Unmasqued

It burned and stung and pulsed and she cried and thrashed and trembled. "Erik, I beg you… I beg you…" Over and over and over again…

He pulled away, and looked up at her. His hands remained heavy on her thighs. Dark blue eyes bored into her own, flat and harsh. "How do you feel, Christine?"

She could barely catch her breath. "I… want you… to… let me… come."

"How does it feel?"

"It… hurts. It… please, Erik… please…" She struggled throw off his hold, but he was much too strong, even when she tried to pull his hands away by gripping his wrists with her fingers.

"I know it hurts. I meant that it should. Christine, you have only experienced a sliver of my pain. The pain of seeing you, and wanting you… and seeing you with him, touching him… baring your breasts for him." His voice was angry, shaking with fury. "Do you understand now?"

She was crying in earnest, the pain in his eyes as forceful as the grip on her thighs, and the screaming need between her legs. "Yes…" she sobbed. "I will never… again… only… you… Erik."

He released her, and she braced herself for the deep, long slide of his cock into her… but felt nothing but chill.

He stood, pulled away from the bed, and started out of the room.

"Erik!" She scrambled off, after him, her hands grabbing at him. "Erik!"

He turned and she saw an awful, deep need in his eyes. So deep and buried that it nearly sent her scuttling away from its power… but she reached for him. "Erik," she said more calmly. "I need you. Please… let us become the one we are meant to be."

Everything happened so quickly and roughly after that… Strong hands gripped her arms, propelled her back. She fell on the feather mattress, and felt his heavy weight on her… welcome, mon Dieu

! Nothing had ever been so welcome as his heavy, solid, driving body on top of hers.

He matched her, length to length, toe to toe, shoulder to shoulder… hip to hip. Her legs were wrenched blessedly apart and-mon Dieu, mon Dieu! — his long, strong cock slid at last into the beckoning place, filling her. Filling and satisfying her… at last… at last…

Christine had never felt such exquisite pleasure. He slid himself in, became one with her as promised… full, hard, long… stroke after stroke… Deep pleasure burned, coiled, rose, blossomed, and she screamed, thrashed, bucked, moved with him, as she cried and sobbed her release. Nothing… nothing had ever been so draining… so complete…

They rolled together… wet… hot… shuddering.

"Erik…" she breathed, drawing deep the release, the reverberations of the last vestiges of pleasure as they swept over her, in wave after wave, after wave. "I love you. Never leave me."

"Christine…" His tears burned salty and wet into the curve of her neck. His mask was heavy and sticky on her shoulder. "You are mine. You are my music… my muse. I will always be yours. Never betray me."

"Never, Erik. Never."

Christine awoke alone.

When she opened her eyes, it took her a moment to remember… and then she did. Erik. Strong, golden, passionate. Her angel.

Her body was sore, exhausted, and wholly aware of every one of its nerve endings. She rolled over, taking the heavy feather-stuffed quilt with her in a safe cocoon, and looked around the room.

It was dark. Only one low lamp burned. But the shadows it cast were not evil or threatening; rather the room felt safe and sensual. Red and black brocade hangings covered the walls, hung from the ceiling-high bedposts. A fire blazed in the hearth. One wall was painted with large, splashy murals of dancers in the most erotic of poses.

And music. She heard Erik playing a piano in some distant room, its chords crashing and thundering in a rise of emotion.

Christine sat up and pushed her hair behind her shoulders, thinking about the dangerous, reclusive man who was her lover. He had never removed his mask, through their whole night of passion. Once, she'd reached for it, just to touch it, and he'd wrenched her arm away, furious.

"Never touch this," he told her fiercely, his eyes dark and stormy. "Never."

Even now, she felt the cold anger that had poisoned him. How horrible had his life been? What did the mask hide? Scars? What could be so terrible that he had to hide beneath a face fitted of leather?

He need have no secrets from her… not after the way they had been last night. Languid, she stretched her arms and realized she had never felt so settled and happy since her father had died. Her Angel of Music had turned out to be more than a muse, more than a tutor.

He was her love.

Chapter Nine

Dieu, he loved the way the sleek handle fitted in his hand. The wood had been shaped into a curve that matched his palm perfectly, allowing him to hold it with ease. The feel of it alone was enough to swell his cock.