Colette Gale: Unmasqued

"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.

Christine 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.

"Raoul, I am here. On the stage."

"On the stage?" His gentle laugh reached her ears. "Reliving your moment of triumph, are you, little Christine? Let me get a light."

"No! No light, Raoul, please. Just… come here."

Erik was gone; she knew he had left, for she could not feel his presence. And she needed assistance to button up her gown. How dare he do that to her… and then leave her to fend for herself?

At least he had not left her hanging. That would have been quite difficult to explain to Raoul or anyone else who might find her.

"Where are you, Christine?"

"This way. I need your help."

When she heard him on the edge of the stage, she started toward him. It was purely black, so that she didn't realize how close he was. She walked right into him and he caught her, sagging gown and all.

"Christine!" His voice betrayed the surprise at the bare, warm flesh his hands felt at her back. "What is happening?"

"I need help fastening my gown," she said, her hands moving up and over his solid shoulders. Were Erik's as broad? Was he as tall? How could she not know such simple things when he knew so much of her… had taken so much?

"Your gown feels as though it is about to fall off," Raoul replied in a strangled voice. Yet his hands made no effort to move from their spot on her bare back.

"It is." Her voice was husky. It was Erik's fault for leaving her wanting more.

The timbre of her words must have seemed like an invitation for Raoul, for suddenly he tightened his arms, crushing his mouth down over hers.

Christine tipped up her face to meet his lips, and felt her breasts surge and her tender nipples tighten against the sagging confines of her stays.

After the initial rough impact, Raoul tamed himself and gentled his mouth. He tasted, sipped, slicked his tongue over her lips and slipped it around and along hers as she drew in her breath, deeper and harder, pushing her nearly bare breasts up against his shirt.

"Oh, Christine," he groaned, pulling away yet holding her hips firmly against his. His erection raged against her, through five layers of clothing, sending her own sex to throbbing again. "We cannot…" He drew in his breath, steadying it. "My brother, the comte , and the messieurs Moncharmin and Richard await us… We cannot be much longer. We must go."

Christine pulled away reluctantly, feeling the ache of unsated lust. Any guilt she might have felt for her response to Raoul's feverish kisses so soon after her intimacy with Erik was quickly dismissed. After all, he had taken from her, and he had left her wanting more. Of Erik, she wanted more, but Raoul was tall and handsome and elegant… and Raoul, she could see and touch.

But his kisses were different from Erik's, and the way he moved his hands over her body was too tentative, as though he was afraid to touch her. Erik was bold, and knew how to pull and coax forth and peak her desire… just as he did her music.

" Oui , let us go. I am famished," she told Raoul, turning in the dark, presenting her backside to him. "Finish my buttons, my dear vicomte , and we shall be off to eat." And then back here to rest, she promised herself.

She would sleep well; but tonight, she feared, her dreams would be filled with more than the memory of a disembodied voice. Tonight, she would dream of his touch as well.

Erik moved along the catwalk like a starving panther-fast, silent, smooth. Hunger gnawing.

He knew the upper workings of the Paris Opera House like he knew every other area, from the high, flat roof open to the moon and sun alike, to the backstage, to the dormitories so vast they were nearly a city unto themselves… to the cavernous tunnels and subterranean lake that snaked deep below.

The Opera House was his domain.

Music was his language.

Christine was his obsession.

True… he'd hardly noticed her at first. Until recently, he'd barely paid attention to the comings and goings of the dancers and singers. The dark, silent theater had been his bailiwick. After all had gone home in the early-morning hours, he'd roamed the backstage, the catwalks, the stalls, even the boxes and the grand marble foyer.

But one day, perhaps six months ago, when it was still summer and the nights were short, he'd not returned to his little cottage in time. Or else she had been up early.

He'd seen her come onto the stage just as she had tonight after her brilliant performance, alone. In the silence.

She had done nothing so very unusual to capture his attention; surely Christine Daae had not been the first young woman to stand on an empty stage and wish for the chance to make it her own. But that was what she'd done.

Her long, dark hair was caught back in a simple ribbon. She wore her battered chorus girl costume; perhaps she'd been wearing it all night. Since then, he'd been close enough to see it and notice the darned slippers and the ladders decorating the backs of her stockings.