Philippe took her arm, and suddenly Delia was at her other side, grasping her other elbow. Christine's bare arm brushed against the side of Delia's bare breast, and the woman turned to smile meaningfully at her.
"You will join us for dinner," Philippe said, "or I shall find myself very offended. I am certain Christine does not wish to offend me, does she, Delia?"
"Indeed not," Delia replied. "Although I rather hope she does… so I can watch."
Christine was thus prodded toward an ornate door at one end of the parlor and, taking deep breaths, decided she was better off in the dining room with servants about.
She could force herself through a meal with the comte and his half-clothed wife, and their lascivious looks and unsubtle double entendres.
She expected to be led into a dining room as vast as the other chambers in this massive chateau, but to her surprise, the room was not at all what she had expected. In fact, it hardly looked like any dining room she'd ever seen, or imagined. Instead of chairs lining a long table, illuminated by a crystal chandelier and a multitude of candles, the seating choices appeared to be large cushions and hassocks. There were several of them, perhaps a dozen, of all shapes and sizes. Some of them surrounded a square table set low to the ground, that one sat on the large pillows in order to reach it. Candles burned in sconces along each of the walls, and a candelabrum perched on the center of the table. Some odd scent hung in the air; it was nothing that she'd ever smelled before, but it permeated the room in such a way as to be not too cloying, yet impossible to ignore.
Her heart began to beat faster when the doors were closed firmly behind them, and the comte paused to look at her with an odd smile that made her heart lob awkwardly to one side.
"Have a seat, my dear. Anywhere you like."
Christine stepped reluctantly into the room.
The comtesse had chosen a generous blue velvet hassock in the shape of a flattened ball. Her breasts jounced as she settled herself next to the table, arranged on one hip and propped on an elbow. As Christine watched, she selected a small purplish fruit from the table and bit into it.
Philippe noticed her interest, and steering her firmly toward another cushion near Delia's, he said, "That is a fig, my dear. Very soft and velvety on the outside, and moist within. I find them quite delicious… as they remind me of other, more earthy delights."
She was feeling very warm, and suddenly aware of every one of her five senses, and what they were experiencing: the sight and texture of the luxurious, low-lit furnishings; the incense that made her want to draw it in more deeply as it pervaded her being; the spread of food over the low table—everything from fruit to wine, cheese, and bread, and even rich pastries and dishes of crème.
Christine's knees gave out and she sank slowly onto a soft, plush pillow that seemed to embrace her. With her heavy skirts wrapped around her legs, and the malleability of the cushion, it was difficult for her to move and she feared she would be unable to rise out of the deep hassock without assistance.
Philippe, who selected a firm square-shaped cushion between the two women, seemed to understand her predicament, for he sent her a knowing smile. "There, now… is this not cozy? As I said, the sherry helped to relax you, for it was laced with something special… as is our incense as well. Now, I am sure you are hungry. Please, eat. You will need your strength."
Although Christine's belly lurched at his comment, sending an uncomfortable queasiness and apprehension barreling through her, she recognized that she was hungry. And that, as disconcerting as his words were, Philippe was right… She would need her strength.
Because, Christine decided at that very moment, though her mind was a bit dim while she watched Comtesse Delia's generous breasts lift and sway as she reached for another fig, she was going to escape from the Chateau de Chagny. She must escape and somehow find Erik. And they would be together again.
Until then, she would have to take care of herself… and she would have to suffer the hints and innuendos… and, please, God, nothing else… from the comte.
And Raoul. Mon Dieu… she did not know how to feel about him. He loved her, she believed that… but he had forced her to come with him to this place. He claimed it was for her protection—perhaps he truly believed it. He was a kind man, a gentle one; she cared deeply for him.
Or, at least, she had cared for him.
If she thought Raoul might have gone along with the comte's plan in the underground house only to allow Erik to escape, and to assuage his brother's taste for vengeance, that thought had dissolved earlier today when he'd kissed her in her room. He had no intention of letting her go back to Erik.
What if Erik never found her? What if he never came for her?
The pit of her stomach felt deep and empty. No. He would come. Erik would come… He loved her; nothing would keep him from her.
But until he came, or until she found a way to escape, what would she have to endure?
Her thoughts swirled, her senses heightened; she felt sluggish and aware at the same time. Philippe watched her, his attention heavy and obvious, and Christine felt the upswing of her heartbeat as it jolted through her body.
She forced her attention to the table in front of her and reached for a stem of grapes. They were crisp and juicy, and slid sweetly down her dry throat. The comte offered her the plate of figs, and Christine took one of the odd-shaped dark purple fruits, lifting it by its stemlike protrusion. It was indeed soft, soft as velvet, and the skin slightly shriveled. She felt as though she were holding a heavy, yet delicate, organ. A male organ, for though it was the wrong shape, it had the same weight, the same heavy, velvety feel.
The thought startled her, and when she looked up, her face warm, she found Philippe watching her, his dark eyes glittering beneath heavy lids.
"I see you find the same intrigue in these little fruits as I do," he said, lifting another fig and cupping it in his palm like a small breast. Christine felt her nipples tighten as he gently rolled it around in his palm, tilting and tipping it, and then lifted it by the stem to bring it to her lips.
Her heart pounding, Christine opened her mouth enough to take a small bite, surprised at how smoothly her teeth cut through the velvety skin. She hadn't expected it to yield so easily, but it was just as delicate as it seemed.
"Now feed me," Philippe commanded.
Christine lifted her own fruit to his lips, and could not draw her eyes away from his teeth as they surrounded the fig and then gently bit. She felt as though there were nothing in the room but his mouth and that fruit and the way it crushed between his teeth.
She offered the fruit again, and this time, his mouth moved along the edge of her palm as he took in the rest of the little fig. The warm touch of his lips on the side of her hand sent an unexpected tremor along her arm. Philippe let off a soft groan as he chewed, and his eyelids dropped farther.
That was when Christine realized that the comtesse had somehow moved from her own hassock and her hands were busy in her husband's lap.
Christine started to pull away in surprise after she glanced down and saw a flash of dark red flesh in Delia's slender white hands… but Philippe caught her wrist before she could move away and pulled her face to his.
His mouth, tasting of fig and wine, closed over hers. She was trapped by his warm, slick lips as they ground onto hers, held in place by strong fingers jammed into the back of her hair. Her mouth opened and she was invaded by the full sensuality of the moment: the taste of sweet fruit, the erotic scent on the air, and, suddenly, hands on her breast, lifting it free from its bodice.
One of them had grasped her other hand, and she had no way to prop herself up; she half fell against Philippe, who held one wrist, and felt her other hand being directed down, down between them… until her fingers brushed against something turgid and warm. The fingers that held her were small, but strong, and through the haze of sensation—at her mouth, at her nipple, now, suddenly, tingling between her legs, deep beneath her skirts—she realized Delia was forcing her fingers around the hot swelling length of the comte's erection.