There came a warm sensation on my shoulder. From behind. A hand. Madam?
No, no. It was too wide, the gloved thumb was pressed against the side of my throat. Lightly.
I moved to turn my head, to turn my body, but the other hand met my free shoulder. Both hands commanded me to face forward. The closed door. Behind it lay Christine. She was safe. But was I? And why in heaven's sweet name was I following physical commands of an unseen… phantom?
Oh yes, I remember, now. The gloved hand, black and leathery, but warm and strong, moved down over my shoulder. It rested a moment on my chest, then slid further down still, until it flayed on my belly. Sometime during this act, the hand had slipped under the collar of my pale shirt. Though, the collar I admit served as a weak barrier. My chest was exposed, now. And the length of the arm was pressed against me, the body to which it belonged was against my shoulder blades. I smelled him.
A hint of expensive cologne, the scent of a freshly pressed suit, the slight smell of sweat. I swallowed, just as his right hand moved to my throat.
I nearly flinched, believing that to be my undoing. His gloved hand on my neck. But no, he was gentle, grasping my throat in the cup of his hand, and moving the fingers upwards, over my chin, and to the right side of my face, after having brush my parted lips. My hands shook. I could hardly breathe. What was his game? My mind raced with ultimatums.
"What is it-" my first attempt at speech was cut short. His hand returned to my mouth. Three of his fingers held my lips silent, the pinky finger, caressing my chin, the thumb pressed lightly to my cheek. The action was hardly threatening, but, my pulse quickened. My eyes closed with momentary surrender. I had been concentrating so deftly on the doings of his right hand, that I had not realized how much further his left hand had traveled. His four fingers had slipped under the waistband of my under breeches. I blinked rapidly, much more alarmed and wishing to speak out than I had been before.
"Vicomte," he finally spoke. His voice was deep, and rich. Not so harsh as I had imagined before.
I was trapped in his embrace, for now, the right hand that had silenced me, was resting on my chest, encasing me in his grasp.
"You so easily allow your guard to falter," he said, his breath against my left ear and cheek. I stared straight ahead, almost hoping for Madam to. . . No, no, was I a man or wasn't I? I didn't need Madam Giry to frighten off the ghost. I moved my hand to my waist, to pull his hand away from, dare I say it, my effected manhood. "My my, you do hold a passion in you. And I thought you were merely an insolent, over-dressed lad of wealth." I could feel his eyes move over me.
I felt the cold of his white mask against my face, suddenly, then the shock of warmth from his lips. They were pressed just under my cheekbone, and his right hand began to roam, inevitably moving to join the other.
Then, the handle of the door I was quite badly failing to guard gave a start. It shook. The door began to creak open.
I swallowed, hard, and closed my eyes, to the phantom, to our compromising situation. . . And to the face of whomever might be emerging from the dormitory. I felt as though my heart would surely stop. He had faltered in his movements, perhaps just as surprised as I. "What a time," I heard. His voice carried his wicked smile.