A/N: Whenever I write anything pertaining to Phelan, I think of George Harrison (of the Beatles). If there is someone you think of, please let me know.

Ch 3

All women had specific places that made them draw in a breath or shiver with anticipation. Sometimes it was lips to the nape of their necks, a caress to the shell of their ears, or teeth grazing collarbones. Some preferred to be pinned roughly to walls, wrists held down, my fingers pressed into their hips. Others desired feather-light touches all over their bodies and slow, deliberate pleasure.

They spoke in sighs and whispers, hard swallows and groans of anticipation. I had lost count of how many throats I had kissed and legs I had parted, but they were all the same: past lovers.

Guin followed me through the door and up the stairs to my apartment without a word spoken. She walked into my apartment, began to unbutton her coat, and froze.

"You have a pet bird?" she said, the last two words spoken with disdain.

"A macaw," I said. As if a creature so magnificent could simply be called 'a pet bird'.

Elvira wasn't a pet by any means. She was more of a roommate who didn't pay her share of the rent, was constantly yelling about something, and ate copious amounts of food without being able to compensate me for providing her with sustienence.

"I don't think I've ever known someone who owns a bird."

"Quite honestly, I believe the more apt description is that Elvira owns me."

Guin looked around my apartment and handed me her coat. She slipped off her shoes, slender hands on her hips, and took notice of the framed sketches on the walls.

"Are these considered good? I don't know anything about art."

One was a doodle from my niece Elizabeth, a drawing of me with a giant head on the body of what could have been an ant. I liked to think of her interpretation as my inflated ego being the enormous head and my tiny body being my overshadowed modesty.

The other was a drawing from one of my students that I found in the refuse bin. I wasn't certain who had sketched a tree, but I thought it was lovely and rescued it from the trash. After six months of being pinned to my studio wall without claim, I finally took it home and framed it for myself.

"Masterpieces," I answered.

She turned and looked at me as I stood with my left hand behind my back. In two steps she was nearly against my chest, her eyes studying my lips.

I reached up and stroked lightly behind her ear and down the column of her neck, sensing the conversation was sufficient and she wanted something else. Wordlessly she placed her palm against the back of my hand, and rose on the tips of her toes. My lips pressed to hers, both of us inhaling in unison.

There was something uniquely intimate about matched breaths, the timing of heartbeats, the way two people exhaling created heat against flesh.

I kissed her harder, my hand tangled in her hair while she spread her hands against my back. There was such urgency in her caresses, a need for her flesh to be bare against mine.

My intention was never to rush. Each kiss was drawn out, my touch feathery light against her smooth skin. I unbuttoned the back of her dress, but allowed the fabric to drape from her body until it slipped to the floor and pooled at her feet. At the same time, she removed my overcoat and unbuttoned my shirt, then pressed her palm to my chest as I threaded my arms through my suspenders.

She took a small step back and raked her fingers through the hair on my chest and down my abdomen, her nails scraping my skin.

"So this is what your students see?" she murmured.

I grunted and caught her lips against mine again, ending the conversation before it went further. My trousers loosened with each pop of the buttons through the holes, and eventually joined her dress on the floor.

She was breathing harder, more urgent with each passing second. At last I placed my left hand on her shoulder, knowing in the next heartbeat she would either continue or make an excuse and dress herself, repulsed by the burn to my arm.

She glanced at my forearm, then at my chest and again at my arm, her eyes slightly wider once she registered the damage.

"What happened?" she asked.

There was more curiosity than outright disgust, which was always a good sign. Given that the base of my thumb to the middle of my forearm was scar tissue, there was nothing I could do to hide the wounds from view, short of wearing a glove that reached the crook of my elbow, which was impractical.

"I was burned as a child," I answered.

"Hmm." She kissed me again. "Clearly it's of little hindrance if you were able to unbutton this." She glanced down at her dress and my shirt and trousers, then up at me and smiled. Gently she reached up and touched the bruise on my cheek. "I suppose I should make this up to you."

A dozen different phrases flitted through my thoughts, none of them given a voice. If she thought of what came next as compensation, she was mistaken. Ignoring the thought, I unlaced her bodice, feeling it loosen around her curves while I was freed from my undergarments.

