in the mirror, her mouth wide, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed pink-all became gray as the illumination faded. Her arms, clad in the sleeves of a pale yellow dressing gown, rose gracefully as though to help express the notes, and the yellow silk slid back, down to her shoulders, baring her slender arms. She became the beautiful lady once again.
True, clear, smooth… she sang, and Erik's music whorled about her, his presence filled her… and then his voice joined hers. His dusky tenor mingled with her pure soprano, and she felt as though she were flying.
Soaring.
She closed her eyes and sang, felt Erik's presence and the gift of beautiful music that he awakened within her. She knew then, in the deepest part of her core, that she could never be without him.
She could never lose him.
For he brought the best of her forward. He prodded, pushed, annoyed, and demanded the very best of her music from the very deepest part of her being. Somehow, he knew her. Somehow, he knew how to draw it forth, to make her feel this way. Exquisite. Powerful. Heady.
The hair on the back of her arms, on the nape of her neck, and on the crown of her head rose, tense and sensitive, and still she sang. And he with her.
Tears shimmered at the corners of her eyes; she felt them, warm and heavy, and then the trail they left down along her cheek. She felt her corset tighten with each gut-level breath, and then loosen as she held on to the highest, longest C note until she thought her vision would fade away, and still she drew in another breath to follow the C with an E.
When the last of her notes faded and there was nothing left but her heavy breathing, and the ending swell of music, Christine opened her eyes.
The room was still dim; not dark, but dim. One gas lamp glowed on the wall next to her, casting just enough light that her form showed clear in the mirror. The rest of the chamber held only shadows and the faint aroma of rose.
'Christine… you have pleased me to no end.'
'Thank you, angel. You are my inspiration.'
'If you sing like that this evening, you will inspire the entire Opera House to love you.'
'I will, angel. Erik.' She had thought of him as her
'Now…' His voice took on a gentle purr. 'Now I wish to see you, Christine. All of you. So that when you stand onstage tonight, and I am sitting in Box Five, I will see you in a way that no one else can. And I will know that you sing for me.'
A sharp shot of desire pierced her middle at his words. She felt the tingle, the curling pain of lust, low in her belly and then down between her legs. Just from his words. From the image he'd placed in her mind.
'Now… take off your dressing gown, Christine.'
Her fingers trembled as she unknotted the tie just below her breasts, and she allowed the ruffled, silky robe to slide from her shoulders and crumple to the floor. She stood in front of the mirror, and saw herself dressed in the loose, light chemise fitted to her curves by the corset over it. Her feet were not bare; thin silk stockings covered them and stretched up past her knees, under the hem of the chemise.
'More, Christine.'
She took the top edges of the corset over each breast and wrenched them toward each other, twisting to release the top hook. Her breasts rubbed against the fabric covering them, brushing her fumbling fingers, and they swelled, aching for something more.
The hooks released, one by one, and she was able to breathe deeply, more freely. Christine dropped the corset, and it fell at her feet with a soft thud. She stood in her chemise, with its low, rounded neckline made of fabric thin enough to see her nipples thrusting through. Her hair had fallen half over one shoulder, and half down her back, so that she could see the ends of her curls just coming from around the back of her hip. Her cheeks were flushed, her pink lips parted and moist from a quick lick of her tongue.
'Christine…' His voice coaxed, but there was an edge there… one that hovered just beyond her hearing, but was ready to lash out if she did not comply.
She reached down, grasping the hem of her shift, and pulled it slowly up and over her head, and then she was free.
Tall, slender, pale, with a dark thatch between her legs, two dusky spots at her breasts with curving shadows beneath them, and a swath of curling hair falling behind her shoulders to whirl around her hips.
She could feel him breathing, felt herself breathing faster, more harshly. Yet she stood there, proud, bare, ready.
Ready for him.
'Step to the mirror.'
Christine's heart pounded; she could see the mad pumping in her throat. Her eyes fixated on the sign of her racing pulse as she walked slowly toward the tall silver length of mirror. She stopped when she was close enough that her breath left hot circles of condensation on the glass.
'Closer.'
She did.
Now her panting left larger circles. Her ten fingers, each pressing against the smooth, hard surface, squeaked softly as she positioned them. Her nipples just brushed the ice of the mirror, as cold as the Seine in January. The tips of her silk-clad toes touched the bottom of the heavy, ornate frame.
Her nipples hardened further, and the contrast between the heat of the rest of her body and the chill at her breasts sent another trail of lust skittering through her. She shifted, rubbing the very tips of her nipples against the cold, making them harder, pointier. Aching.
'Closer.' The command was nothing more than a breath.
Christine moved, and now she pressed against the cold mirror as if she were lying on it, turning her head to one side. It was unbearably cold, stamping her warm skin against the silvery glass…
but she did it, breathing hard and concentrating on the feeling of stark cold versus the heat of desire. Little bumps erupted over her body and she had to close her mouth to keep from crying out at the amazing cold. Incredible that such a smooth, clear surface could cause such discomfort, such shock.
She rested her cheek flat, so close that her eyes could not focus on the image she made.
Her breasts pushed against the chill, two icy circles seeping into her hard, aching nipples.
Her hips thrust forward, the bone of her pubis trapping the mass of tight black curls between it and the silver glass.
The tops of her thighs; then her knees, slightly bent so that she could press against the looking glass.
The tender, sensitive inside skin of her arms, forming L shapes on either side of her head.
'How does that feel, Christine?'
She could not form the words, but she felt it. The hot core in her belly and the gathering moisture between her legs. The torture of her hard nipples against the glass, still so cold.
'Now, straighten your arms; grab the edge of the frame.'
She did, sliding her damp hands along the freezing glass, leaving a trail of moisture behind them while her breasts crushed against the silver. She could barely reach the edges of the frame, but at last her fingers closed over the bumps of a rose on the left, and something she could not identify on the right. She curled her fingers around the edges, and felt the muscles in her arms relax, felt the pleasure of stretching her limbs.
And then, something closed around her right wrist, locking it into place from the back side of the mirror. She didn't have a chance to react before the left one was confined. Caught, tied, trussed to the edge of the mirror frame.
Her breath left her in a whoosh, a gasp, and she twisted her head against the glass, turning her face to the other side as if she thought she might get a glimpse… of something. Her cheek, her nose and mouth, her lashes… her other cheek, trapping a thick lock of hair. Pressing against the warm mirror.
'How do you feel, Christine?'
Her sex was throbbing; her nipples were in agony; her breath was coming so fast that she steamed a huge, moist circle on the mirror. She licked her lips, tried to swallow. All she could think of was how the smooth, cold glass felt against her skin.
