Page 43 of Our Strange Duet

I tried—and failed—to remove his cravat. The satin length had been arranged in a nearly impossible twist of knots, and my attempts to unravel them caused both of us to laugh. Reaching up, the Angel undid the mess with a mere flick of his fingers before casting the fabric aside.

I studied the row of buttons going down his shirt. Unclasping them all felt like an impossible task, but I was ready to try.

Before I could start, I glanced up and was nearly undone by the beauty of his face. I licked my lips, unsure of how to put to words everything I wanted to say, everything I wanted to know. “Do…do angels have names?”

His mouth parted—had I amused him?—and he ran a hand through his hair. “Why do you ask?”

“I only…I’m not sure what to call you. Father always said the Angel of Music. But this…now…” I couldn’t help my nervous laughter. “This feels somewhat less than angelic.”

He smiled, and the way the corner of his eyes crinkled made me want to forget the entire conversation and go on kissing him. Why were we talking when we could be kissing each other over and over and over once more? It was absurd that I had stopped it. It was absurd that I hadn’t—

“Erik,” he said, cutting into my whirling thoughts and silencing them.

“Erik,” I repeated, testing the syllables, tasting them.

He nodded, and I don’t know how, but we were somehow beside the bed. My bare calves brushed against the edge of the mattress. It spread before us like an open field, vast and inviting.

We had reached the precipice.

I could step aside and fill the space between us with fresh air and reason. We could take deep gulps of breath. We could leave this room, so fraught with expectation and building desires. We could return to his music. We could sing.

Or…

I could step back, and we could fall into the bed, into the tangle of winding sheets, into each other, into every dark fantasy unwinding in me. I could step back and sink into my wanton thoughts, my wicked impulses. I could step back and let my Angel—my Erik—sink into me…

“Christine?” he asked, his voice steeped in hope.

It was an easy choice to make.

I chose to fall.

Oh, Father, if you’re watching me now, look away…look away!

Chapter 16

It was music that woke me, strange chords and contradictory tempos unlike anything I’d heard before.

I blinked back to consciousness and let my gaze wander as I tried to place the unfamiliar surroundings. Tall windows flanked the great canopied bed I found myself in. They were covered by swagged drapes of black-and-gold brocade, making it impossible to tell what time it was.

It felt very, very early.

With a groan, I pushed myself from the pillows and threw aside the soft coverlet to peek through one of the hidden windows.

Only there was no window behind its curtain, just a brick wall.

Realization dawned heavily over me.

The whole thing—my waking, my Angel’s seduction, my acquiescence—had only been a dream.

I didn’t know whether I wanted to laugh with relief or cry in despair.

It seemed impossible to believe it had only been my fevered imagination. Everything had felt so real. He had felt so real. Even now, my body betrayed me with heated flushes, remembering the exact way his hands had run over me, cupping my breasts, gripping my hips. I could recall the taste of every kiss, hear every breathy sigh, each low-pitched moan.

I pressed the back of my hand to one stained cheek, trying to cool myself off, trying to sort through which of my memories had been real and which were only the heady yearnings of a desperately hopeful heart.

“There was mist,” I murmured. “Swirling mist on a vast, glassy lake. There were candles and a boat. Shadows and song. And music…”

I turned then, making my way out of the draped bedroom, by following the music, which still played. It was the pipe organ, blasting its notes with so much force that the air around me seemed to tremble, filling the long candlelit corridor with vibration and sound.