Her nails trailed down my spine as she pulled me closer, crushing her breasts to my chest. I gripped her hips, feeling her breaths against my neck and her left hand in my right, fingers entwined with mine.

"Take me to bed," she whispered as she turned, stepped out of the pile of clothes in the center of the room, and sauntered toward my bedroom, hand extended back to me.

oOo

Guin knew what she wanted, and in some ways it was good and others somewhat unfortunate as it took away the mystery and pleasure of exploration. I would never know her favorite flower, or if she fancied chocolates over diamonds or flowers over furs. I wanted to discover, by my own volition, what made her scream with pleasure and shiver in delight when her needs were thoroughly sated and she fell back on my pillow, heart beating wildly and the static of our mutual pleasure still abuzz.

She glowed with satisfaction, bathed in the setting sunlight flooding my bedroom. Both hands were centered on my chest, her hips pressed down into mine as she released a trembling breath. There was tightness to her, so tightly wound for a second time, each nerve collectively on the very brink of release. I pulled her body to mine–a feat that didn't seem possible as there was no space between us–and felt her hips tip forward.

She made a sound I'd never heard before, somewhere between the deepest pleasure one could experience and a groan that bordered on pain. It was delectable, something I would have liked to have bottled and heard again and again, especially after the hour we had spent passionately joined together.

The moan turned into a soft sigh, and then the tightness unraveled in a series of pulses and I feared I had no choice but to follow suit, a servant to my own pleasurable end. To continue on would have been torture for both of us, but I was not quite ready to cease the balance I held on the knife's edge.

"My God," she groaned, her eyes closed. Her body stilled and I grit my teeth, tightening myself so that I could enjoy her a while longer. She took my hands and formed them to her breasts, her hips still grinding to mine.

"Wait," I breathed.

She looked at me in silent curiosity. "You haven't–"

"Yes and no," I groaned. I wasn't sure how to explain male experiences and mechanics to a female and left it as that. If she continued, it would be an undeniable yes.

I looked her over, appreciating the view of her mounted on my hips. Some women fretted over the way they appeared in this position, legs spread on either side of a man's hips, their abdomen and breasts on display. It didn't much matter if their bellies were flat or curved or rounded, whether their breasts had the perk of youth or sagged, U-shaped rather than circular. Their confidence made them radiant, and as Guin remained on top, she was ethereal.

There was wickedness in her eyes, however, a desire to be my undoing. She pulled her hair up with one hand, twisting it atop her head, then allowed it to fall back down, a cascade of thick hair the color of oil. Her free hand pushed harder against my chest and she leaned forward, angling herself, delivering me to the point of no return, past all thought and reasoning. I was certain if I desired, I could have held off for a moment more, but she was greedy, and when she cried out, her head tossed back and steady movement turned to stillness, I allowed the dam to break open and spill forth with a rush that rocked through me, sating my needs in a way I typically didn't allow.

The world seemed suddenly distant, like I was momentarily detached and seated somewhere in the clouds. Pleasure washed over me, rushing in like the tide, but slowly receded and I returned to my senses, flat on my back and still pinned beneath this woman with her head tossed back and eyes squeezed shut.

The sunlight certainly helped her angelic appearance, as did my improved mood now that the tension had eased. Most of the time I found myself with company in bed well after sunset, but the daytime had an advantage for a visual creature such as myself.

Seeing as we were both satisfied, I inhaled.

"I'm famished," I said, propping myself upright with her hips still quite engaged to mine. She finally dismounted and sat beside me, one leg beneath her and the other up, leaving nothing to my imagination.

"You could have eaten the cheese and meat at the cafe," she pointed out.

"As I said, I don't take people scraps."

"What does that mean?" she questioned.

"Left overs, discarded, unwanted refuse."

"It was good food. A shame it was wasted."

I shrugged and stood, remembering my clothing was still in the living room on the floor. Despite how we had spent the last hour, a bit of modesty was preferred and I grabbed my morning robe.

Guin made a sound of disapproval.

"I'm afraid I don't have an additional robe," I said.

"Then take yours off," she suggested.

As far as I was concerned, we were both satisfied and there was nothing else needed between us. However, it did seem unfair that I was clothed and she was not. I walked from my bedroom, retrieved her dress and undergarments, and tossed them onto the trunk at the foot of the bed.

