Author's Note: This vignette is rated M and is slightly stronger than my usual fare.

Box Five

"How can it be that I grew up in this theater and failed to ever enter the infamous Box Five?"

Erik chuckled at his wife's endearing expression of wonderment as she stared down upon the newly refurbished stage of the Opera Populáire from the unqualified best view in the house. Wrapping his arms around her from behind, he bent down to nuzzle her cheek, whispering, "Because, unlike your inquisitive friend, Little Giry, you knew to stay away from the Ghost's Box, else suffer his wrath."

Christine giggled, leaning back against her husband's broad chest and lacing her fingers through his where they rested against her middle. "Had I known what I was missing, I would have been in this box every day."

"You made far more productive use of your time, I think."

He held her for long moments, both of them staring out across the empty stage in silent contemplation. The opera house had been renovated after the fire, and had reopened to a grand fanfare earlier in the year, but all was quiet on that afternoon…the theater deserted. Erik had felt a compulsion to return to the building that had been his home for so many years, and Christine had stubbornly refused to allow him this visit alone. After all, it had been her home as well, and she had been just as determined to see it once again, free of the turmoil that had surrounded them both upon that final evening beneath the fifth cellar. Arguing with her had proved futile, and Erik had eventually surrendered to her will.

Together they had snuck in through the Rue Scribe entrance, for Erik was certainly not foolish enough to simply walk through the grand doors of the lobby with Christine upon his arm, even with his aunt's guarantees that he would be protected in Paris. He had led his wife with great care through the passages to Box Five, uncertain how many of his trapdoors and escape routes had been discovered during the renovations. Attempting to traverse the lower levels of the opera had been out of the question, for he would not place Christine at any risk above that which she had willfully disregarded with her demand to accompany him to his destination. Thankfully, they had encountered no difficulties en route.

Looking over the theater, he could not deny that the reparations were superb. The stage had been enlarged slightly, the boxes refurbished, the baroque carvings replaced with more tasteful décor, and the new chandelier was tolerable. He might actually compliment the architect, were he actually inclined to reestablish his interest in the Populáire.

"Do you miss this opera house, Erik?"

Her soft inquiry shook him from his thoughts, and he answered without hesitation. "No, I do not. But for you, my time here was filled with only misery."

"I miss it sometimes," she admitted quietly. "Before you returned to me, there were nights when I would lay awake in my bed and imagine that I was back here in the dormitories, and that at any moment I would hear my angel's voice singing to me."

"Oh, Christine."

She turned easily in his embrace, looping her arms around his neck. "I imagined that you would take me through the mirror again, and when you did, I would not faint away at the discovery of your dreams for our future, nor betray your trust with my impossible curiosity. Instead, I would take you into my arms and tell you how proud I was that you had chosen me, and then you would lead me to that beautiful bed, with its silken sheets, and lay me across it…"

Unable to resist her verbal seduction, he dipped his head to capture her lips, effectively bringing her words to a halt. She moaned softly against his mouth, and he gently nipped at her lower lip before drawing away. "Such a wicked imagination, mon ange," he murmured.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her tempting mouth drew up into a mysterious grin. "Do you think that the bed is still down there, Erik?"

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly at her playful inquiry. "It would be miracle if it were, and no, we will not be going anywhere near the underground lake. That place holds nothing but painful memories for us both," and the slight curve of Christine's burgeoning belly pressed against his was a vivid reminder that she was certainly in no condition to go traipsing through the cold cellars. He had truly been mad to have ever imagined keeping her down in that dark dungeon as his wife.

"Are there happier memories in Box Five?"

Erik tightened his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. "Happier by the moment, my dear," and he bent to kiss her again, relishing the way her curves molded to his own angular form. She parted her lips without hesitation, pulling him headlong into mindless passion as she threaded her fingers into his hair and shifted enticingly against his body. A ragged groan escaped him, and he wrenched away from her. "Christine, this is entirely improper."

A breathless little laugh passed her lips, and she whispered, "When have you ever cared for propriety?"

He stared at her, hardly daring to think that she could be suggesting that they…here…in Box Five! He swallowed heavily, then grinned at his wife, attempting a teasing tone. "You cannot mean to have your way with me here?"

Christine gave a gentle, but persistent little shove to his chest, forcing him to step back into the shadows of the box. "If I cannot have my Phantom in his swan bed, then I think that I shall have him in Box Five."

Erik's brows shot up. "I think that you might be serious."

Her smile grew sinful, dark eyes glittering with wanton desire. "Oh, Erik, I am," she promised, just before she tugged his head down to hers and kissed him with unrestrained ardor.

Erik stood unmoving against Christine's delightful attack as his mind struggled to process the situation. His beautiful, sweet, innocent wife…the mother of his unborn child…was seducing him in a very public place. True that the Opera Populáire would be dark for the next several days, and he had locked the door to Box Five, and they were currently alone in the auditorium. Well…what the devil was he waiting for?

