Page 67 of Angel's Mask
“I’m sorry,” Christine muttered.
“Don’t worry, I’ll still give you your present. Or your patron’s present, as it were.” With a grin, Adèle produced a letter from her pocket and handed it to Christine. “Someone is eager to get your attention.”
“What?” Christine grabbed the letter, her hands shaking with anxiety. “I-I should read this alone.”
She didn’t wait for Adèle or Julianne as she rushed to her dressing room. The letter was a leaden weight in her hand, but she couldn’t feel the Angel near her. Not yet. Maybe she had time. She locked her dressing room door behind her and rushed to the vanity, lighting the oil lamp with trembling hands. She held her breath as she read.
My Dearest Christine,
I first must apologize for my untoward behavior the night of the gala. I was overcome with affection when I saw you. Especially after holding your memory so long in my heart. And I have held it, my darling playfellow. I have thought of you all these years apart, as I have no other.
I know you must remember me as well. I saw it in your eyes. Perhaps you were overwhelmed that night, or did not wish a scene, or perhaps there is some other reason you could not speak to me. I admit, the idea that some other fellow may have stolen your heart before I could reclaim it terrifies me. But I will not be deterred. I will be there at your door and in your audience every night until I can laugh with you again as we did in those days in Perros.
I have also made sure the managers – the fools – know that the Chagny patronage is dependent on your success, not that awful Spaniard’s. We shall continue to support you, be assured.
Please, write back to me or you shall surely break the heart that has always been yours.
~Raoul
She read it twice, her heart pounding more with each line. She had tried so hard not to think of Raoul in the weeks since the gala. Tried and failed. She’d told herself over and over that it was forbidden, that she couldn’t have such distractions. And she knew logically that even if she were free, she could never be his. His family had made that clear long ago. And she didn’t want to be a mistress or a kept woman. She didn’t know what she wanted, but even so, it was as if something incredible was being offered to her in Raoul’s scrawling hand.
Her hands continued to shake as she slipped the letter into the chimney of her oil lamp and watched the flames quickly consume the paper. Even when it was ashes, she couldn’t breathe...because now she could feel her angel watching.
“What did he write to you, your little Vicomte?” The Angel’s voice was ice. She closed her eyes, the sound sending new tremors through her.
“He says he’s supporting me, with the managers, in favor of Carlotta.” It wasn’t a lie but she couldn’t tell him more.
“You don’t need him, that’s been taken care of,” the voice said, soft and dangerous as if it was just behind her. “Right now, Carlotta is telling Richard and Moncharmin that she’s been otherwise engaged for tomorrow night. A duchess made her a very generous offer to sing.”
Christine’s mind raced, as well as her heart. The air around her thrummed like the moment before a storm, heavy and electric. Her eyes were still closed, but she knew the room had darkened. And she felt him close.
“How...” she whispered.
“There is no miracle I would not work to assure your place on my stage,” his voice whispered in her ear. “To hear you sing upon it, for only me.”
There was such power in those words and such seduction. The reminder that she was his, entirelyhis, made her ache. Beneath her corset, her breasts grew heavy, her stomach fluttered, and her sex ignited with need. It would be shameful –how easily he could reduce her to a quivering mess of desire and deference – were it not such an exquisite thrill.
“Only you, I swear,” she breathed.
“No mere boy could give you anything compared to what I can,” the Angel intoned, half a song, and Christine let out a soft whimper.
“I know.” She found that she was gripping the edges of her vanity, eyes still screwed shut as she waited for him to act.
Every nerve in her body was alive with anticipation. For weeks she’d dreamed of feeling his touch again, of surrendering to him entirely. Would he finally gift her with that ecstasy again now? Her mind swam with fantasies of what he could do – of what she wouldlethim do – each vision more obscene than the last. She saw herself, bent over her vanity with her pretty skirts pulled high around her hips as he finally took her entirely, driving into her with unquestionable force that would make her scream.
Instead, he began to sing, low and soft, their secret song that acted on her like a spell. She moaned, clenching her thighs as tight as she could, her hips squirming as she chased the pleasure coiling in her gut. She could feel him inches from her, and she knew that if she opened her eyes, she would see his shadow looming behind her. Be she didn’t. She would obey.
He sang to her, intimate and insistent, and the dream filled her mind. She imagined wantonly the feeling of being possessed by him. Filled and fucked. Consumed and claimed. And for a second in the fantasy, he was more than a shadow, more than a ghost in a mask. He was a man, real and vital, adoring her with his heat. He wore no mask, and his face was handsome and familiar...
“I’m yours,” she moaned, guilt filling her as the image shattered, even as the delicious tension in her body grew and grew. “Only yours,” she repeated, begging forgiveness for just the thought of another inside her. His song intensified, his power and voice touching her in ways no mortal man ever could, reminding her who she served. Who she loved.
The song rose to its climax as Christine’s fingers dug into the vanity, her every muscle tense and ready. Then just a note shy...he stopped. He waited for an excruciating moment.
“Mine,” he whispered in her ear, and caressed her cheek with the barest touch.
She came with a guttural cry, her body shaking with pleasure and release as fresh moisture bloomed between her thighs. It cascaded through her, lifting her to that same sublime peak she reached when she sang for him. It was heaven, for a few glorious seconds. It was heaven with an angel beside her.
She opened her eyes slowly, finding that the oil lamp was indeed out, and she was entirely in the dark. But she also knew that he would not be there when she turned. Her breath was ragged as she lit the lamp once again, her hand still unsteady but now for a completely different reason.