If she was annoyed, she didn't show it. She slid off the bed, stretched, and walked past her clothing and me where she wandered toward the kitchen and looked around.

"I will be leaving shortly," I said.

"Where?"

"The university." It was not the truth and I wished I had said I was heading to the moon so that she knew I simply wanted her out of my apartment.

"Again?"

"I have a meeting."

"Hmm."

"You can lock the door when you leave," I offered. "Unless you care to walk out together."

Finally she looked at me. "Are you married?"

I blinked at her, finding it an odd question to ask after the bedroom. "Thankfully I am not."

She arched a brow. "Thankfully?"

"If I were married, Mademoiselle Guin, I assure you that I would not have an unfamiliar woman standing naked in my kitchen."

She grunted. "Married men make love to mistresses all the time."

There was quite a bit I would have contested, if I had been willing to debate or protest. I was not, for one, a married man, and what others bound by vows did without their spouses knowledge was not my concern. Secondly, she was not my mistress. And thirdly–which I was certain she would have contested–we had not made love. Far from it.

She turned to face me, back arched and breasts pushed forward. Her nipples were still erect, her lips still swollen despite the length of time between kisses. Her hair was an absolute disaster, strands flying in all directions, but it did nothing to make me want her any less-and that was becoming quite concerning.

Turning from me, she ran her index finger along one of the shelves.

"I suppose if you were married there wouldn't be so much dust."

"Or perhaps I would fancy being married to a blind woman."

She glanced back at me. "That would be a waste of your good looks, now wouldn't it? Although I suppose a blind woman would appreciate your physique."

I grunted. She turned to face me again.

"Back to bed?" she suggested.

Quite frankly, if I agreed, she would have been disappointed as I doubted I had the stamina to satisfy her in the same manner. For some reason, I told her as much and she smiled.

"But, you could still use your…" She looked at my damaged left hand, then my right hand. Her gaze then flitted to the sash of my robe and her smile widened. "I believe there is the answer to my question."

I cleared my throat and pulled my robe closed completely. "You should dress," I said. "If you need fare for a cab–"

"I am within walking distance."

With that, I gathered my own clothing, returned to my bedroom, and promptly started to dress. In the midst of buttoning my shirt, Guin sauntered in and asked if I would lace her corset. She lifted her hair from the back of her neck, exposing the baby fine hairs. With the slightest turn of her head, she looked at me.

"That is the spot you were searching for earlier."

I ran my fingers through the soft hairs at the back of her head. Such a perfect, secret spot, the nape of the neck. Innocent as well, tucked beneath her thick hair.

"Here?" I questioned, smiling to myself. I leaned forward and kissed her there, where she had shown me, and felt her shiver.

The sun blazed in her dark eyes. "One of them, yes," she hoarsely answered. "You found the others."

"So I did."

She turned to face me, untying my robe in the process, and hooked one leg around my hips.

"Don't hold back this time," she whispered.

A half hour later, we were still in the bedroom, she in her corset and me in a shirt without trousers, having found myself with not a shred of self-control and her making the most exquisite sounds.

At last she dressed and asked if I would make her a cup of tea to warm her before she walked home. I put the pot on the stove, saying over my shoulder that I would walk her to her street, which was the least I could do. When there was no reply, I turned and found the front door open, her shadow playing on the wall in the hallway as she made her departure.

I sighed to myself and shook my head before I removed the pot from the stove and took Elvira from her perch, surprised she had remained quite for the length of time I had a guest.

"A walk, my lovely?" I asked. She pressed her beak to my lips and I smiled. "A walk it is."

oOo

Paris was too cold for Elvira still, and since I was positive she would bite off my nose if I stuffed her into my overcoat or flung my scarf around her neck, we walked a short distance, much to the surprise of many people on the street who had clearly not expected to see a scarlet macaw on their way to their destinations.

It was past six when I ventured out, purposely walking away from the university and toward the street where there were two opera houses and a few smaller playhouses took up both sides of the street, separated by various restaurants and the like.

Being a Monday night, there were no performances taking place and the building that came into view first, the Opera Populair, was eerily dark and desolate.

My thoughts were drawn to the gypsy fortune teller from years earlier.

I am searching for my younger brother. His name is Erik.

