Although Christine's belly lurched at his comment, sending an uncomfortable queasiness and apprehension barreling through her, she recognized that she was hungry. And that, as disconcerting as his words were, Philippe was right… She would need her strength.
Because, Christine decided at that very moment, though her mind was a bit dim while she watched Comtesse Delia's generous breasts lift and sway as she reached for another fig, she was going to escape from the Chateau de Chagny. She must escape and somehow find Erik. And they would be together again.
Until then, she would have to take care of herself… and she would have to suffer the hints and innuendos… and, please, God, nothing else… from the comte.
And Raoul. Mon Dieu… she did not know how to feel about him. He loved her, she believed that… but he had forced her to come with him to this place. He claimed it was for her protection—perhaps he truly believed it. He was a kind man, a gentle one; she cared deeply for him.
Or, at least, she had cared for him.
If she thought Raoul might have gone along with the comte's plan in the underground house only to allow Erik to escape, and to assuage his brother's taste for vengeance, that thought had dissolved earlier today when he'd kissed her in her room. He had no intention of letting her go back to Erik.
What if Erik never found her? What if he never came for her?
The pit of her stomach felt deep and empty. No. He would come. Erik would come… He loved her; nothing would keep him from her.
But until he came, or until she found a way to escape, what would she have to endure?
Her thoughts swirled, her senses heightened; she felt sluggish and aware at the same time. Philippe watched her, his attention heavy and obvious, and Christine felt the upswing of her heartbeat as it jolted through her body.
She forced her attention to the table in front of her and reached for a stem of grapes. They were crisp and juicy, and slid sweetly down her dry throat. The comte offered her the plate of figs, and Christine took one of the odd-shaped dark purple fruits, lifting it by its stemlike protrusion. It was indeed soft, soft as velvet, and the skin slightly shriveled. She felt as though she were holding a heavy, yet delicate, organ. A male organ, for though it was the wrong shape, it had the same weight, the same heavy, velvety feel.
The thought startled her, and when she looked up, her face warm, she found Philippe watching her, his dark eyes glittering beneath heavy lids.
"I see you find the same intrigue in these little fruits as I do," he said, lifting another fig and cupping it in his palm like a small breast. Christine felt her nipples tighten as he gently rolled it around in his palm, tilting and tipping it, and then lifted it by the stem to bring it to her lips.
Her heart pounding, Christine opened her mouth enough to take a small bite, surprised at how smoothly her teeth cut through the velvety skin. She hadn't expected it to yield so easily, but it was just as delicate as it seemed.
"Now feed me," Philippe commanded.
Christine lifted her own fruit to his lips, and could not draw her eyes away from his teeth as they surrounded the fig and then gently bit. She felt as though there were nothing in the room but his mouth and that fruit and the way it crushed between his teeth.
She offered the fruit again, and this time, his mouth moved along the edge of her palm as he took in the rest of the little fig. The warm touch of his lips on the side of her hand sent an unexpected tremor along her arm. Philippe let off a soft groan as he chewed, and his eyelids dropped farther.
That was when Christine realized that the comtesse had somehow moved from her own hassock and her hands were busy in her husband's lap.
Christine started to pull away in surprise after she glanced down and saw a flash of dark red flesh in Delia's slender white hands… but Philippe caught her wrist before she could move away and pulled her face to his.
His mouth, tasting of fig and wine, closed over hers. She was trapped by his warm, slick lips as they ground onto hers, held in place by strong fingers jammed into the back of her hair. Her mouth opened and she was invaded by the full sensuality of the moment: the taste of sweet fruit, the erotic scent on the air, and, suddenly, hands on her breast, lifting it free from its bodice.
One of them had grasped her other hand, and she had no way to prop herself up; she half fell against Philippe, who held one wrist, and felt her other hand being directed down, down between them… until her fingers brushed against something turgid and warm. The fingers that held her were small, but strong, and through the haze of sensation—at her mouth, at her nipple, now, suddenly, tingling between her legs, deep beneath her skirts—she realized Delia was forcing her fingers around the hot swelling length of the comte's erection.
Christine couldn't pull away; she wrapped her grip around him, her fingers beneath Delias, and together they stroked up and down, using the gentle drip from the head of his cock and from the comtesses mouth to lubricate their way. Philippe had released Christine's lips and in a sort of dizzying shift, she found herself half-fallen between the comte and comtesse while he had turned his attention to his wife's breasts.
There in front of her tilted world, as her fingers rose up and down the length of his erection, Christine saw those same lips that moments before had devoured her own, open and close around the entire tip of Delia's breast. She could not look away as he sucked and licked and bit, drawing her thick red nipple long and straight into his mouth. He pulled and tugged until it must hurt… but her own breasts were tight, and her own nipples throbbed as though they too were being teased. Her sex pounded and she felt the moisture between her legs as Philippe breathed faster, and she and Delia stroked harder and longer, and the little juices from his head leaked wetter.
