Unmasqued

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 creme.

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.