Erik. Hmmm. Ah, yes, I can sense him now. He roams the dark.

For five hundred francs, I expect something much more specific.

All I see is darkness. I apologize.

If you don't want the gendarmes swarming your pathetic little tent that smells of piss, I suggest you see a bit more.

I see candles in the distance. And a face–no–not a face–a skull!

That was enough for me. The woman was clearly lacking in proper theatrics and was nothing more than a liar.

But still, with her words in my head, I lingered at the foot of the opera house stairs and examined the banners advertising Il Muto with 'Canceled' painted across them in blood red.

It seemed like it would have been easier to simply take them down, but there was nothing showing for the time being and without the banners I supposed the theater appeared completely abandoned.

There were two buskers on either side of the theater; one being a young girl, probably no older than twelve, singing her little urchin heart out for people who paid her no mind. On the other side was a man with a violin playing over her modest tune. They made for a terrible racket.

Elvira squawked.

"Awful, isn't it?"

"Stop it!" she shrieked.

Both violinist and young singer paused, each of them searching the evening for the mysterious, disembodied voice.

"We owe them an apology, don't you think?" I asked Elvira.

For once, my bird had nothing to say, a rarity that made me grunt.

We approached the girl first, listening for a moment to her high, sweet voice. She was a bit breathy, which I assumed was merely a lack of control, but decent enough for someone on the street making a living. After the brief song, I dropped a five franc note into the little wooden box beside her that had collected only a handful of dull coins. It seemed a shame people didn't have the decency to give her the shiny ones, at least.

The moment she noticed the bank note, she paused, gasped as if five francs punched the air from her lungs, and grasped my hand in hers. Bony, ice cold fingers pressed into my right hand.

"Thank you!"

"If I give you another five, will you return indoors?" I asked. "It's terribly cold out tonight."

She blinked at me, and I had the sneaking suspicion that she had no home. Indoors was most likely a luxury, and with ten francs she would perhaps eat a hot meal and then curl up in a darkened doorway until the light of dawn.

Or perhaps she would remain outdoors, venturing further down the street where the prim and proper opera houses were replaced by ladies in doorways and windows, offering their services for a fee for any man who wished for their company.

Either way, ten francs was not about to change her life, but I offered her the money nonetheless and turned away, walking toward the violist.

The man playing the violin was hypnotizing, even from a distance, and the crowd that had gathered to listen was three people deep and at least twelve across. I stood toward the back as Elvira had started to make tiny steps on my shoulder and I knew we were minutes away from abandoning the opera house and returning home. My hands were getting colder by the second and my avian love was only able to tolerate a half hour more, if that.

To say that this man played the violin was incorrect and almost offensive. He wasn't playing; he had made the instrument part of his body and from the connection, he weaved his soul into the melody with breathtaking precision.

The song sounded familiar. Carmen, I thought, but I wasn't an expert on music. That was reserved for my brother, and I desperately wished I could turn and ask him what we were hearing.

He would have known immediately, I was certain, and he most likely would have been annoyed by my brainless inability to recognize a song from the first two notes.

I stared blankly at the darkened steps to the opera behind the violist, the dreadfully long steps that were barely three inches high but a foot and a half long, making for a walk up to the doors that took much longer than it should have. If they hadn't been so damned long, I could have taken them three at a time, at least, but no. The architect decided that in order to enjoy the theater, the patrons had to suffer from his ridiculous staircase.

The crowd politely applauded as the song ended. I realized I wasn't paying attention and reached up, touching Elvira's foot.

"One more," I said.

She didn't reply, but pressed her head to my cheek.

The next song I definitely didn't know. It was fast-paced and I saw the people in front of me looking at one another as they apparently didn't know it either. No matter; it was unmatched in its quality.

I found myself thinking of the last fifteen minutes Guin spent in my bedroom, the heat of her quick breaths against my face, the way she pushed my left hand lower, to her thigh instead of her hip.

It wasn't the type of thought I wanted to entertain and I shifted my weight. When that didn't seem helpful, I loosened my scarf and allowed the chill of the air to cool my blood.

Perhaps it was my movement in an otherwise silent crowd, but the musician looked out at me as if I had disrupted his train of thought with my own. I couldn't see his face–why was that, exactly?But I sensed his annoyance.

