Christopher and Melissa

Christopher Richman.

He was without a doubt the most irascible, intractable man she had ever known. Why else would he persecute her so, skulking around her stage door, always with that same amused smile lifting the corners of his immaculately trimmed mustache? They'd hardly spoken in over a year, so what had excited this new attention, this grand patronizing between the dark, dusty curtains of Booth's Theatre? Why her, why now, she wondered, as night after night she recovered from the dishabille of "Hamlet's Mother's Closet," yanking her chemise onto her shoulder as she rushed by him in the wings. He would always yield just short of propriety, so in the closeness of the little theatre she was forced to rake her whole frame against his en route to the dressing rooms. Fiend. Unusually tall, he'd look down upon her with the wry condescension of one who knew a secret. It was infuriating. She swore he splayed his fingers at the opportune moment, just enough to graze the top of her corset. It was the fourth night he'd been so bold and tonight she'd very nearly knocked poor Hamlet down in her indignation. Young Peter Jordan had steadied her, spreading his hands over her hips, rather like righting a clumsy star onto a Christmas tree. She pried the youthful fingers loose and the boy rushed on to change, leaving her nose to nose with her nemesis.

Christopher Richman indeed. What the devil? Their history was not unknown. He was more than four years her junior, which was not so very scandalous, but she'd always held it to be a great obstacle as she went through one marriage and a string of hapless lovers. He'd had his share of lovers, including a perfect pigeon of a lass whom he'd tearfully forsaken. Whether they were her tears or his own Melissa did not know but she did know this. The theatre world was small, and Christopher Richman's sudden lascivious hoverings would not go unnoticed.

Christopher Richman. Rake. Lothario. He was now quite the man, and he so knew it in his claret colored brocade waistcoat and fur trimmed cloak. With his inheritance, The Richman Playhouse, great spectacle that it had become, The Hope of the Living Drama, apex of society . . . Well Christopher Richman had transformed right alongside the cherub framed proscenium and red velvet curtains. She allowed he'd become a handsome rake, staggeringly so. But she was not about to let him know it.

His black-brown eyes appraised her. She a ... slightly . . . aging grand dame, an ephemeral queen, who made the most of it. She had perfected the lift of her nose, the coquettish angle of her neck, and when she did so onstage Christopher Richman would always ... always have to shift in his seat. Yes she was proud, and manipulative, and a very angry woman of experience. Yet he saw otherwise. He knew more. Eighteen years had not passed for naught.

It was not always this way, this battle of wills. He had known Melissa since his father was scene painter for Booth's Theatre, before pauper papa could afford his own theatrical digs. She'd been Lawrence Barrett's newest find, and as the lowly stage hand Christopher could only watch as she made love to Lawrence or Edwin Booth in the way that he imagined her voluptuous frame should press against his own. She was a wayward child of 26 then, yes, far too old to be so bold. She should have been married, Christopher would often cluck to himself, yet secretly allowing, "Well done, well done." He liked bold women, and he liked Melissa. He wanted Melissa at any price. But the opportunity never came. There were flirtations and exchanges, marriages and mistresses, fleeting touches. Nothing more. It was fairly maddening.

Now the time had come when Christopher Richman had had enough and was ready to pluck his prize from the footlights. There is much to be said of history and he'd written his ten times o'er. Melissa was between husbands. He'd flung the little pigeon skyward. He was ready, nay, aching, for her favor.

And so there they were yet again. She'd finished her scene with Peter Jordan, a sensitive gifted boy who just might turn her head if he had the sense to do anything about it. But Christopher knew she had nothing for the young ones. The pups. She needed a man. And he knew he worn her down this night as his fingers grazed the top of her emerald corset, his fingernails fairly imprinting a horizontal brand over her hidden nipples. She'd jolted back, been steadied by Peter Jordan, and pushed the finger of her right hand into his chest to make a point. Her irascible little mouth had only begun to twist into a sneer before he ran his fingers under her corset and yanked her near.

"Stop it. It is done," he said, his breath a hot mist on her cheek. "I've groveled like a stagehand for nearly a week. Do you think I've nothing to do but wait your leisure?"

"I don't care what you do," she said, but her words were cut short when he jerked her still closer, and the bottommost steel hook of her corset pinged to the floor.

"Make no plans tonight." Christopher ordered, and his eyes were two fiery black orbs.

She jerked from his grasp, a true melodramatic gesture, but once out of his sight had wilted against her dressing room door. She bit her lip, chewed the circumstance. It had come to the moment of decision. Eighteen years of idle flirtation had come to this. This commanding man, no longer boy, encroaching her world, her sphere. Why now?

The play crawled to an end, and after curtain call the buoyant, blushing Peter Jordan had kissed her once, twice, thrice and peered at her with his great puppy eyes until she was ready to beat his breast to be free of his presence. She made promises of oysters and caviar at Delmonicos. She ha-ha-haed and rubbed cheeks with the rabble. She was anxious as a cat as she scrubbed her greasepaint away and drummed her make up table. She could rush her preparations and be out the stage door before he darkened it. She could, if she did not tarry with the past.

Christopher Richman was her past. Was he to be her present? How very presumptuous. Melissa dragged the brush through her hair and cursed to herself. She would meet the others soon. This would just be a silly panic, a needless trifle.

