Unmasqued

His voice was closer now, and she could hear the footfalls of his boots. Her stays were in place, but there was no way she could tighten them without assistance, and certainly no way she could button up the long row of tiny pearls down her back.

'Raoul, I am here. On the stage.'

'On the stage?' His gentle laugh reached her ears. 'Reliving your moment of triumph, are you, little Christine? Let me get a light.'

'No! No light, Raoul, please. Just… come here.'

Erik was gone; she knew he had left, for she could not feel his presence. And she needed assistance to button up her gown. How dare he do that to her… and then leave her to fend for herself?

At least he had not left her hanging. That would have been quite difficult to explain to Raoul or anyone else who might find her.

'Where are you, Christine?'

'This way. I need your help.'

When she heard him on the edge of the stage, she started toward him. It was purely black, so that she didn't realize how close he was. She walked right into him and he caught her, sagging gown and all.

'Christine!' His voice betrayed the surprise at the bare, warm flesh his hands felt at her back. 'What is happening?'

'I need help fastening my gown,' she said, her hands moving up and over his solid shoulders. Were Erik's as broad? Was he as tall? How could she not know such simple things when he knew so much of her… had taken so much?

'Your gown feels as though it is about to fall off,' Raoul replied in a strangled voice. Yet his hands made no effort to move from their spot on her bare back.

'It is.' Her voice was husky. It was Erik's fault for leaving her wanting more.

The timbre of her words must have seemed like an invitation for Raoul, for suddenly he tightened his arms, crushing his mouth down over hers.

Christine tipped up her face to meet his lips, and felt her breasts surge and her tender nipples tighten against the sagging confines of her stays.

After the initial rough impact, Raoul tamed himself and gentled his mouth. He tasted, sipped, slicked his tongue over her lips and slipped it around and along hers as she drew in her breath, deeper and harder, pushing her nearly bare breasts up against his shirt.

'Oh, Christine,' he groaned, pulling away yet holding her hips firmly against his. His erection raged against her, through five layers of clothing, sending her own sex to throbbing again. 'We cannot…' He drew in his breath, steadying it. 'My brother, the comte, and the messieurs Moncharmin and Richard await us… We cannot be much longer. We must go.'

Christine pulled away reluctantly, feeling the ache of unsated lust. Any guilt she might have felt for her response to Raoul's feverish kisses so soon after her intimacy with Erik was quickly dismissed. After all, he had taken from her, and he had left her wanting more. Of Erik, she wanted more, but Raoul was tall and handsome and elegant… and Raoul, she could see and touch.

But his kisses were different from Erik's, and the way he moved his hands over her body was too tentative, as though he was afraid to touch her. Erik was bold, and knew how to pull and coax forth and peak her desire… just as he did her music.

'Oui, let us go. I am famished,' she told Raoul, turning in the dark, presenting her backside to him. 'Finish my buttons, my dear vicomte, and we shall be off to eat.' And then back here to rest, she promised herself.

She would sleep well; but tonight, she feared, her dreams would be filled with more than the memory of a disembodied voice. Tonight, she would dream of his touch as well.

Erik moved along the catwalk like a starving panther-fast, silent, smooth. Hunger gnawing.

He knew the upper workings of the Paris Opera House like he knew every other area, from the high, flat roof open to the moon and sun alike, to the backstage, to the dormitories so vast they were nearly a city unto themselves… to the cavernous tunnels and subterranean lake that snaked deep below.

The Opera House was his domain.

Music was his language.

Christine was his obsession.

True… he'd hardly noticed her at first. Until recently, he'd barely paid attention to the comings and goings of the dancers and singers. The dark, silent theater had been his bailiwick. After all had gone home in the early- morning hours, he'd roamed the backstage, the catwalks, the stalls, even the boxes and the grand marble foyer.

But one day, perhaps six months ago, when it was still summer and the nights were short, he'd not returned to his little cottage in time. Or else she had been up early.

He'd seen her come onto the stage just as she had tonight after her brilliant performance, alone. In the silence.

She had done nothing so very unusual to capture his attention; surely Christine Daae had not been the first young woman to stand on an empty stage and wish for the chance to make it her own. But that was what she'd done.

Her long, dark hair was caught back in a simple ribbon. She wore her battered chorus girl costume; perhaps she'd been wearing it all night. Since then, he'd been close enough to see it and notice the darned slippers and the ladders decorating the backs of her stockings.

She'd sung, there, by herself, on the empty stage. Not brilliantly, not even with much emotion, but Erik heard the promise in her amateurish voice.

And then when she turned and he saw from his place in the wings the full force of her heart-shaped face, his heart-which had been protective steel for so long-softened. She looked so sad.

Lonely.

He wondered if she'd been alone as long as he had.

Now, his breath ragged, his heart thudding, his erection excruciating, Erik finally allowed himself to stop, rest, leaning heavily against the rough brick wall that edged the very top of the massive space that included the stage and backstage. He was tucked up and behind the upper proscenium. In this dark, remote corner, the ceiling was only inches above him. His fingers trembled, and he stripped off his leather gloves, and they snapped softly in the quiet… broken only by his harsh breathing.

At last, after months of watching, teaching, loving Christine from afar, he had touched her. Touched her.

Touched her, and she'd welcomed it. There'd been no revulsion, no crying, no struggling.

She'd had pleasure, had responded. Deliciously.

What it had cost him to slip away. Let her go.

Bringing the collection of empty leather fingers to his face, he breathed, smelled her on them, and tipped his masked face against the brick. His mask. Barrier to peace and satiation.

He'd fashioned several of them of leather, tanning and tooling them as if he aroused a lover, until they all were smooth as skin. He had one of black, for when he wished to move about unnoticed at night, and one of cream, which blended with the color of his flesh. If he was to wear it, it must be comfortable, pliable, sensual. He must not be aware that it was on; it must become such a part of him that the only way he could tell it was there was by touch.

Or sight.

He rarely looked in the mirror, even when he wore the mask.

The pale leather mask, more supple than even the gloves he held to his trembling mouth, covered just half of his face. One mangled eye. One scored temple. One ravaged nostril. One mottled, slashed cheekbone. And it curved around to sweep at the corner of his mouth, leaving his wide, sensual lips bare. It tied over his thick dark hair, at the back of his crown.

A faint sound drew his attention; he pulled away from the wall and, holding the rail, looked down.