Unmasqued

But again he seemed to anticipate her. No sooner had she thought to move than something powerful gripped her left wrist. 'Allow me.'

He lowered her hand, smoothing it along the straight column of wood carved with some ornate design her fingers did not recognize, and positioned it at the level of her hips. Tied it there. Then he did the same with her right hand, attaching it to the harp on the other side.

'Why can I not touch you?' she cried, turning her face and grinding it into the wires, trying to loosen the blindfold. 'Or see you? Why, Erik, why?'

'You really must be taught how to plead more prettily,' he said, and she could hear that he had moved and was no longer behind her. 'You must not want it badly enough. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.'

Something brushed against her right arm, and then she heard the gentle tinkle of notes near her face… the brush of his fingers over one, then the other nipple as the music twanged to a dull halt.

'You are standing too close,' he said, his voice deceptively gentle. 'Step away so that the strings may still move… ah, yes.' He leaned closer to her again; she could smell him, feel him, and the brush of air as he played a scale against her.

And this time, when the strings moved against her nipples, their touch was so bare that they kept their tone… and brushed against the front of the sensitive nubbins in a rough, scraping way.

Then, quick, questing fingers slipped up her thigh, between her labia, and scooped out her wetness, then slid back in and around in a quick tease over her thick outer lips, sending her hips thrashing and her forehead into the wires. The blindfold jarred loose again at the expense of the hair at the back of her neck, and she found that she could see more of the room.

He rubbed her wetness all over her nipples-'For lubrication,' he murmured into her ear-and adjusted her blindfold; then she felt him return to his place at the harp.

Erik played in long strokes, plucking the strings in a sensual, rising melody that made her think of soft blues and violets. His fingers skimmed over the strings, brushing the underside of her breasts, and leaving the lines to score against her nipples in their wake. As he played, and she felt each note sink into her body, her nipples became more and more sensitive. Needy. The back of his hand occasionally brushed against the sensitive bush of hair at her sex, causing needles of awareness to zero in on her pip… so close, yet ignored.

It was incessant titillation, the teasing of her breasts in combination with his playing… Lust built, and built, settling hot and throbbing between her legs, where her entire attention had become concentrated. Her lust trickled down the inside of her thigh, tickling and teasing her.

He played as though he would never stop, the tempo of the music rising to a great crescendo, and Christine became one with it, with his music… Somewhere in the confusion of pleasure and discomfort and desire, she recognized his need and his intention to meld her and his other obsession into one sensual experience. One that brought her no relief, no peak… but one that pleased him. It pleased him to torture her this way, to see her want and need him. To see her become, literally, one with his work.

She did not know how long it went on, but at last the notes trickled away softly on the air, a lover giving a breathless sigh as the last vestiges of pleasure ebbed away.

Then he moved, silent and swift, and came to stand behind her again. She felt his deep, even breathing as he dipped his fingers into her warm wetness. Christine muffled a cry of hope and need, shifting and sliding her hips above his hand. When he knelt behind and spread her lips and licked her all around, with flat, slow strokes, she gripped the sides of the harp and lifted herself, trying to move… needing him to touch that throbbing nubbin that would send release pummeling through her.

But he would not let her; he teased with long, firm licks, designed for him to taste and for her to need.

'Erik, please… oh, please,' she moaned, rubbing her damp face into the harp.

'Are you sorry for letting that boy touch you?' he asked, standing and pinching her nipples from behind. Pinch, tweak, pinch, twist, flick… they were tight, sensitive. Shudders of pleasure rippled through her torso.

'I am so sorry… Please forgive me,' she moaned hopefully.

'I should forgive you for letting another man place his hands on you? His mouth on you?' His hands landed heavily on her shoulders. Holding her there, biting into her skin.

'Erik… please…'

'Do you think I would forgive your betrayal that easily?' He jammed his fingers up into her hair, under the blindfold, and tightened them over the back of her scalp. Pushing her forehead into the wood, holding her there, he placed his mouth next to her ear. Warm breath moistened her skin. 'I saw his hands on your breasts, Christine. I saw you moaning for him just as you moan for me.' He jerked his wrist and her head rammed into the wood. 'You touched him, Christine! You touched him and your hands are meant only for me, the Angel of Music. Do you not know that without me, you would be nothing?'

She was sobbing now; her desire still burned between her legs, but fear and frustration had taken the edge off. 'I want to touch you, Erik! I want to touch you and see you and you won't allow it! At least I can see and touch Raoul! How can I be true to you if I cannot have you?' she wailed, her voice escalating.

Sudden pain screamed through the back of her head as he yanked the blindfold off. 'You shall see me now, then, Christine. Your Angel of Music.' Bitterness edged his words.

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.