The temptation to touch her soft exposed skin was strong. Her cheek, the curve of her graceful neck, her beautiful and elegant arms. She was asleep, she would never know he had indulged in the sensual touch of her perfect skin. Never know that he had taken advantage of her, no matter how innocently he meant it to be. She lay so sweetly, her back to him in sleeping perfection.

Flawless perfection.

Erik bit his leather glove off of his hand in one fluid motion and gently brushed his finger against the edge of her chin. She was warm to the touch, silken against his scarred knuckles. He allowed himself to ghost his fingertip against her cheek. He sucked in, flooding his lungs with air. She lips curved up in a smile.

Did she know? Or was it only a dream to her?

He trailed his fingers down the curve of her neck and down her arms with a fluid brushing motion. The feeling of another human's skin beneath his fingers set his soul afire. Even if she did not know what he was doing, she allowed herself the feeling of his touch.

She had said anything and all for him. What wrong was there in indulging in the feel of a human? He had never known a gentle touch. A gentle word. But here and now there was Christine. She could change his world and flood the darkness with heavenly light.

"Erik." Christine muttered in her sleep, her fists balled into her pillow. Erik recoiled, fearing he had been caught. Ready in a heartbeat to apologize for his crime. But his cowering was in vain. Instead of awakening and casting him from her presence, she continued to sleep.

"Erik." She mumbled again, stretching across the Swan bed. She rolled over, facing his direction. She burrowed her face into the pillows, his name heavy on her tongue. "Erik."

Erik watched her cautiously, wondering how it could be that such an angel spoke his name in her sleep. Did she dream of him like he dreamed of her? Why would he expect that she would dream of him? What would a beauty be to dream of a devil? Why tarnish her innocent dreams with the nightmare of his abhorrent face?

"Erik, please." Christine shifted in her sleep again, her fists tightening on the hold of her pillow. "Don't leave me."

His mismatched eyes widened as he realised that his speculations were true. She did dream of him. Her dreams, at least this evening, were of him. No beautiful Vicomte just a hideous masked man. She tossed and she turned, speaking his name from her rosy lips. Two syllables forming on her lips like a word she had been familiar with her whole life. The name Erik. It gave new life to the name he had hardly knew. She breathed life into everything she said. She breathed life into him.

"I promise you." Christine's voice sounded desperate as her hands unclenched their hold. Erik watched her lips as they moved as if she were kissing some phantom lover. He smirked as thought entered his mind.

Could he indulge in his dark desires and have her never know?

Erik bit the tip of his tongue as he kneeled beside her face. Her eyes were clamped tight in sleep, her features relaxed despite the desperation in her voice. Her lips moved so subtly, they were not speaking – that much he knew. But to kiss her without permission? Her dream of him could be nothing but a conscious fantasy that she could not even want.

But the fire she stirred in him was burning too hot for him to ignore it. He had taken what he wanted before. No second thoughts. A kiss was nowhere as punishable as a kill.

Erik leaned forward suddenly, his lips awkwardly met hers. He had never kissed anyone. No matter how hard he had tried to buy an evening to explore those uncharted territories, no one would take him. Now, if only in sleep, Christine willingly kissed him back. His eyes flickered open to see that she was still close lidded and peaceful, despite her lips moving so fervently against his.

This was what he was made to do. If only she were awake, willingly giving her permission to steal a kiss from her sweet lips. To drown together in the intoxicating feel of her silken lips moving against his misshapen and bloated lips.

Erik jerked back as he felt her hand resting on the back of his neck. She had awaken. But as he pulled away her arm fell limp against the wing of the Swan bed. His pleasure was fulfilled without repercussion. He deserved to know some tiny shred of happiness.

~o~

Christine awoke with a start, hearing the organ echoing through the chambers of the underbelly. The sweet tones and melodies he was caught in playing were not what had awoken her. They lulled her softly in her half awake state. Instead it was the end of terrible nightmare.

