The tendons in her arms tightened as she fought with her restraints, fought to gain the movement she desperately needed, the freedom to pump her hips, to push herself closer into his fingers. Her mouth opened into a dark, silent oval, her lips red and wet from biting them. Christine's hips moved faster, Erik's cock surged harder, he pulled futilely at the bonds holding him, and he watched those dark hands… those rough hands, holding her hips, pulling and pushing them until she screamed her orgasm, shaking and shuddering from her spread-eagled position.
And then suddenly, she was falling… falling from her mount. Her soft, wet body landed on him, her face just off his chest. Her hips at his knees. Her torso next to his needy cock.
He saw the man behind her.
Philippe de Chagny, Not Raoul. Philippe.
He advanced, his face a mask filled with mockery and pleasure. Christine's arms lay limply across the bed, across Erik's helpless body.
And then she was on her hands and knees, over him, just over Erik… but not… not where he wanted her.
One leg between his, her knees straddling his thigh. Her breasts hung in front of him… moved closer as she shifted forward, over him, still over him, now her belly high above his chest. Her nipples teased, her breasts bumping against each other, just over his face. He could see them, could almost reach up to taste those jutting, red nipples.
Her face rose behind him, above his head, so he could not see her expression… but when he looked down along the line between her breasts, to her curving belly and the black nest of hair at the end, he saw another set of thighs behind her. Thick, hairy thighs, and then the edges of thick, dark fingertips, grasping her waist. Just above him, just above Erik's own belly.
Christine's cry of pleasure pierced his ears as Chagny's cock slid inside her. Erik could see his ballocks dangling behind her spread thighs. They moved above him, Chagny swift and sure, in and out, jostling Christine so that her hands, placed on the mattress above Erik's head, brushed against his hair as she shifted to keep her balance.
He watched in horror and fury as that thick dark cock worked inside her, teasing him with what he could not have, and what Chagny took, and took… A long, turgid column sliding into dark, wet lips… faint suction sounds, slipping, slick noises… in and out, long and short, her lower lips moving together, then apart, as he moved in and out. Those heavy hands moved, covering her ivory breasts, dark and rough, squeezing them, just above Erik's face. He struggled, kicking at his tight ankles, pulling at his wrists, his hips jostling the bed… but nothing put Chagny off his stride.
Christine's body shone above him, moist with sweat, and with her own juices, sliding down her thighs to pool onto Erik's own belly. He was wild, pulling, thrashing, fighting… and still, Chagny pumped away, moving those hips teasingly above him, those breasts nearly close enough to touch… and then the end, the shuddering, quaking, heaving… and the last, worst ignominy… when Christine's knees collapsed and she and her lover fell atop him.
Trapping him.
His aching cock dripping and surging, his face wet.
His heart pounding.
Erik dragged his eyes open at last. Perhaps he could have crawled out of the dream earlier… but instead he had forced himself to endure. To feel the pain.
Christine had meant pain to him. Only pain.
He'd given her everything, and she had killed him.
His eyes, adjusting to the dim candlelight, saw the parchment curling next to him on the bed.
Maude had written, and he had yet to decide whether to respond.
The Vicomte de Chagny has moved Christine to a new dressing room… one where you cannot visit through the mirror. She is never alone, for the vicomte fears that you will visit her again. She is to move with him to Chagny House tomorrow, Erik. The count has insisted upon it, for he says she is not safe from the Opera Ghost.
To that end, they have laid a trap for you should you attempt to interfere, which, I believe, is exactly what the count anticipates. Whatever you do, have a care for yourself above all.
Erik closed his eyes. His dreams were about to become his life.
Chapter Fifteen
Christine had not sung onstage since her abduction by Erik, but tonight she returned, singing the role of Scheherazade for the first—and last—time.
Her dark hair had been gathered at the crown of her head, wrapped with gold and purple, and then left to fall in thick corkscrew waves to her shoulder blades. One long curl hung from each side of her temples, wrapped with jewel-laden cords so that they sparkled amethyst and carnelian and topaz. Despite the harem setting, her costume was more French than Persian, with silky, flowing skirts of sheer material that slid sinuously about her legs and brushed her bare feet. The bodice of her gown was heart shaped, the vee cutting well below and between her breasts. The rounded tops of the corsetlike bodice curved down around her breasts, cupping them like the hands of a lover, leaving only a narrow strip of boning thrusting up to cover each of her nipples.
When she stepped onstage alone for the first time, after the scene in which she had married King Sharyar, Scheherazade sang her most poignant aria, knowing that if her stories did not entertain him, he would put her to death. As she sang, Christine stared out into the sea of faces, remembering the way it had felt when she'd sung for Erik… when she known he was listening for her.
Was he listening tonight?
She sang as if he was, knowing it would be the last time.
It was her farewell to him… her last good-bye to the man she loved, but who had rejected her.
The spotlight shone down, sending a faint sheen of perspiration over her bare skin, trickling down between her breasts. Yet she could still see into the crowd… She could see the outlines of gendarmes waiting at the alcove of every entrance and exit of the Opera House.
They waited in the wings too, and in the backstage hallways… She had seen them.
For Erik. They waited for Erik, expecting that he would snatch her tonight.
This would be her last performance, for she would leave with Raoul tonight. He had told her they were to elope. The fear and loneliness Scheherazade must have felt rang deep within Christine as she raised her arms, beseeching the Persian gods to save her.
Her breasts rose as she looked up into the blinding light, her voice true and sweet. Tears spilled from her eyes from the light, and from the loss within her.
The music changed, portending the entrance of Sharyar, her murderous husband, and Christine held her final note, standing alone on the stage.
Suddenly, there was a soft pop, and the stage—the entire chamber—was plunged into utter darkness.
Shouts and screams erupted from all around and Christine froze, afraid to move and take the chance of falling into the orchestra pit. The air shifted above, and she felt something whump down behind her, just barely behind her… had she been a step farther back, she would have been crushed under the weight of…
Erik!
There was no mistaking those hands, that brush of his face against the side of her jaw, the smell of him, his presence…
His arms closed around her from behind—strong, welcome—and then she felt the whiplike motion of his hand, and then a short step, and then they were falling…
She screamed in spite of herself, as her skirts blew up around her and the cool air rushed over her bare thighs. She saw the faint glow of lights above as they slipped through a trapdoor in the center of the stage, a door that closed immediately behind them, leaving them bundled together in a smooth chute of darkness.