Unmasqued

The ballet mistress, whom he had perhaps laid eyes on once or twice during his visits to the backstage lounges at the Opera House, had disappeared into the closet, where, obviously, she had made use of the hidden passageway. This was after she had had a whispered, inaudible conversation with Christine. It was to Philippe's great annoyance that, not only could he catch only a random phrase here and there, but elder woman did not do what she had clearly wished to do-or at least, he wanted her to wish to do-and assist the younger woman in disrobing and slipping into bed.

But now, as he peered owlishly through the largest of the peepholes, he watched in the room lit only by firelight, which gave it an orange glow, as Christine struggled out of her half-laced corset and loose gown. Her beautiful breasts-truly, he'd seen none better in all of his years-tipped and swayed gently as she unrolled her stockings over long, slender legs.

Damn Raoul for a weak-kneed boy. If not for him, for his misplaced sense of chivalry, Philippe would be in that bedchamber, assisting Miss Daae.

Philippe drew in his breath in a sharp hiss when Christine sat on the edge of the bed, just perfectly across from where his eyehole was, her thighs spread in a most unladylike manner, bathed no doubt by the warmth of the fire. He could see everything he'd imagined-her sex, wide but shadowed in the low light, at last open to his view-her breasts lilting up as though offering themselves to him at his elevated perch.

His mouth dried and even after all he'd had this night, his cock hardened. He was barely aware of the shifting and shuffling of Carlotta next to him, but he felt her breathing change when they saw Christine slip her fingers down between her parted legs. Though it was impossible, he swore he heard the gentle lap as her hand slicked through the wetness there, the shine of which was evident even in the firelight.

One hand played there, in the dark red haven he must have, as the golden orange glow of flames was cast over it; her other fingers nibbled at her breast, stroking a nipple to what had to be an iron-hard point.

Philippe licked his lips, pressed his erection against the wall in front of him. His fingers curled into the wall and he pressed his eye so close to the hole that his socket matched the opening perfectly.

Her head was tipped back, that long dark hair cascading over her milky skin and onto the coverlet, and her lips were parted in a delicious O that made him want to jam his cock into the warmth… Then the fingers between her legs moved faster, and her hips shifted. She collapsed backward onto the bed, her hand working her sex busily, now slipping about so much that he wondered how she could control it.

Christine's hips moved; her legs jerked and shuddered as her body arched beautifully. Even one of her legs moved, straightening and trembling in the air as she came.

Philippe watched, his mouth hard, his cock harder, his determination ironclad. Neither Philippe nor Carlotta moved until Christine pulled herself from her crumpled position on the bed and slid under the coverlet. Then, when at last she was concealed from their sight, the two watchers turned away from the peephole wall.

"An enjoyable display," Philippe commented, moving away from the vantage point with a nonchalance that he didn't feel. His cock was steel beneath his trousers.

"Indeed, although she was quiet about it all. I prefer to hear it." She turned toward him, and Philippe was startled to see that she held a long red whip in her hand. Carlotta looked at him with an odd smile on her face.

"As do I," he replied. "In fact, I consider it a requirement that all new members of my household-you included, my dear-be quite voluble in their praise… or pleading." He opened one of the cabinets in this, his largest playroom.

"Am I now a member of your household?" asked Carlotta, sliding the whip along her palm, watching him judiciously, a smirk over her plump lips.

Philippe considered his choices, then settled upon the cat-o'five-tails with pearls braided into the tails. It was white, the color of purity and innocence. Perfect for his stand-in for the touch-me-not Miss Daae.

Aside from that, white showed blood very nicely. Always an added benefit.

Turning back to face her, he replied, "The Opera House is burned, and there will be no performances for the foreseeable future. You may feel free to extend your visit here as long as you wish."

"It will be my pleasure, comte. I shall take a short holiday while the Opera House is rebuilt, or is moved. They will be mad for La Carlotta's return by then." Her lips curled in a self-satisfied smile. "Now that Miss Daae has disappeared again, right from the stage of the Opera House's last performance, the rumors have begun to fly. She is crazy, they say. She thinks the Opera Ghost is her father come to visit her."