten him.

“Christine, are you back there?”

She struggled harder, and at last felt the rope loosen from her
gloved wrists. It snaked to the floor, and she felt it nudge against her skirt. Quickly, she began to pull the corset up over her breasts, shimmying and shrugging to fit them back into their confining cups.

“Christine!”

His voice was closer now, and she could hear the footfalls of his boots. Her stays were in place, but there was no way she could tighten them without assistance, and certainly no way she could button up the long row of tiny pearls down her back.