Page 42 of Our Strange Duet

I’d reached for the Angel as if he were nothing more than a man, wholly ordinary, uninspired, and simply there. What must he think of me? What thoughts must be running through his divine—

But then the Angel reached for me.

His hands were upon my cheeks, cupping them as if I were a prize to be treasured, a jewel to possess.

“Oh, Christine,” he murmured, bringing his forehead to mine. “My Christine.”

I stared into his dark eyes, so close to my own, and could see every fleck of amber and gold ringing them. They were dazzling and sharp, full of intelligence and curiosity. And they were fixed solely on me.

“I never dared to dream this moment could come,” he said, and I felt his words whisper over me as his breath stirred the air between us.

“I have,” I admitted in a rush, and though it pained me to give such a vulnerable confession, I was glad I’d done it. I didn’t want to spend another moment with secrets between us.

The Angel had finally shown himself. He’d come to me. He’d unmasked.

There should be no more hiding now.

His eyebrows, as dark and thick as his carefully pomaded hair, rose. I’d surprised him.

“You have?”

I could only nod.

He let out a sound that might have been a sigh. “Oh, my darling girl.”

And then his lips were upon me.

He showered me with kisses, starting at my forehead, pressing them against me with a tenderness that made my toes curl and my arms long to grab him and demand more.

But I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t do anything but stand there, relishing his touch, his caress. Happiness bubbled within me as effervescent as champagne and just as potent. As he kissed my temples, the bridge of my nose, and my cheeks, my head swam, reeling with an impatience I could no longer hold in check.

Mirroring his movements, I cupped his face and brought him closer so that our lips were separated by only the scantest breath. Our eyes met, and I could feel the cadence of his heart along the line of his neck. It was racing.

So I kissed him.

I kissed him, and he kissed me, and there was no more wondering, no more dreaming. This was happening. This was real, and it was even better than I could have ever imagined.

His hands fell from my face to my shoulders. His thumb brushed along the column of my throat before trailing lower, running over my bodice, and causing my heart to double its tempo. He traced patterns over my arms, snaking his own around me, wrapping them across my back, drawing me closer and closer. And still, he kissed me.

My own hands began to roam, exploring the broad expanse of his chest, the long muscles of his forearms, the sharp lines of his shoulder blades beneath the fine wool of his jacket. I didn’t understand the urgency of my movements. I felt possessed, driven to touch every bit of him as quickly as I could. I wanted to know each angle. I wanted to understand every crook and corner of him.

He was so unlike me, planes of hard lines where I curved, swaths of muscles where I was soft. Then he gripped me closer, pressing my frame to his with unabashed fervor, and I suddenly understood every reason for our differences.

I wasn’t completely innocent to the peculiarities of the male form. Backstage, tights and dance belts left nothing for the imagination to wonder at, but I’d never experienced this, so present and pressing, so easily within my grasp. I was breathless with terror, trembling with a hungry ardor I could not name. I knew some would say that such desires were wholly wicked, but how could something wicked feel so rapturously good?

“Christine,” the Angel urged, his mouth now at the hollow of my throat. His kisses along my clavicle were hot and wet, and I was dimly aware that his fingers were at my robe’s sash, untying the bow with deft skill. It puddled to the floor around us in a rush of silky whispers, and my skin prickled to gooseflesh—not because of the room’s chill, but in anticipation of all that was to come.

I glanced away, unable to meet his gaze, keenly aware of every square inch of skin he’d exposed. Instinctively, I wanted to grab the robe and bundle it around myself, draw the sides up as high as they would go and cover everything. But another part of me felt as though I might die if he didn’t touch me—right here, right now.

I dared to look up and meet his gaze.

His breath audibly hitched, a sound as sharp as a dagger. His expression was a mixture of so many things: wonder and desire, hesitation and yearning. He held his hands out, fingers spread wide as if to run them down my figure, but he kept them from ever quite touching me, giving the expression of a caress without the tangible satisfaction.

I swallowed, making up my mind that I would be the brave one. I slid my hands along the silk of his lapels before slipping them beneath the jacket, eager to help him shed his first layer.

Spurred by my boldness, he took the clips from my hair, using careful fingers to help comb out my locks, letting them fall over both of us like a veil. I closed my eyes, hissing in pleasure each time his fingers raked over my scalp, setting my entire body on edge.