This chapter is rated M for mature. We are getting close to the end, folks. Buckle up.
Chapter 25: Parting
Erik stepped out of the mirror as it swung open on hidden hinges. His eyes flashed as darkly as the black fabric of his mask. Christine hated the guilt she suddenly felt, especially when she had done nothing wrong but seek advice.
Despite the anger that rolled off him like fog, Madame Giry merely leaned back in her chair and leveled her own glare upon him.
"Do not come in my office with such an attitude," she said. "You clearly have not been upfront with this girl about your past."
His arm gestured stiffly, his cloak snapping back in an arc. "I should be able to leave without fear that you are overstepping your bounds, madame. You and Daroga both – it is a wonder that I have tolerated such meddling for so long."
"Monsieur Khan and I are two of the only people who can tolerate your abuse." She steepled her long fingers. "If you had any sort of common decency, you would court her like a gentleman."
Erik puffed at that, seeming to swell in size. Christine looked between him and the older woman; they both seemed to have forgotten that she sat there in the room.
She stood, causing two pairs of eyes to snap to her. "I am obviously not needed for this conversation. If you will excuse me, I will see what I can glean from the kitchens for lunch. I am certain you can find me when you are done."
"Christine-" Erik began.
She held up a silencing hand. "You and I shall speak in private later. Madame," she said to Giry, "I thank you for the news and conversation."
The woman gave a sharp nod. Without another look at Erik, Christine strode out of the door of the office, ignoring the mirror still cracked open to the hidden passage within the walls. She was no phantom to wander hidden inside the dark crevices of the opera house. On this Sunday, when few people would be working, she would walk as any other person might.
Erik did not follow her. Madame Giry's voice rose up again as the door swung shut behind her, but Christine strode quickly down the hall, leaving them behind. Her thoughts spun out in directions she did not want to venture, but she pushed them aside and tried to focus upon finding her way out of the rows of offices and other small rooms.
For a while, Christine navigated the familiar halls of the Palais Garnier. She found the little library and flipped through its books until her stomach started rumbling for food. The modest kitchens held the remnants of meals prepared the day before, and as Erik had not come for her yet, she ate without him, munching on a wedge of cheese, the hard crust of a baguette, and an apple that crunched too loudly in the empty passages.
Eventually, she settled herself in one of the rear chairs of the orchestra and propped her feet on the back of the seat in front of her. No one was around to see her do such a forbidden thing, and the small act of rebellion in the theater that Erik claimed as his own made her feel a tiny bit better. If Papa was here, he might have admonished her… but he was not, was he? All she had now was the memory of him.
And even when she had found his violin, she had been forced to leave that behind.
She leaned back in the seat and let her head rest. Most of the lights in the auditorium were burning low, so the colorful ceiling lay predominantly in shadow. Closing her eyes, she recalled a tune Papa had often played on his violin – an old Swedish tune that had always eased her heart when she was troubled.
She found the shape of the words with her lips and allowed the music to flow from her throat. Although she stayed soft, the familiarity helped to soothe the anger she had felt earlier. For a while, she enjoyed letting the notes take hold of her.
Until she heard a slow clap coming from near the stage.
She nearly strangled on the final note, sitting up to look at the tall, long-limbed man standing a dozen rows away. He was dressed in a black suit, a black top hat fixed upon his sandy-blonde hair. He looked like a taller, thinner Raoul, and even though Christine had never seen him before, she knew immediately who he was.
"I thought the public wasn't allowed in here during off hours," he said far too casually. "However, you aren't a member of the public, are you?"
"P-Pardon?" she said, easing to her feet and clutching the seatback in front of her.
Philip de Chagny continued as though he had not heard her. "The servants gave quite a detailed description of you, but your mourning garb gives it away, Christine Daaé." His head tilted to the side in a contemplative way. "If I squint hard enough, I can almost see why my brother was so taken with you. Tell me – did you sing like that after spreading your legs for him?"
"I- I never-"
She cut off her own protest as he began to move down the row. Soon, only an open aisle would separate them, and from his hostile tone, she did not want him to draw too closely.
He continued his steady approach, picking up speed with a lanky stride. "How lucky am I to find you here. So many told me how foolish it was to focus on the opera house, but here you are! I have so many questions for you, and you will give me answers."
