Chapter Thirty-six: A Simple Question
Mirielle rested a hand upon her breast, fingers tracing the top edge of the harim costume. Turning a little she smiled. Erik's tawny eyes blazed as he watched her fingers. She would flirt and tease drawing delight from the shock it drew form him.
The longer she could capture that keen intelligence in thoughts of simple bliss, the less likely he would be to start that nonsense of attempting to protect her from his past.
"Beautiful," he exhaled. His gaze roving over her already tingling flesh.
Mirielle stepped forward feeling the play of the silk over her body. She reached to push his jacket off of his shoulders. Offering her lips, she said teasingly, "What naughty thoughts are going through your mind?"
His hands settled on her hips as she began to undo the buttons on his vest. Erik had the hands of an artist. In the dark together, her flesh would become the medium though which he expressed his passion. He pulled her closer into his embrace.
She lifted a hand to his neck and up to his chin. Erik stiffened as the edges of her fingers slid along his lip. She held his face still and offered her mouth in a kiss. Poised above her, he brushed his lips against hers so softly she held her breath. He deepened the kiss.
His hands trailed up her neck and into her hair. Tipping her head back he kissed and nibbled her neck. Mirielle's hands worked open his shirt, sliding over his taught muscles. When he broke the kiss she ran her tongue over his flat male nipple. His hands roved over her and up under the top of the costume. She moaned happily as he kissed her again.
He turned her in his arms, his hands slid over her belly and to the drawstring on her trousers. His warm breath teased the shell of her ear as she relaxed against him, his hands sliding the trousers down her hips.
What sense of modesty she might have held onto fell away with the bottom of the costume. He pulled her down onto his lap on the sofa where they lost themselves in complete and blissful surrender to the other.
Erik sat with Mirielle snuggled in the curve of his arm. His rapidly pounding heart began to slow in the calm following their lovemaking. He felt her sigh against his neck.
"Erik, will you teach me something?"
"Pray tell, Madame?"
She wiggled on his lap. He made an appreciative sound. Leaning close to his ear she whispered. He turned his face to hers, his eyes a fiery gold. In the dim light the curve of her cheek felt warm, as if she blushed.
"In Arabic?"
She nodded. "You said things while you…"
He smiled lazily and whispered in her ear. Little minx that she was, she'd remember those words. Hearing them from her would make one of their encounters all the more erotic.
"Habibty," he told her. "It means I love you, my nur el kamar."
She was doing it again. Looking so soft and lovely in the faint gold light of the fireplace. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Are there times you take off your mask?"
He felt the awful weight of her words settle upon his chest. Anger threatened to slowly suffocate him. Pursing his lips to still the cry that would escape him, he sat holding her loosely.
She lifted her fingers to hold his chin. Her voice was tremulous. "I only want you to know that I love you. I would be pleased if you wished to share everything with me."
He felt the wave of tension coiling inside. It was happening once again. Curiosity prevailed over even love. She wanted to pry away the one last defense that gave him any dignity in the world of mankind.
"I see." Her voice was flatter. She rested on his lap, seeming unsure of her next words. "You remember our first night? You watched my face when we joined for the first time."
Erik willed his body to relax, his hands to rest lightly upon her. She'd glimpsed the tormenting fire and now doused the flames with the reminder of how wonderful their first night had been.
"Promise me, one day you will make a very naughty dream come true for me," she confessed. "Sometime in the darkness, will you make love to me without your mask?"
The air around him vibrated with the release of his anger. With every breath he became more aware of how she melted against him in complete trust.
"It's your fantasy isn't it?" She said against his throat. "To hold a woman beneath you and make love to her without the mask."
His breathing growing more rapid, he swallowed thickly. "Yes." He whispered roughly, achingly; an admission of something so terrible it bordered upon profane to even admit it to her.
Mirielle must have understood that there are moments between lovers when no words are needed. She kissed his chin; her fingers teasing his neck, making an involuntary shiver run through him. She grinned happily. "Would you care for..?"
"Light of my darkness. Are you suggesting we…" he mouthed words into her ear as she melted against him.
Erik sighed, feeling lethargic right down to his toes. His bones even felt like lead. Mirielle lay with her head resting upon his shoulder, snuggled close to him on the bed in the guest room. He smiled in the dim light as she shifted her delicious round rump against him. "Is this what it shall be like when we marry?"
Mirielle sighed. "I think so." Her head lifted. "We just won't have to get dressed to send me home in a cab."
Erik stroked her arm lightly. "Do you have to go so soon?"
She moaned. "It's probably two in the morning, Erik."
"Exactly," he growled against her hair. "I doubt we could find a cab."
"You sound hopeful," she accused.
