Unmasqued

He came from behind her, angry, striding, and over to the violin so that she saw his long legs and smooth, powerful movements. Snatching it up, he turned back to face Christine, who was still drawn up over the harp like a set of strings. Integrated with the music that was his life.

Mounting the violin between his shoulder and the side of his face that was masked, he began to play, drawing the bow over the strings slowly at first. His lips parted slightly, wide and dark red, the top shadowing the bottom. His eyes closed, one disappearing into the shadowy mask and the other fringed with thick black lashes. Erik drew in several long, deep breaths as though using the rhythm to calm himself. The music from the violin cried and coaxed, wooed and wailed, and reminded Christine that the man before her was a genius. His long, tapered face settled into something that appeared to be both anguish and serenity, as if the moment was both painful and a culmination of some great desire.

His clothing still covered most of his tall, sleek body, but she saw that his shirt had come untied at the throat, baring a broad, dark-haired chest nearly to the waist. Her attention focused on that part of him, that part she'd never seen, never touched. His skin was golden brown, matching that of his face, as if he had been born with flesh a darker tone than that of most of the foppish men she knew. It made her want to touch him… Saliva pooled in her mouth and moisture gathered between her legs as she thought of spanning her hands over that hard chest and feeling the crisp rough hair and the warmth of his skin. Touching him.

He looked up at that moment, snaring her gaze, and the desire and fury that mingled in his expression made her stomach twist and pinch. "Do you like it?" he asked, and at first she thought he meant his chest. "It is part of the opera I am writing."

"It's beautiful," she managed to reply. "Erik, I want to touch you. I have seen you, and now I want to touch you."

A pained smile twisted his lips. "I'm certain you do. But perhaps not quite as much as you wished to touch the immature vicomte, eh? I think…" Never taking his eyes from hers, he set the violin down and started toward her. "I think I should assist you further in discerning which male person you are more enthralled with. Which one you will yearn for, long after you have left his bed." The last words came out harsh and twisted, and Christine saw great fury lighting his eyes.

Oh, why had she ever kissed Raoul! Erik was the one she wanted… needed.

He faced her with the harp between them like the bars of a cage, still unwilling to shed all of his protection. Kneeling, he reached to flick his tongue over the strings and over the hint of nipple that brushed them from the other side. Christine moved closer, thrusting her breasts against the strings, anything to get nearer to that hot, delicious mouth. He drew one nipple into his lips, sucking it and half of her areola deeply into his mouth from between the harp strings… and she heard the faint, soprano tinkle of a melody next to her ear. The pads of his fingers brushed the strings as he fed on her nipple, rough and relentless, elongating what nature had created. It jolted teasingly from her body with the rhythm of his mouth. She gripped the edges of the harp with her hands and pushed against the strings, pleasure from her breast building and spreading to each of her fingers and down to her toes.

"Erik…" she moaned, pushing her hips against the instrument. He found her swollen lips through the strings, and slid his fingers into her deep, wet folds… two, no, three… pushing up into her as he moved to suck her other breast.

Christine felt the need, the lust rising; the same finger pads that had played the harp strings tickled her, slid through and around her quim, and brushed past her pip, around it… Her breathing came faster and she realized she was moving her hips, gyrating against the harp and his fingers, trying to get the pressure in the right place…

And then he stopped. Her breasts pressed, wet, against the strings; moisture trickled down her thigh. She throbbed everywhere; she panted; she opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with Erik. His eyes were so close; his mouth… she could feel the heat of his own rasping breath, huffing over her cheeks. The mask reared large and oblique on his face like an insurmountable wall.

"Erik… please… let me go… Let me touch you…" she begged. "You know you want me to."

"More than you know, Christine," he whispered. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes. Then opened them again. They were blue, intense… rich, lapis lazuli blue, flecked with black and gray… one fringed with dark lashes and the other encircled by tooled leather. "I can't bear seeing you with another. You cannot do that to me… anymore. Do you understand?" He reached up both hands and grasped the curving neck of the harp as if he was suddenly exhausted and needed to hold himself up.