Page 77 of Angel's Mask
She turned her head curiously as the music box began to play. But in a second, she was under the spell again, just as he was. She lay on the bed at his mercy, her legs spreading as he freed his aching member from the confines of his trousers. It would be simple to sink into her, Erik thought, in horror and awe. She would open for him and cry out in joy as he filled her. He could imagine it so easily.
And imagining was all he would do, he swore to himself, as he took hold of straining member. It wasn’t about his pleasure, not strictly. It was about saving her. But the Christine in his mind as he stroked his cock was different. Yes, in his mind she was just as beautiful, just as enthralled and overcome as she was now, as her body moved beneath his free hand. But she didn’t sigh “angel” as she arched to seek him. Instead, he imagined her saying his real name. It would never happen, of course, but in the fog of his passion, he let himself dream it. He imagined what it would be like to be loved for himself, wanted by her. And he came with a shudder, spilling onto the sheets beside her.
The orgasm fogged his mind as much as it cleared it. He found himself above her once again, both hands on her now. He had saved them from the ultimate disaster, perhaps. But he still owed her an angel’s reward, didn’t he?
He continued touching her, letting go of all thought. The music he had used so many times to captivate her echoed in his own mind, whispering of forbidden delights. And why not listen? Why not give her all she desired and deserved? He pawed at her soft, quivering breasts and made her moan in slavish need. Why not drink of the devil’s draught and sell his soul for his Marguerite?
Her whole body arched when his lips found her nipple. He suckled and licked, his hands busying themselves on her thighs and hips. Her legs spread easily and eagerly for him as he took his place between them on the bed. Like a starving man, he turned his attention to her other breast, loving the counterpoint of her sighs with the music that played just for them. He wanted to be slow, methodical, but she responded so beautifully to his attentions, to his lips and hands, that he found himself moving lower sooner than planned. All his plans had gone wrong tonight anyway, why not one more?
He pushed her skirts up to her ribs, caressing her as he did. She was bare underneath, no corset or drawers. She’d sung for him tonight like this, ready forhim. He felt drunk, mad, and intoxicated as he kissed her belly, soft and smooth beneath his mouth and fingers. And then he moved lower, the scent of her drawing him like a siren. She trembled at the first touch of his finger to her dripping folds, the barest contact causing her hips to rise. He wanted more, wanted to give her more. He let his breath caress her, the music spurring him on.
“Please!” she cried, and he wondered distantly if she even knew what she was begging him for. Either way, he would give it.
It was there, safely hidden between her alabaster thighs that he truly lost all reason, helpless to desire. It would not do to have cold leather against that warm, welcoming skin. So, he removed the mask just as he claimed her. He held her hips steady, fingers digging into her soft flesh, and let himself taste heaven at last as he hid his face in the dark of her desire.
Christine gave a deep wail as his tongue found her and another as he began to explore her thoroughly. She tasted like ambrosia: salt and spice, hot and rich. He licked and sucked, testing her, and thrilling at her responses. Her cries of pleasure were louder than the music now, as something feral awakened in her with each movement of his tongue against her trembling sex. He could make out words at times, exclamations, and entreaties for him.
“More, please, more,” she panted. “I need you in me.More.”
He could give her that too.
She opened so easily to his fingers, giving a strangled, satisfied gasp as he filled her. He kept up his tongue’s ministrations as well, his focus intent on the swollen, hard nub just above where his fingers fucked into her, in rhythm to the music he had composed just for her. There were no more words in her cries now and he loved it. It was so different from the perfect music she had given him just an hour before, as she’d surrendered her soul to his power on Paris’s greatest stage. Now, as he devoured her, far below in the dark, that same voice was broken and raw as she screamed out in ecstasy for him alone.
He could feel her climax approaching; her thighs stiffened, and the frantic rhythm of her hips froze, her body arching off the bed. She was suddenly silent, her cunt tight around his fingers, her pleasure cresting at his touch. But she needed one thing more.
“Now.” He spoke the word into her flesh and the dam broke. She spasmed and bucked, breathlessly keening as he coaxed her to more. He wouldn’t let her stop, not so soon, he wouldn’t let her come down from these heights. He licked at her as fresh juices covered his hand and chin, a flood of delight made manifest as she cried out and convulsed again and again.
Too soon however, she collapsed, boneless and panting. He withdrew, his own breath ragged. He fumbled in the dark for his mask, panic rising in the naked moments until he replaced it. Only when it was secure did he unbind her hands, gently caressing her wrists where her restraint had left red marks. He righted their clothes, stealing a few more caresses as he did.
And then to his shock, she entwined her fingers with his.
“Hold me, please,” Christine whispered, pulling him to her. He obeyed without question, folding her into his arms so that her head rested above his heart. He could feel her smile against his skin.
The music box had stopped playing, and the silence around them was gentle and soft. So was she, as she relaxed against him, blanketing him in warmth and contentment. There was so much he had to do. There were illusions to break and truths to tell. But it was so easy and perfect here in her arms. And he was so tired. He hadn’t even taken off the blindfold around her eyes. He should do that and so many other things.
He hummed a lullaby and kissed her forehead instead, listening to the sound of her breath as she fell asleep in his arms. And he drifted to sleep in hers.
––––––––
Raoul did not likeSorelli’s flat. It was gaudy and overcrowded with trinkets, the exact kind of excess one might expect from someone new to the ability to spend money without care. Her selection of brandy was also miserable. Or maybe he was the one that was miserable, sitting in a corner with a half-empty glass while Philippe and Antoine laughed with their women. Meanwhile, Christine was lost.
“She’ll be fine.”
Raoul looked up into the face of Adèle Valerius. She had to be older than Antoine, but she was still rather beautiful, especially now, looking rather rumpled from whatever the two of them had been up to while Raoul stewed.
“You don’t know that. Christine could be in the hands of some unscrupulous person,” Raoul muttered. It sounded absurd to say it aloud.
“No, I don’t know it, but I doubt it,” Adèle said, joining Raoul on the settee. “Christine is strong and smart, and she always manages to find her way home. You do know she lives with me, don’t you?”
Raoul’s jaw went slack and then tensed again in anger. “Antoine did not mention that.”
Adèle laughed. “He might not know, he doesn’t pay attention to much.”
“Does Christine have some paramour? You of all people must know,” Raoul demanded. He’d find out the truth at last now.
“I’m not sure.” It was not the answer that Raoul had expected and Adèle’s face was unreadable. “I think there’s someone. And she never denies it fully if I ask. But I’ve never seen her with anyone either. But, well, you heard her tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
