Page 26 of Angel’s Flight (The Phantom Saga #4)

He groaned and gripped the bedframe so tight he was sure he’d bend it, but he didn’t let go.

He wasn’t allowed to let go and... Dear God, what else was he not allowed to do?

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t do anything but submit as she swallowed him down.

Her tongue and teeth were perfection, her lips and throat, everything. He was going to explode or die or...

“Not. Yet.” She grasped the base of his cock hard, holding back the peak of his pleasure. Erik nearly screamed in frustrated need, but he didn’t let go and he didn’t come. He wouldn’t disappoint her again. He would be good. For her, he could be good.

“I love the way you taste,” Christine whispered, licking the entire length of him as she played idly with his balls, squeezing just hard enough to make him shudder on the edge of agony.

“Do you know what I love more? Seeing you like this. Watching you work so hard to do as you’ve been told. It’s so beautiful, Erik.”

He shut his eyes, but the tears still came. He wanted to beg her to stop saying such lies or to hurt him again. He should let go to show her that she was wrong. He was shameful, cruel, and impertinent...

“Can you hold on for me a bit longer, my love?” Her voice broke through his spiraling thoughts like a song. “Can you obey me?”

Erik nodded so hard it shook his whole body.

“I knew you could,” Christine purred. “Now open your eyes and watch me.”

Erik forced himself to look, his muscles screaming and his heart pounding. Christine loomed above him, gently caressing his cock, and then...

“Don’t look away, my love, watch me take you in. See how we fit. See how you fill me.” Christine stifled a gasp as she lowered herself onto Erik’s length, and he watched himself disappear inside her.

It felt like heaven, like absolute paradise, to be sheathed within her.

It was torture too, for she moved so slowly, tense and tight around him.

She gave him everything and yet kept him at bay, holding back his peak.

God, how he loved her, but how wrong and broken he felt to be subsumed by such a divine creature. ..

“Don’t go to that place,” she commanded, somehow reading the shame in his heart. “Look at me and see the one who loves you. Who chose you. Who chooses you still.”

Erik gave a strangled, guttural sound of assent.

He wanted to move; to let go of the bed, grab her by the hips, and fuck her so hard the walls shook.

He was so close he could barely see, but he still obeyed.

He stared up at her perfection as she rode him, steady and smooth, and he held back. It was so hard, but he held back.

“There, yes, you’re so good for me,” Christine whimpered, speeding up her hips. Did she truly enjoy this – to rule him and see him at her mercy? If she did, even a bit, that made it worth this agony on the precipice of joy. “Erik, you are good. You’re mine and you’re good.”

He couldn’t breathe or even make a sound but he could hold back. He could obey.

“Come for me,” Christine cooed, and Erik shattered.

The climax took away everything. All thought and guilt and pain.

There was nothing but light and pleasure, pulse after pulse, as he poured himself into her.

Into the goddess of ecstasy above him as she joined him in the perfect, quiet place.

He was forgiven and absolved, his pain and obedience transmuted to absolution. He was whole and safe, thanks to her.

He didn’t know how long the pleasure held him and was barely aware of Christine prying his fingers from the bed frame and returning his aching arms to his side. She was there beside him, mopping his body and brow with a cloth, to clear away the sweat and tears and seed before she kissed him.

She kissed him and he let himself love it.

He let himself deserve it and savor it because he had done as she said.

He had been good and he could do it again, all for her.

His arms smarted with scratches and stiffness as he wrapped them around her, but the echoes of pain weren’t shameful anymore, or frightening.

They reminded him of exactly who he was: hers.

Paris

M eg knew she was being stupid, but that didn’t stop boys, so why should it stop her?

Every instinct told her she should not be in the Opéra cellars, and yet, as she descended the stairs into the cool, quiet dark, she couldn’t help but feel excitement.

She had always been sweet and accommodating; always did what Mother or the other dancers told her to do.

She was a good student because she never argued with her ballet instructors or tried to get too much attention.

Now she had an order from the ghost himself to stop.

Meg would be expected to go along with all of that, but she wasn’t. Whether it was spite or rebellion or idiocy fueling her, she didn’t know and didn’t care. She was making her own choice for once, and it was thrilling.

“You can do this, Meg Giry,” she whispered as she made her way through the dim maze of set pieces and backdrops.