Faster, faster they stroked, and through the rhythm she heard ruptured breathing, slippery suction, quiet moans, and felt the jolt as someone pulled at her own nipple… the room shrunk to those sounds and sensations. Suddenly Philippe jerked his face away with a groan and Christine felt the warm, wet spill pour over her fingers.
Delia released her and Christine fell back onto her cushion, wiping her hand on a piece of cloth from the table, her heart pounding, her forehead moist, the room spinning, her arm aching from the unrelenting back-and-forth motions.
When she pulled herself back to a sitting position, hefting awkwardly up on an elbow, Christine was confronted by Philippe's complacent expression.
"A most delightful repast," he commented, his dark eyes scanning lasciviously over her. He reached suddenly toward her, and before she could react, he'd plucked at her breast, where it sat, exposed, from her drooping bodice.
She jerked away, but her movements were sluggish, and did not save her from the practiced tweak of his fingers… which sent a chitter of pleasure-pain into the pit of her stomach. Christine quickly tucked her breast back into her bodice as well as she could, but somehow it would hardly stay put. Her gown, corset, and chemise had been loosened during the fray, and they all gapped in the front, leaving her nearly as exposed as the comtesse.
"Delightful, out, and her reluctance is just enough to be endearing. But it won't be long before she is begging for you, my lord," added Delia. The nipple on one of her breasts was bright red, and swollen, and thrust up at an angle, hard and sharp, from where it had been fed upon.
"Or you, my dear. Do not underestimate your own appeal."
Christine's throat dried as she found her gaze caught in Delia's snapping blue one. A sly smile on her face, the other woman slid her attention back to the table before them. "I look forward to that opportunity. But for now… I find that I am hungry again." She reached for a small block of cheese as if their dinner had not just been interrupted by sex play.
Just then, the door opened.
"Raoul!" Christine couldn't hold back her relieved greeting. She would have struggled to her feet, regardless of her confining, twisting skirts and the quicksandlike cushion, but Raoul came to her side immediately.
She fancied she saw a flash of annoyance in his eyes when he looked at his brother, but she was not certain, for the room was not well lit. When he turned toward her, there was nothing there but delight. "Have I interrupted your meal?" he asked, sinking onto a hassock next to her. "You look beautiful, as always, tonight, Christine."
Before she could reply, Philippe spoke. "We have just begun. I am so glad you are here to join us. I believe Christine was becoming lonely."
Raoul flashed him a glance as he reached for a thick slab of bread. "And am I to assume you made her feel welcome in my absence?"
Delia giggled and sipped her wine as her husband responded, "But of course. However, to my dismay, I do believe she would have preferred you to join us before now. She seemed a bit… reluctant to fully engage in our… meal."
"I'm certain Christine will feel more at ease now that I am here. Of course, I would have been here before now, but I was detained in the city," he replied, reaching toward Christine.
At first, she thought he meant to tug her bodice back into place, but when he slipped his fingers down and inside to smooth over her breast, she didn't know how to react. Little tingles lifted the fine hairs on her skin and her nipple tightened again; she wanted to ease away from his touch, yet she did not want to antagonize him. She was certain Raoul was the only reason Philippe had not been more forthcoming with his advances thus far.
"I was meeting with Le Rochet, of course," Raoul continued.
"Ahhh… yes," Philippe replied in a knowing voice. "And have you completed the arrangements?"
"We have nearly done so. I am quite pleased with the way they are progressing." Raoul's fingers continued to stroke over Christine's breast, easy, sensual, nonchalant. Her skin tingled and tightened, and she took a deep breath. "But enough of business." He used his other hand to lift Christine's chin so that she looked bashfully into his eyes. "You have missed me, then?"
An odd light of desire burned in his gaze, and she tried to look away.
"Christine?" His voice tightened.
"I did miss you," she said, forcing herself to look at him.
But the rest of her words trailed away as he moved toward her, swallowing up everything in the room but himself, and the way his mouth took over hers. Christine was overwhelmed by the intense onslaught of his lips and teeth and tongue delving into hers as his fingers grasped her bare shoulders.
She struggled to breathe, to keep herself from being pressed so far down into the depths of the plush cushion that she smothered under the fabric and his weight. She was drowning, caught in a whirl of sensation. Warm lips, slick, probing tongue, questing fingers…the heavy, hard prodding between her legs, through her skirts, where her sex was already swollen and wet… the bursting feeling of her nipples under the pads of his fingers… suddenly, somehow, her reluctance faded into something altogether too familiar. Her breathing became soft gasps and little sighs around his mouth… Her eyes closed.
Raoul knew how to kiss her. She might not agree with what he'd done, but in this frightening place, he was familiar to her. An oasis.
She might not love him as she deeply, painfully needed and adored Erik… but he was strong, and handsome, and he knew her body; he loved it, loved her…