He pulled her tighter against him. "Always, dearest girl. We could get you a cab in the morning," he let the suggestion hang in the air.
"Mmmmm. All right."
He let his fingers run down her arm and back up her shoulder, brushing up under the end of her dark hair. He lifted it and brought it closer. She always smelled so delicious. If she were a dessert, he would be as huge as a house from imbibing. He always wondered if being nose less meant he smelled things more or less acutely than others.
He rested a hand upon her hip and was about to place a kiss on her cheek when he realized her breathing was slower. Erik let his hand brush her with a bit more pressure. When she didn't respond, he reared up to look at her face.
"Mirielle?"
She had collapsed back to sleep. He lifted her hand and let it drop. He stared down at her wondering if being a man he should be insulted by her succumbing to sleep when he was entertaining other hopes.
He blinked in the darkness and lay down. Fitting his body against hers as she lay on her side; he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly at how warm she kept him.
Erik gave her hand on last squeeze as Mirielle stepped towards the cab. She smiled almost shyly over her shoulder at him. Thinking quickly he asked, "Dinner?"
"Tonight? Where?"
"I'll pick you up. What time are you free?"
"I should be done by four-thirty," she replied stepping into the cab.
He pushed the door closed. "Seven o'clock?"
She smiled brightly. Putting her fingers to her lips she blew him a kiss. "Seven."
He watched the cab pull away from the curb.
Mathurin La Chance kicked his suit away from the bottom of his wardrobe. He'd rinsed off a dozen times, but still felt as if the filth of Paris clung to every inch of him. He'd had to light the boiler when he got home and run a hot bath. He was shivering from the cold as much at the indignation of being herded like a sacrificial lamb into the Ghost's trap.
Vachon. The name had run in circles in his head with every step he took home, his shoes squelching. He'd parted company with Queval who had wandered off in search of a cab. That miscreant still worried over his crystal.
Fetching a long handled spoon from their small kitchen, he fished the jacket and trousers up off of the floor and dropped them into a bag. He'd drop them at a laundry service on his way in to the newspaper this morning.
He skipped his morning cup of coffee at the café and walked instead of taking a cab. He needed the cash for his next attempt at finding the Ghost.
Mirielle stifled a yawn and sipped her cup of tea. The morning had been the sort of damp cold that found its way into every edge and seam to steal her warmth. Feeling a little tired didn't help either. The sooner she and Erik could marry and live together, the sooner she'd be able to get an uninterrupted nights' sleep.
You are such a liar, the voice in her head replied. You loved every minute wandering the Opera last night. She felt herself smile as the steam from the cup brushed her face.
She finished the sandwich she had hurriedly made before coming to work. Holding the cup, she sipped the last of her tea and prepared to go back into the shop.
La chance rapped on the door and stepped back off of the stoop. Paris addresses were sometimes a bit touchy to interpret. A door with number 'thirty-one' on it followed by a letter might actually be for an upstairs room around at the back of the building.
The door swung inward revealing a tall silhouette in the entry. "Yes?"
He pulled a card from his pocket. "I'm searching for Madame Claretie."
The figure reached out and grasped his arm, pulling him into the hallway. From the small overhead lamp he took in the tall woman's brassy blond hair. Her large hand was decorated with Chinese Red fingernails, and her Amazonian frame was draped in a shimmering jade colored silk. "Come in."
He removed his hat and stepped towards an open door along the hall, conscious of the curious feeling of eyes roving his back. He paused waiting for the woman. She stood eye to eye with him, frankly looking him over.
"Please, call me Solange," she purred in a low, smoky voice. "What can I do for you, Monsieur?"
La Chance considered the list of her assumed qualifications. Precognition being one, she should have been able to tell him why he'd come. He thought for a moment of how much this avenue of investigation was going to cost him.
"I'm searching for a man," he began.
Solange smirked. "Aren't we all?" She waved him to a chair beside a table that sported a crystal ball perched on a brass tripod.
He stood waiting for her to seat herself, artfully arranging her skirt about her legs. He noticed her fingers seemed long, her palm thick. Looking at the shoe that peaked from under her hem he thought it was closer in size to his own than any woman's he had ever seen. He sat carefully on the edge of the chair.
"I'm looking for the fellow that inhabits the Garnier. They refer to him as the Opera Ghost."
Solange sat back with a slight smile. "I've heard the stories." She clasped her hands together. "I once had a roommate who was a dancer. Such a graceful creature." She looked away. "Why are you seeking this man?"
Nonplussed by her question he replied, "I wish an interview with him for my paper."
She stared at him a moment. "Have you asked him?"
He opened his mouth then closed it again. Surely it couldn't be that simple.