Chapter 17 Raoul #2
“I have no idea why I just told you that. I mean, they were rapist guys who attacked me, so the killing was totally justified, but…god, what am I doing? Why am I dragging you into my mess when you’re a nice guy, a decent guy? The last thing you need is me and him and all this chaos—”
I duck in and kiss her—a quick, soft touch of my lips to hers. Then another. And another. Tiny, teasing kisses until she makes a sound of urgent frustration, wraps her arm around my head, and pulls me in for a long, luscious kiss.
A warm floral scent unfurls from her. I can pinpoint its source, and I know its cause. She’s aroused, and that enticing scent is coming from between her legs.
I lay my palm across her lower belly, nudging my fingertips just beneath the edge of her leggings.
She tenses and breaks the kiss, panting lightly, but she keeps her forehead pressed to mine, watching my hand disappear gradually beneath her leggings.
She’s not wearing panties, and my dick twitches at the realization. Her pussy is bare and soft.
My middle fingertip encounters her clit first, and she whines faintly.
“Shh,” I warn her, and we both pause, listening. But the music is still playing, and the Phantom is still humming somewhere in the distance.
I move my hand deeper, sliding into the wetness between her pussy lips. My fingertips curl into her slit, and I sink two fingers all the way in. Christine trembles, gripping my shoulder, flushed and overcome by my secret possession of her body.
With two fingers inside, I trace my thumb over the peak of her sex, tenderly coaxing her toward the edge.
“Raoul,” she whispers against my mouth. “Raoul…please.”
“Trust me.” I flick my tongue against hers and pump my fingers faster. Her body is sucking me in deeper, begging for more. My thumb twitches across her clit, and she grinds against my hand, whimpering into the kiss. “You have such a sweet, soaked, needy little cunt,” I whisper.
“Oh my god,” she gasps through a faint laugh. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a dirty talker.”
“Pegging is definitely on the table.” I extract my fingers from her opening and swirl the wetness over her clit, rubbing with quick circular motions under her leggings.
“Oh shit.” Her grip on my shoulder intensifies to the point of pain, but I’m too focused on getting her off to care about my own comfort. I watch her face for tiny changes in expression, altering the pressure and speed accordingly until she comes with a sharp gasp.
“That’s it,” I croon, exulting in the dazed bliss on her face. I stroke her more slowly, guiding her through the pleasure. “God, you come so beautifully. Look at you.”
She’s struggling to stay quiet, so I take my hand out of her pussy, pull her close, and let her bury her face in my chest. Only then do I realize that there’s blood trailing down my shoulder in thin rivulets from where her nails have pierced my skin.
She notices the wounds at the same moment and withdraws her hand.
“God, I’m so sorry, Raoul.” She rises halfway and bends down, licking the trails of blood and the punctures in my flesh.
I shiver at the touch of her tongue. It’s a strange way to clean up, but I suppose she doesn’t want to get blood on the Phantom’s bed.
When she’s done, she hides her face against me again while I lick her arousal from my fingers.
“You’re way too good at that,” she murmurs after a few minutes.
“I’ve mostly been with guys, but the two women I’ve slept with were kind enough to answer all my questions and give me a thorough tutorial on what usually works. Let’s just say we practiced a lot—”
Christine clamps her hand over my mouth, cutting off my words. The humming has stopped, and my pulse quickens with dread.
But a moment later, the Phantom continues humming, and we both exhale with relief.
I’m still hard beneath the blankets, but the temporary terror eased things enough for me to rearrange my priorities. Decisions now, sex later.
“So…run or stay?” I whisper to Christine. “I can get us a hotel, a place where we’ll be safe.”
“He’ll find me wherever I go. It’s disturbingly sweet and weirdly flattering how obsessed he is.” She gives me an apologetic wince. “How unhinged would it be if I said that I want to stay?”
“Deeply unhinged. But I don’t really blame you. He’s gorgeous.”
