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My angel of music works hard at her craft. She’s inspired me, a veritable demon in my own right, more these last few weeks than any other voice or composer I’ve studied over the years. Gounod, himself, would kill to hear her sing his songs right now. I know I have.
We’ve made a vow to never start anything on the grounds, but we’ll sure as fuck finish it.
But the day he died taught me something very important. With the hatred I felt that night and the wild emotions I experienced afterward, there’s no way I’d get an angel. An angel wouldn’t want anything to do with me. A demon, however…
It should freak me out, and it’s crazy—maybe literally—but my brain can’t shake the idea that whoever my mystery pen pal is, he’s good. Or at least he’s good for me. Sometimes that’s all that matters.
My little muse is my addiction, and her voice is my drug. If there is a cure to my madness, I don’t want it. I’d rather welcome blissful oblivion.
But I got definitive proof tonight that I’m still sane. I also have proof that I have a real-life pen pal who is admittedly on the stalker side of secret admirer, but I’m still sane nonetheless.
“When you fuck yourself with your fingers, ma belle muse, who do you think of?” “You,” I whisper over the soft song playing on repeat. “My demon of music. Your music.” “Ah… think of me, ma chère. Touch yourself. Stroke those slender fingers against your pretty clit and think of the music we’ll make together one day.”
“Give me more than that or I’ll stop.” The edge in his voice only heightens the thrill. I whimper as I search for my words and an orgasm in the same moment. “Y-your hands on mine… they’re warm… strong. Safe.” His movements pause. “Safe?” I nod and his ministrations pick back up, this time with less furious urgency and more… reverence. So I tell him that, too.
Whoever goes to Café du Monde and doesn’t order beignets has a screw loose somewhere. Takes a crazy to know a crazy, right?
She’s a person, Sol. Not a trinket you can polish and set on the shelf. Neither of you seems to understand that.
Anyone who receives my punishment fucking deserves it. Jacques Baron was no different. Surely you understand vigilante justice better than most.”
“Okay, but why do you know so much about me?” “Because you are everything,” he answers simply.
Is the reason why I’m not scared to death right now because my mind has been through hell and back in the past forty-eight hours? Or is it because Sol is a smoking-hot, droolworthy, demon-at-a-masquerade vibes kind of attractive?
The world already knows me as the Phantom of the French Quarter. But being your démon de la musique is what I didn’t know I craved. Hearing your voice singing my music is… perfection.”
“Don’t hide from me, little muse,” he murmurs, searching my eyes. “Own your beauty.”
Heads will roll if they stare at what’s mine for too long, but goddamn am I a lucky bastard for getting to look at you all night.”
I’m this close to being totally okay with remaining his captive and living in this modern medieval lair forever. But he pulls away, leaving me bereft of his touch, and mad that I almost gave in so quickly again. Sol Bordeaux is quickly teaching me that even when I’m sane, I’m one complex bitch.
“Yes, Madam G’s family, the Gastoneauxs—formerly the Laveaus—and the Bordeauxs have a long, beneficial history together.
“Let me guess. You knew that, didn’t you?” “Guilty.” A chuckle escapes me. “Is there anything you don’t know about me?” “Not for long, if I can help it.”
“He’s right. It is hard. But you work hard at what you love. That combination will make the difficult things worth it when you achieve your dream.”
Madam G nods and walks away, leaving me feeling smug and Scarlett with that perpetually shocked look on her face that I’ve grown to crave. Spoiling my little muse is so goddamn satisfying.
“Besides, there’s not much higher achievement for a man than breaking his bed while making a woman come in his arms.”
“You will take me, Scarlett. I will stretch this tight pussy, until all you crave is my cock inside you when you come.”
“What do we do now?” “Now?” He inhales and exhales one slow, deep breath, as if the weight of his past has finally been lifted. A small, peaceful smile slowly spreads over his lips, lifting even the right side of his face. “Now I can give you the sunlight.”
“But I’m your démon de la musique. The feared Phantom of the French Quarter. You should be afraid of me, ma jolie petite muse.” A brilliant smile flashes across her face. “And you’re my Sol. I could never be afraid of the darkness that loves my own.”
I am his muse, and he is mine. My Phantom of the French Quarter. My demon of music.
