His arms traced hers, spread far from her body, his hands closing around her wrists; his legs pushed into the backs of hers. His hips, his cock, pressed into the small of her back, the buttons of his trouser fastenings stamping on her skin.
His hands slid from her wrists along the length of her arms, down over the underside of her shoulders, and alongside her breasts. She arched back from the mirror as far as her taut arms would allow, and he laughed softly against her head, his breath hot at her temple.
"Impatient, are you, Christine?" But he slipped his hands around the front of her, closing over her hard nipples, still cold from the mirror, and covered them with his warm palms. From behind, he pushed her hips into the mirror and massaged her breasts with long, flexible fingers. She moaned, and rolled her pubis into the glass, and he followed her rhythm, rolling and shifting with her. She was trembling and pulsing all over, her entire being focused on the need he aroused within her.
Christine tried to turn her head, to put her face next to his, but he hissed and pulled his head away from the mirror before she could come face-to-face with him.
"You are impatient, aren't you?" There was that edge again, lacing his erotic voice, the edge that told her he was not pleased with her impatience. She tipped her head back to the mirror, pressing her cheek again to the moist spot she'd left, and closed her eyes.
"Please, Erik," she whispered.
He pulled on her nipples, one after the other in a fast, tortuous rhythm that caused her breathing to grow rougher, more ragged. Spikes of desire shot down to her pip with each tweak. It felt as if it was growing, swelling, and could take no more before it would burst…
Then he slid his hands down and captured her hips, one on each side, and held her firmly against the mirror. She could not move from the waist down, and barely from the waist up.
He'd moved away and only his hands were touching her, planting her pubis and hip bones on the glass.
Then she felt his mouth on her shoulder, hot and moist and scoring into her skin. He was not gentle, or featherlight… He nipped and teethed and licked, all the while holding her hips so that she could not wriggle, until she was shaking and shuddering with need.
He sucked on her skin, trailed the delicate tip of his tongue all the way down her spine. She felt him kneeling behind her, braced herself as his tongue slid along the cleft of her buttocks, sending her squirming and shivering, half sobbing, and gasping to catch her breath.
Oh, please… was all she could think. She could not even form the words. Her pip was throbbing so hard, it was painful; she could feel a trickle of wet as it trailed down the inside of her thigh. Then his tongue was there, licking it, following the trail back up to her hot, wet quim, and she thought she would scream.
He pulled the sides of her bottom apart, leveraged her hips away from the glass so that she was half-leaning, half-hanging from her wrists; her face, shoulders, breasts, arms, shoved up against it. She felt him moving close behind her, and suddenly his tongue was just where she needed it.
She gave a soft scream, jerking uncontrollably against the mirror as he flicked his tongue over the hard nub of her tickler, faster, faster, harder, side to side, until she let go and sagged into a mass of quivering, shaking, shuddering muscle and bone and wetness.
Her mouth was open, planted against the glass, screaming silently into its silvery silk as she came, and came, and convulsed against it. Her body, damp and hot, slid helplessly against the mirror, leaving chaotic streaks over it.
"Now," said Erik into her ear, "you will remember this when you sing tonight, wont you, Christine?" He sounded ragged, out of breath, strained. "I'll be watching you from Box Five, and remember… you sing for me. And me alone. No one else can give you what I give you."
And then he was gone.
And moments later, her wrists loosened from behind the mirror, and Christine collapsed in a heap on the floor, landing on the silk of her discarded robe and the taut boning of her corset.
Chapter Five
Meanwhile, in a well-appointed flat not so far from the Opera House, Carlotta shrieked and tore the parchment paper that purported to be a note from the Opera Ghost into two long strips. "Impossible! Impossible! He cannot!"
"But what is it, ma chère?" Guy looked up from his pose upon her pillow-laden bed.
She cast a glance at his sleek, bulging muscles, arranged just the way she liked them, tan and perfect against the light bedding. He was propped on an elbow and his long, muscular legs were crossed at the ankle. His cock, at half-mast in its bush of tawny hair, enticed her, just as the classic beauty of his mouth did.
But then she recalled the letter, signed O. G,, but more likely to have been written by a friend of Miss Christine Daaé. "Imbecile!" she cried, her feigned French or Spanish accent (depending upon cage down toward his groin. He shivered under her touch, but he did not move.
Except for his cock. It flinched and grew.
"I said you were not to move," she reminded him mildly. And slapped at it.
He grunted and his cock grew larger. Carlotta felt his eyes fastened on her as she bent forward to take the tip in her mouth. She circled her lips around it, slipping her tongue over the velvet skin, and then pulled back to look down at him.
He had not moved, but his eyes were dark and focused on her mouth. His beautiful chest rose and fell a bit faster. She liked it best when it was covered with droplets of sweat, when he had to fight for control.
Carlotta yanked at the tie of her dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. She stood in front of him and let him look his fill. Her breasts were generous and had barely begun to sag, and her hips were round and voluptuous. Her waist nipped in, leaving her a perfect hourglass form. She had no bush tangling over her quim; every hair had been plucked away, leaving her smooth and white.
"Now," she told Guy in a cool voice, "we shall see how well you will distract me."
She clambered onto the bed near his feet and crawled so that she straddled his massive thighs. Sitting her bare rump on his knees, Carlotta spread her legs wide so that he would have a clear view of her sex, and rose up on her knees.
Taking her breasts in her hands, she began to play with herself. She teased her already tight nipples until they were puckered tight as her anus, flicking them with her fingers, sending shoots of desire down to her sex. She lifted and squeezed and massaged, all the while watching Guy watch her.
He did not move, but his chest rose a bit faster; his eyes narrowed a bit farther. When she slipped one hand down to cover her mons, his attention followed her. She was wet and she slid her fingers between her labia, drenching them and bringing her juices up to wet her nipple. The feel of her slick fingertips swirling over the very front of the tight nubbin made her pip throb and swim.
When her areola was hard and shiny with her moisture, Carlotta eased herself forward, sliding her dripping self over his cock, letting it slip through the juices of her lips to rest in the crack of her ass as she moved up closer to his head.
"Taste," she told him, bringing her wet nipple down to his mouth. She felt the jerk of his body as he reacted, but then he quickly subdued the urge to remove his hands from behind his head and reach for her.
When his hot mouth closed over her entire areola, Carlotta closed her eyes and thrust her chest toward him. Pleasure drove down to her belly with every hard suck of his lips, and she rocked her hips over his strong, flat belly, rubbing her juicy sex into his skin. It swelled and burned, and when he released her nipple to slide his tongue over it, slipping over the most sensitive area, another rush of liquid dampened her sex.