On a growl, he spun Christine around and pressed her back against the nearby wall. She gave a tiny squeak, and then smiled into their kiss. One agile dancer's leg hooked around the back of his thigh, bringing her femininity into full contact with his growing arousal, and he groaned again. The woman would surely be the death of him. His hand roamed down to the folds of her skirt and began to slowly bunch the fabric… lifting, maneuvering, seeking access to the soft flesh beneath.

This is absolute madness.

Christine's naughty little hands embarked upon their own journey. The left traveled upward, fingertips seeking the edge of his mask and parting the sweat soaked leather from his skin. The ruby adorning her finger winked up at him as she peeled away the offending barrier. Christine sighed in approval and rewarded him for his submission by teasing his upper lip with her tongue before delving into his mouth for another searing kiss.

While her left hand completed its familiar mission, her right traveled downward, trailing over his collar to skim his waistcoat and dance precariously along the waistline of his trousers.

Sanity is highly overrated…

The sensations that his little diva caused with her curious touch nearly overwhelmed him. He fought against the urge to drag her to the floor and ravish her, although Christine did not seem of a mind to protest such an action. Indeed, she moved against him with such urgency that he felt certain she meant to encourage him in this dangerous game.

He tore his lips from hers with great difficulty. "We are precariously close to the point of no return, Christine."

She gazed up at him with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, her generous bosom threatening to spill from her bodice with every laborious indrawn breath. Her lips curved into that inviting smile that he could never resist, and he knew that he was lost even before she spoke. "We are long past it, my love."

Her industrious fingers found their way beneath layers of fabric, brushing over the undeniable evidence of her effect upon him, and Erik hissed, "Chriss- teene…"

All protest to their reckless endeavor ceased with her bold actions, and he feasted upon her lips even as his body ground helplessly against her touch. His own hand roamed beneath her skirt, urging her leg higher across his hip until his own muscled thigh was pressed against the very heart of her desire. She moaned thickly at the increased friction, tipping her head back against the wall and arching her back in a most inviting way. Erik greedily turned his attention to his wife's exposed décolletage, trailing his tongue along the curve of her breasts.

Christine gasped, her control quickly slipping away as her husband expertly turned her own seduction against her. His talented fingers expertly rearranged any piece of material that impeded his delight in her heated flesh. Lost in a haze of sensation, she sought to pull him ever closer in an attempt to increase the pleasure that he bestowed upon her. Erik became acutely aware of how very easy it would be to raise his wife from the floor and sink into her waiting warmth, right there against the wall with her skirts bunched between them and her legs wrapped around his waist…

No, not like this.

A low growl rumbled from deep within his chest, and he attempted to pry himself away from the enticing bounty of Christine's ripe body. She moaned in disappointment at the loss of him, though one leg remained firmly locked behind his thigh, impeding him from withdrawing completely. Trapped by her unrelenting ardor, Erik allowed his earlier impulses to take precedence, lifting her securely into his arms and silently rejoicing when she so trustingly entwined her limbs around him. He could have pressed forward, but instead he carefully stepped back until his calf brushed the velvet seat.

By unspoken command, Christine allowed herself to slide sensuously down Erik's body, extracting a ragged hiss for her effort. The impish grin upon her lovely face should have warned him that his tenuous control over their mutual pleasure was at an end. With a little push, she had him seated before her. He did not even have moment to protest, not that he would have, before she lifted her skirts and straddled his lap. Her grin soon faded, however, as their rekindled passions urged them into motion once again.

Mask still clutched in her left hand, she looped her arm around his shoulder, buried her right hand into his hair and captured his lips in a fevered kiss, even as her body captured his in the sweetest of traps. Overwhelmed by her boldness, Erik could do nothing but grasp her hips in a fruitless attempt to direct the rhythm of their loving, but Christine would not be deterred from her headlong race to completion. She moved over him with utter abandon, striving to deepen their connection, and Erik blissfully watched her rapture build…her eyes fell closed, her cheeks flushed pink, her mouth open and emitting the most delightful noises.

He might have been surprised by the sounds that she managed to draw forth from him had he been fully aware of his own voice joining together with hers in their song of ecstasy. Those few souls that had not abandoned the opera house on that afternoon would whisper with sly grins for months to come of the ghosts in Box Five.

The liaison was inelegant, but no less satisfying for the lack of grace in their hasty coupling. Indeed, they rode out the maelstrom that they had created together upon intense waves of pleasure before finally tumbling into breathless release. When the last tremors of fulfillment had finally ebbed, Christine wilted limply against her husband, her head falling onto his shoulder as he cradled her protectively until her fluttering pulse could slowly return to its normal tempo . A lazy smile curved her lips, and Erik could feel its formation against his throat, just as he felt the vibrations of her teasing whisper.

"The best seat in the house, indeed."