“Right? And there’s something about him…a fragility underneath all the bravado. When he was holding you, there in the hallway, I could only see part of his face, but there was something so tender about his mouth, his body language. A sweetness almost. I can’t describe it.”
“I believe you,” I murmur. “I felt it.”
“I want to know more about him. He told me some things, but I couldn’t really grasp it all.”
“So it’s decided, then. We stay a little longer, of our own free will.”
“Yes.” With a weary sigh, Christine pulls back the blankets on her side of the bed and slips beneath them.
She scoots over to me, and I savor the sensation of her body against mine.
It’s like a dream, the two of us snuggled here in the welcoming darkness, listening to soft music in the night, guarded by a dangerous angel.
***
When I wake again, it takes me a minute to remember where I am. Beyond the curtains, muffled by their thick drapery, I hear a rippling cascade of notes, the most exquisite piano solo I’ve ever listened to.
It’s him, of course. His playing is magnetic, irresistible. I can’t stay in the bed—I have to go watch him play. The music summons me like a compulsive spell.
Slowly, I ease out of the sheets, careful not to disturb Christine.
My glasses are sitting on a little ledge attached to the headboard, so I pick them up and put them on.
I emerge from between the curtains and descend barefoot from the sleeping area onto the thick rugs covering the concrete floor of the main living space.
The Phantom sits at the piano, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants.
I’m mesmerized, not only by the delicate melody but by the flexing muscles of his arms and hands as he plays.
He looks like a masked god carved of pale marble, set into motion by magic.
My fingers itch for my phone or my little idea notebook so I can write down a hundred different phrases that describe him in this moment.
But both the phone and the notebook were in my pockets.
I suspect the Phantom has hidden my things somewhere, including my phone.
He showed me mercy last night, but I doubt he’s going to let either of us go easily.
As Christine said, he’s obsessed with her, and while he views me as a rival, he’s obviously attracted to me, too.
And I’m hot for both of them. As if this situation needed to be any more complicated.
Now that I’m out of the curtained bed, his dark, woodsy fragrance hits me like a delicious breeze. Never have I been so deeply affected by a scent as I am by his. It’s wildly different from anything I’ve experienced in my lifetime.
Christine’s scent is odd, too. It’s human, yet it seems to change slightly every few days, and I can’t figure out why. It’s as if her core scent remains the same, but it’s constantly being overlaid with new notes.
The Phantom continues to play while I approach.
He’s wearing a half mask today, and the beauty-loving poet in me appreciates the sharp angle of his jaw, the way his glossy black hair clings in soft waves around his ear, the strong lines of his throat, and the prominence of his Adam’s apple.
He has the broad shoulders and tapered torso of an Olympic swimmer, complete with not only a killer set of abs but a row of defined little muscles along his side, visible when his arm is lifted to play.
He has discarded his gloves, and his strong, veined hands move masterfully along the keyboard. His technique and finger placement are unusual, but he plays with a brilliance that steals every question I was going to ask him and replaces my curiosity with a sense of awe.
Suddenly I recognize the melody underlying the chords and runs. It’s one of my songs from Sidewinder, interpreted in a way I would never have imagined.
He looks up at me, still playing.
There’s just enough room on the bench, so I sit down beside him, facing away from the piano. Looking at him. Listening as he transforms my song into something utterly new and far more enchanting.
Fingers still dancing, he leans toward me ever so slightly.
I mirror the movement, angling my body so we’re nearly nose to nose, facing in opposite directions on the piano bench.
His tongue traces his lips briefly, his forearms still moving, but the music is slower now, heavier, richer.
My mouth hovers near his while he plays, his warm breath ghosting over my lips.
“Fucking kiss me, poet,” he says hoarsely.
I lean forward a fraction and meet his mouth.
The music never stops, but it takes on a fervent timbre, a tender urgency emphasized by the way his tongue surges into my mouth.