He did not have the courtesy to knock. What would it matter if he had? They were all gone. All the players. Their revels ended. All those simpering artistes that might protect her. He knew that. She rose grandly and leaned against the table, gripping it from behind.

He was unnaturally tall, this she always remembered, and he had the darkest eyes she'd ever seen. When he advanced on her it was supernatural, like an unearthly power. If she'd had presence of mind she might have spit or hissed, because this was an attack, no ordinary greeting, but she could only raise her defiant face to his. He slid his hand around her back and rested it there, sliding pressing his long fingers along the curve of her ass. He laid claim there and pulled her against him. She grunted slightly and lost her grip on the table, very nearly lost her footing. She hated him for a moment as the right corner of his mouth twitched in victory. She squirmed and was about to flail when his hands found her breasts and anchoring her ribs literally pushed her onto the table and against the mirror.

"What are you doing, how dare you?" she said, as her arms went up, bracelets clicking against the glass.

His hand slid up to her throat and became suddenly gentle, cupping her face. He soothed her with whispers. "Come now, Melissa," he said, "You know me, do you not?" For several moments he soothed her, pressing his lips again her ear, stroking her cheek with his thumb. Saying, "Hush, hush, hush, ..." When she made to protest he pried her mouth with his thumb so his tongue might find solace there. She squirmed at the sensation of this intimacy only to succumb to the taste as they pressed against the glass, a double vision of lechery. She was in her emerald silk dressing gown and he found the hooks easily, as a blind man finds his way. He yanked and pulled, fingers digging, hands cupping beneath her arms and lifting her to a reclining surface. She thought to struggle but when he deposited her on the chaise, and looked at her with those bold dark eyes, she could do little more than recoil.

When he straddled her like a mare she had little time to cry out before he yanked at her pantalettes. She pushed at his shoulders, kicked her slippered feet to no avail as he found the pressure points at her shoulder and hips.

"Fiend!" She cried. "Villain."

He laughed then, and stopped his battle with her garments. "Oh Melissa,' he said, "Can't we dispense with the melodrama?"

Again that wicked smile and she could not help but surrender a little, a scolding gasp escaping her throat. He relaxed against her then, a long dark serpent making his nest, settling his long arms and legs into her curves, resting his groin against her own pulsating apex. As her body relaxed, he pulled her pantalettes to her knees and inhaled her scent. She impulsively gripped the hair at his brow, steadying him. It seemed to much too soon to her, this boldness, even for Christopher Richman. He kissed her thighs and kneaded them, nibbling, then partaking voraciously. She pushed against his shoulder and attempted nonverbal fuss. But when his tongue found her mound of Venus she halted, grew quiet, hovered then fell against the chaise, stroked his dark hair, even gripped as he had his way. He divided and lapped her goodness, pushing and splaying like one starving at a banquet. His tongue was his scepter as he sucked her raspberry treat and fingered her hole. He measured his success by the movement of her hips, and then her thrashing moans of delight. Melissa was not one to give false praise. When she gushed around his tongue and fell against the pillows he knew he'd won her . . . But only partly. He kept his thumb on her sweet fruit, made a trail of kisses up her stomach and tugged at his own trousers.

As he sank into her, her whole body jolted heavenward. She was shocked and elated and gave a cry not unlike a cat. She ducked her head and sank her teeth into his shoulder, sucking the salt of his skin as he pushed into her.

"G-God" was all she could muster. There came the moment, completely in her lover's control, that she bucked and fought for breath, skewered onto his delectable manhood, a complete blithering thing . . .that was the moment she gave herself to him, that the tension ebbed and arms wide she let him take her. Christopher Richman heard her grunting surrender and watched her eyes, those divine blue eyes roll towards his. She threaded her fingers into the dark hair at the nape of his neck, raised her sweet mound against his and met him thrust for thrust. She was wicked good and as her passion grew Christopher Richman could only fumble with the ribbons of her corset, trying to free the breasts he'd forgotten to taste. As his long fingers intertwined the emerald ribbons of Hamlet's Mother's corset Melissa folded her own fingers over his and squeezed them saying, "Yes. It is time. Yes."

The simplicity of her words thrilled him, and the longing so long built up reached a crescendo. He gripped her long red hair, held her against the pillow as he claimed her, felt his manhood tense and explode and spill into her. He thought she might fight and scorn his dominance. But for her it was a natural event. She arched her back and took all of him and he spilled into her like one drained of will. He was helpless at the end of it, sucking her neck and licking under her ears. For her part she threw her arms around him, wrapped and pressed her knees against his lower back, cradling, keeping him inside, like a sweet treasure. This time she was the one to still the restless one. She was the one to claim her own, and sealed it with a kiss, pressing against his salty lips. She parted them with her tongue, wiggled and caressed, pushing his linen shirt over his shoulder and kissing his chest.

"Why?" he said, when he could speak. "Why eighteen years?"

"What does it matter now?" she breathed, "The gap has been bridged. Oh enough of these trifles." She pouted and gently bit his bottom lip. Come on. Once more, my love," she said, meeting those demon dark eyes with her own.

"Once more."