The flames at last consume us.

The fire, the passion, the betrayal, the pain, the kiss.

A sick and twisted dream that she hardly wanted to claim as her own. She would never do what she had done her nightmare. The first dream had been tender and sweet, more realistic then the distorted dream she found it morphed into. The first dream had felt so realistic, begging Erik not to leave her. Kissing him.

Her hand flew to her lips, that kiss had felt so realistic. Nothing like kissing Raoul. The dream Phantom had felt alive and warm. Kissing Raoul felt like an obligation, cold and dead against her lips.

But the nightmare was what concerned her. Betraying the Phantom. Removing his mask in front of an audience, the passionate atmosphere of red and flame. The power she felt that he had over her. Raoul with gendarmes in the wing, ready to kill her Phantom. His anger was unlike any she had ever seen when she had been with him. Erik, her Phantom, jerked and drug her down to the underbelly. A wedding dress and an attempt on Raoul's life.

It was nothing more of a nightmare. She wouldn't let herself betray her tutor. She owed Erik more than she could comprehend. The nightmare was no more than a terrible distortion of her fears. She had hardly seen what lay beneath his mask, a disfigurement of some sort, but nothing she would reveal in front of an audience. He did not deserve to be a spectacle.

Nimbly Christine rose from the Swan bed, slowly walking out of the chamber and into the main part of the lair. She could see Erik sitting at the organ, caught in musical creation. From the right side, he looked like every other man. He was handsome. But when you saw him from the front, you could see what was wrong with him, just hidden beneath the mask.

"Erik."

He turned, giving her an approving smile. "Did you sleep well?" Erik knew that he had enjoyed her sleeping. The taste of her lips on his was still there. The sweet, floral and honey taste. Did she taste him on her lips?

"I did. Thank you." Christine approached slowly; she glanced up at him but avoided his eyes. Her dreams had felt so real that she almost thought she had honestly kissed him. It had felt so real that she could almost describe his distinct flavour. He tasted like iron and music. At least her dream version had.

"If you are hungry there is fruit, bread, and cheese just over there. As well as a pitcher of wine and water." Erik gestured towards a table near the row of covered mirrors. Christine glanced between him and the food. Her stomach announced its hunger.

"Have you already eaten?"

"Yes." Erik replied smoothly, following her nevertheless towards the food. "What will you say to your precious Vicomte about your absence?"

Christine's eyes grew wide, she swallowed a piece of bread whole at the question. "I will tell him the truth."

"Which is?"

"That my music tutor decided that for the good of my career that I should focus on the more important aspect of my life."

Erik's eyes darkened, "Very good." The power he knew he held over her was intoxicating. To hear her say that his tutoring was an important aspect of her life filled him with pure happiness. It verged on an erotic sensation to know that he had a hold on the beautiful young soprano.

"It is true."

"I have no doubt." Erik held his hand out for her.

"Remove the glove." Christine gulped at her own words. She eyed the leather clad hand, willing him to obey and let her touch him.

Erik stared at his hand, before jerking the glove from his hand and tossing it carelessly to the ground. "Better?"

Christine slowly extended her hand, placing her small hand into his hand. She stepped closer to him, examining the scarred skin. "Your hands."

"A story for a later day."

Christine bit her lip, resisting the urge to question and press further. She was thankful to be able to feel his skin beneath hers. His hands were rough, so unlike Raoul's smooth hands. There was something stirring about the masculinity in the roughness of his well used hands. Raoul's grasp felt similar to any one of the girls in the ballet company. Delicate and well cared for. But Erik's were the calloused hands of a musician and the coarse hands of a mason.

"I'll look forward to hearing that story." Christine stroked her hands across the skin, taking his other hand and removing the glove. "Thank you."

Erik smiled, his mouth slightly separated as he enjoyed the feel of a willing human's touch. The sensation consumed him with pleasure. You could touch your own skin, but nothing beat the feeling of another human – one you cared for – tenderly touching you.