Unmasqued

The light dulled her eyesight as it did when she performed. She could not see the shadowy seats in the theater, nor could she see the red velvet curtains swagged at the edge of the proscenium. All she could see was the white beam of light; all she could feel was its increasing warmth.

"Christine…"

The sound of her name, faint, hollow, erotic, came from behind. Or perhaps above. She wasn't sure.

"Ange?" she managed to ask. Her heart was suddenly thumping madly.

Before she could turn to look, she felt him behind her again, just as he had been in her dressing room. He had spoken to her, taught her, sung with her… but he had never appeared to her before. And now twice in one day.

His hands closed over her shoulders, the supple, tacky leather of his gloves grabbing at her delicate skin as he moved his palms down over her arms, pulling at the low, sweeping neckline of her gown. The fabric tightened over her breasts, uncovering her suddenly hard, sharp nipples, baring her skin to the heat of the light above.

"You pleased me greatly tonight," he murmured in that low, melodious voice. It burned in her ear and sent waves of sharp prickles along her neck, down her arms, over her breasts and nipples, to her belly, and lower.

Christine dared to look down, and she saw black, gloved hands dark on her white shoulders and the deep, dark vee between breasts lifted and pushed together by her corset, and the hint of pink from her areolas above the dark crimson gown. "Thank you," she breathed, reaching up to cover one of his hands with hers. She felt the faintest tremor in his fingers, beneath her own, and wondered suddenly… was it from anger?

Or was it the same sudden trembling she felt over her body?

Now her white-gloved fingers splayed over his wide black ones, and she could feel the heat from him burn into her skin beneath. His free hand moved, threading fingers up into the back of her coiled hair, combing gently through it and then grasping to pull her head back. The beam of light struck her gaze and blinded her; she closed her eyes as sudden tears stung them.

From behind, his face moved against her; she felt warm flesh brush against her right jawline and then hot, soft lips press against her skin. Her head held immobile, her eyes closed against the searing light, Christine struggled to draw in a breath and succeeded only in shuddering and faintly sobbing as pleasure burned where he kissed her, drawing on her flesh, slowly, insistently.

His lips, warm, moist, gentle, inched along her jaw, down the side of her taut throat. Her neck ached; her lips parted; her knees weakened. Her fingers closed around his hand at her shoulder, while her other hand reached up to touch him behind her. She needed to feel him, to know him.

"No," he snarled against her skin, and, releasing her head, snatched at her questing fingers and pulled them away from his face. He moved quickly and imprisoned both of her wrists in one leathered hand, above her head.

He moved. She could feel him reach up, behind her, and then suddenly she felt something wrapping around her wrists. She gasped, and tried to pull her arms free, but he was too strong. Before she knew it, he'd secured her hands above her head, wrists crossed, elbows bent gently.

"Did you not know that curiosity killed the cat?" he murmured gently into her ear, his sudden anger seeming to have defused. He circled around so that he stood just next to her, but still slightly behind so that she could not see any part of his face… only the gloved hand and the long, black arm to which it was connected, the strong black leg that crossed in front of her skirt, and the shiny black shoe that stepped in the pool of light below.

She tried to move her hands down from the top of her head, but something held them there, something from above. She could do nothing but tug and pull and feel the sway of the rope as it swung from the catwalk above. Her heart beat faster; she could not seem to draw in a full breath.

"Now…" he sighed, moving close to her, one hand in a vee at the front of her neck, cupping her throat, the other at her nape. "I shall show you how well your performance pleased me tonight."

"Ange, please…" She could scarcely form the words… and for what she was pleading, she did not know.

His chuckle was quiet, but he did not respond with words. Instead, she felt his hand moving down her spine. The heavy weight of her gown loosened, gapping and falling away in the back where his nimble fingers undid the buttons Madame Giry had fastened only a short time ago.