Some were old, taken from the previous National Opera House on the Rue le Pelletier before it burned down, and the collection gave the curious experience of walking from a painted forest to a Turkish seraglio to a crumbling castle in a few steps.

If Meg had not been so nervous, she would have been fascinated.

“I know you’re around here somewhere, steps,” Meg muttered. This was the third cellar though and Meg was determined to reach the fifth.

A shadow moved, far down the long corridor of sets, and Meg nearly screamed.

Somehow, she kept her feet moving towards where the figure had gone.

It had been far too big to be anything but a person.

.. or a ghost. Meg drew up onto her toes, using every muscle in her dancer’s body to be silent as she turned the corner to follow the shadow – only to crash into a very solid male form.

Meg screamed and the man jumped back in as much terror as she. Looking at him stole the sound from her throat and she stared up in awe. It was the Persian.

“What are you doing down here?!” Meg demanded, clenching her fists in what had to be the least intimidating display the man had ever seen. “Are you working with him again?”

“What?” The foreigner looked utterly confused.

“I will call a fireman!” Meg squeaked, though she wasn’t entirely sure how she would do that. “Or the management!”

“I'm here with personal permission from Monsieur Moncharmin,” the Persian sighed. “I assure you, young lady, there is nothing for you to fear from me.”

“So it’s just a coincidence you’re here now that the ghost has returned?” Meg demanded then covered her mouth. She’d said too much.

The man looked at her curiously. Now that Meg was really looking at him, he didn’t match the image of ‘the Persian’ she had in her head.

He had copper skin, and a beard, and wore a grey fur cap that came to a peak – all marking him as different from most men at the Opéra.

But he was also different in that his eyes were keen and kind, and there was something in his demeanor that made Meg think he respected her, at least as a young woman.

“What are you doing down here, Mademoiselle?” he asked, almost amused. “Not looking for ghosts, I hope.”

“If I am, it’s none of your business,” Meg declared, hoping to sound haughty, but only coming across as guilty.

“Then we have something in common,” the Persian replied with an incongruous smile.

Meg frowned at him. “You’re looking for him too? I thought—”

“I have great knowledge of the Opera Ghost, this is true, and it has been my mission in the past to make sure the Opéra was safe. I have undertaken that mission again,” the Persian said. “Imagine my surprise to see the daughter of the Ghost’s box keeper wandering the cellars looking for something.”

“She’s not his box keeper anymore,” Meg exclaimed and wanted to kick herself. Why did she keep talking?

“Yes, I heard that box five was being sold again.”

“It’s not a very good seat, to be honest, so it’s still empty,” Meg muttered.

“Does she still get notes from him? Is that why you’re here?”

For once, Meg held her tongue. “Why should I tell you? Or believe you’re on a mission for the management?”

“You’re right to be cautious. Let me start again,” the Persian said before giving Meg a small bow. “My name is Shaya Motlagh, former Daroga to the Shah of Persia. That means I was a policeman and detective in the palace.”

“A detective?” Meg echoed, fascinated.

“And you are Meg Giry, whom the ghost had promoted to leader of her row as a favor to your mother for her loyal service,” the Persian – no, Monsieur Motlagh – went on.

“I promise, Mademoiselle Giry, that you can trust me. If you know anything about the incidents lately, I need to know. More people may be in danger.”

To Meg’s shock, the man pulled a note from his pocket and showed it to Meg. “ My earlier note ...” Meg muttered as she read.

“Do you know about this?” Monsieur Motlagh asked, voice cutting through the rush of blood to Meg’s ears.

“My mother,” Meg replied softly. “She received at least one note and I took it. She didn’t want to bring it to Monsieur Moncharmin.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Meg replied, looking at her worn-out shoes but still feeling Motlagh staring.

“But you have a suspicion.”

Meg took a deep breath. He truly was a detective, to be able to read her so well. “I think she knows this is different. The notes are different, I’m sure, and these attacks on the patrons–”

“Are entirely new. Yes,” Motlagh muttered.

Meg squinted up at him. “What about the Comte de Chagny and the disappearance of Antoine de Martiniac?”

“The ghost wasn’t behind those,” Motlagh replied with surety that gave Meg a chill. How did he know? “You’re a smart girl, though, to think of that.”