I blinked at him. It wasn't nearly dark enough and his wide-brimmed hat should have allowed at least a glimpse of his features, but his whole head looked black, as if he were nothing more than a shadow. A death's head, I mused.

I took a step forward, eyes narrowed as if that might aid in my vision. Was his face painted? It certainly seemed like a possibility, and I wondered if he was part of the orchestra and didn't want his identity known for fear of losing his chair if the managers discovered him playing on the street.

No. Not paint, I realized. He had on a black mask. I could see his eyes finally, the whites against the obsidian.

"The ghost," I whispered to myself, amused by the very thought. Adding to his resume of composer, abductor, and behind-the-scenes theater manager, he was a busker performing for loose change.

I weaved my way through the crowd, feeling Elvira move more insistently, a sure sign she was no longer tolerating the cold. I reached the steps as the last notes filled the air and reached into my pocket, intending to drop another five franc note into the nearly overflowing violin case when the performer kicked it shut with the toe of his boot and latched it in place before my note made its way into the red velvet interior. With a whirl of his cape, he departed, the cold and slightly damp hem of which brushed against my cheek and fully engulfed Elvira momentarily.

"Curse you!" Elvira shrieked. "Damn it!"

"Would you quiet down," I said through my teeth.

The violinist paused and looked at us from over his shoulder, his posture rigid. I glanced at him, then at the ground where many crumpled banknotes littered the street. When I looked back up to shout that he had left a considerable sum of money in the gutter, he was gone.

To the snickers and snide remarks of people turning to leave, I gathered up the banknotes left behind, neatly collected them in order from smallest bills to largest, and promptly walked to the opposite corner where the girl was standing with her threadbare coat hugged around her, shivering.

I held out the banknotes, filthy as they were, and she looked up at me with blank eyes, most likely under the impression that I was as disgusting as the notes in my fist.

"Mademoiselle," I started to say.

"It's twenty," she murmured, tucking her hair behind her bright red ears. "For the night."

I wondered if she regretted thanking me for ten francs moments earlier, if she had, for a single moment, thought that generosity came without a catch.

I held her gaze, thinking of the nights I had slept in alleys and beneath rotting trees. Helpless. Hopeless. Unseen by those who thought it was kind-hearted to ignore me, that perhaps if they didn't see me, I didn't truly exist and they could return to their warm little houses with their full cupboards and not feel guilty for their plentiful lives when they saw a youth who had nothing.

"Find yourself a room for the night. Alone," I added before she thought I would force her into my unwanted company.

Her eyes brightened ever so slightly, a glimmer of hope in a world that did everything possible to stamp out every bit of joy. She looked from me to the banknotes and the wariness returned.

"The university is three streets away," I said.

Her expression told me what she didn't verbally say. Meet me there tomorrow night in the courtyard if you want another twenty francs, you little whore.

She, of course, had no idea that I had a niece a few years older than her, a sweet and sometimes devious child who loved me with her whole heart and whom I adored with such fervor that my heart was not big enough to hold it. No, my affection for Elizabeth spilled into my veins and the marrow of my bones. I would die before anything happened to her.

I wondered if this girl's family had perished. If they had turned her out, they deserved fates worrse than death.

I cleared my throat, my thoughts wandering far too long.

"The university is looking for maids," I said. "The office opens at eight. You can tell the receptionist Kimmer sent you. Three days a week. Not a hefty income, but enough for a bed and a warm meal."

She stared at me blankly and nodded, but I knew by her response that she was accustomed to simply nodding and doing what she was told to do for unfamiliar men who slid money into her palm and then slid her skirts to her belly.

"There are eighty francs," I said, adding two more of my own. "I trust you will spend it wisely."

I didn't expect her to say a word to me. The longer I remained, the more awkward I felt in speaking with her and the more I expected people passing by would expect I was a grown man soliciting a very young girl.

"You have a lovely voice," I said. "Perhaps rather than the university, you should audition for the theater."

The compliment brightened her features. "Thank you." She squeezed my hand and attempted to lace her fingers with mine, but I pulled away, realizing the compliment had given her the wrong idea.

She pinned her eyes on my waist. "Do you want me to–"

"No," I said before she finished. "Good night, Mademoiselle."