I bring one hand up to clasp the back of his head, to ensure he can’t escape my kiss.
My other hand slides over his thigh, between his legs.
The song falters, but he persists even when I cup his length through the sweatpants.
He’s big, but not so big that I couldn’t take him in my mouth, or elsewhere.
He groans, the sound humming through my lips and jaw. My answering smile breaks the kiss for a moment.
And then, several things happen at once.
My other hand, wandering through his silky black hair, finds the thin cord of his half mask. And without truly considering my actions, I tug at that cord.
The mask slips from his face.
The music stops with a discordant crash.
The Phantom jolts away from me with a snarl. “Fuck you!” He seizes the mask and claps it to his face. But I glimpsed a handful of deep gashes through his cheek and something…something moving within those wounds.
A shudder runs over my body, and he notices the involuntary recoil.
“Are you pleased with yourself now?” His voice is like black ice. “You’ve seen what you wanted to see? Time to call the authorities and tell them about the monster? Play out the role of the handsome prince rescuing the damsel from a marauding dragon?”
“No, I—”
“You kissed me to put me off my guard.” His whole body is rigid with fury, but this isn’t just anger—it’s pain, deep as any I’ve ever felt.
I rise from the bench and face him. “I kissed you because I wanted to.”
“Liar,” he hisses.
“You’re the liar.” I’m shaking, like I always do during a confrontation. My stomach feels like jelly. “Stop pretending this is only about Christine!”
His lips clamp tight, and a muscle twitches along his jaw. “It was only supposed to be about her. Her voice, my music. I didn’t expect you.”
“Right. I’m always the unplanned one. The afterthought, the disappointment.
” My lips curl back in a pained sneer. “I know what you think of me and my songs. Yes, I came here to save her from you, but now I’m starting to think she never needed my help.
She has fucked you before, hasn’t she? That night when she came to hear me play, I could smell you on her—inside her.
I didn’t believe it at first. I thought I was going mad.
I don’t trust myself because I’m the worst of my kind, unreliable and dysfunctional.
I doubted my own senses, but now I know it’s true.
You don’t want me? Fine. The two of you just stay here, okay?
Stay in your fucked-up stalker fantasy. I’m going home. ”
“Home, where they lock you up and revile you?” He takes a sudden step forward. “Where they twisted your mind so thoroughly that you came for me while I was critiquing you?”
“It wasn’t the critique. It was your goddamn gorgeous voice. And…you said my poetry was godlike.”
“I understand you now.” He’s right in front of me, shirtless, glorious, dominant. “You crave praise, little poet. I can give you that. And as for Christine, she chose to have sex with me. She came on my cock like she came on your fingers last night. Yes, I heard the two of you. I watched you.”
“You fucking creep.”
The Phantom wraps his hand around my throat, a light compression, but the threat of his strength is there.
“I don’t play by human rules,” he hisses. “I am a god. I have every right to observe anything I please, especially when it takes place in my domain, not to mention in my fucking bed.”
“A god?” I choke out a laugh. “God of what? Candles and canals?”
“Delightful alliteration, little poet, but no. God of death, in fact.”
“Death, huh? And you’re going to kill me now?”
“Kill you, kiss you, tie you to the canal gate and edge you until you scream—I haven’t decided yet.”
Shock rolls through me in a blazing thrill. I can’t decide which fate I’d rather endure.
A rustle of curtains draws our attention, and we both look toward the bed as Christine emerges, flushed and sleepy. “What the hell are you two fussing about? I was having such a nice dream…”
She yawns, and I stare, speechless, because Christine has fangs. A double set of them. Long, white, sharp fangs.
The Phantom clears his throat. “Could this dream of yours possibly have involved blood?”
She frowns. “What?”
He taps his lips, and Christine’s hand goes to her mouth.
She prods the fangs. “Oh…shit.” She sighs, shrugs, and looks helplessly at me. “Fine, I’m a vampire. He’s a god. Get over it.”