Christine glanced around, seeking the nearest exit. Philip de Chagny was closing the gap between them too quickly, and she felt panic well within her. She stumbled over a row of seats, yanking her skirts along with her, and dashed down the steps that led beneath the first balcony. From there, she had to decide whether to continue downward to the hallway there or straight ahead where the grand staircase loomed.
Suddenly, he was too close, right behind her, and he lurched forward, swiping at her arm. "You will stop!" he snarled, his pale face blooming red with anger. From far away, she might have thought he resembled Raoul, but close up, his face was too narrow with too many lines cutting deep into his forehead and cheeks.
She jerked away from him, and in her panic, she went for the closest exit. To the immediate left and right were coat racks separated from the hall by low wooden walls. Christine did not waste time on trying to push open the short door that led to the racks, instead sitting on the wall and swinging her legs across.
But Philip was right there, grabbing onto her skirts, trying to prevent her from getting away. Her arms pinwheeled as she fell backward, hitting her head and shoulders on the wall. Her vision swam, but she was still aware of hands upon her, Raoul's brother lurching over the wall after her. She kicked out, feeling her heel connect.
He let out a howl and let go of her, and she scrambled to her feet. Despite the panic flooding her system, she managed to find the latch that triggered the wall to open in the back of the coat closet. As she slid within the secret passage, she glanced back. Philip de Chagny cupped his nose, blood streaming between his fingers, glaring at her as she shoved the wall closed behind her.
Her chest heaved, tears flooding her eyes. She had enough presence of mind to slide the bar like Erik had taught her, the failsafe to lock the entrance in case she was followed.
She felt her way in the all-encompassing darkness until she could no longer hear the Comte banging upon the wall. And then she slumped to the dusty, narrow floor, buried her face in her knees, and wept.
She was not certain how long she waited there between the walls of the opera house. Perhaps she could have felt her way to another secret exit, but she no longer felt safe wandering the halls alone. Her tears had long since dried on her cheeks, her muscles weary from sitting on cold concrete, when the glow of a lantern illuminated her surroundings.
Erik crouched beside her, his eyes roaming over her appearance, no doubt taking in her disheveled hair, dirty clothing, and the mess of her face.
"Are you hurt?" he asked softly.
Yes, she thought. Yes, my heart is injured. But she only shook her head and told him what had happened with Philip de Chagny.
His eyes blazed with fury. "Wait here a moment." Straightening, he left the lantern with her and stepped over her to head back the way she had come.
"Did I lock it correctly?" she asked when he returned.
He bent and stroked her cheek. "You did marvelously. I only adjusted the bar to make the fix permanent. Now that this passage is compromised, we shan't use it again. I am proud of how you handled yourself, little bird. I only wish I had been there."
He took her elbow and helped her to rise. Her body felt sore and worn out now that the adrenaline had faded from her system.
"What time is it?"
"Late," he said, taking up the lantern with his other hand. "Forgive me for leaving you alone for so long. It will not happen again."
She was grateful to have the strength of his sure fingers around hers as they followed the path back to the coolness of the fifth cellar. She noticed that he checked the hidden exits that they passed, no doubt ensuring that their inside locks were still in place. When Philip had watched her disappear between the walls, a line had been crossed that they could not recover. An outsider knew now that secret passages lurked.
They had been compromised.
Erik seemed to sense her melancholy mood as he held the boat steady for her to climb within. Neither of them had spoken since they began their decent.
"You made the right decision in escaping as quickly as you could," he said, using the pole to push across the smooth surface of the lake.
Christine hugged her arms across her middle. "I doubt he will keep the information to himself. About seeing me. And about the passage."
"What is done is done. We cannot change what has happened. I would not be surprised if he returned with reinforcements to force the doorway open, but I have sealed off where that hall leads. Perhaps he will not get far."
"And if he does get far?" The words stuck in her throat.
"I would mourn the loss of being able to travel unseen within the opera house. But let me ease your worry about anyone finding our home. No one can make it beyond the first cellar."
She did not ask him how he could be so sure. She could guess the precautions he had made, and only Nadir Khan knew how to reach the house on the far shore. Not even Madame Giry had the privilege.
Still, the two of them slipped into silence after that, and Christine was left with her own thoughts for far too long. Philip's words echoed in her head, digging deep into the hidden places on her heart. She knew he spoke out of anger, out of grief, but even so, she had not expected such venomous words from a stranger.
They crossed the still waters of the lake, but on the far shore, Erik held up a hand for her to halt. The door to the house was firmly closed as usual; however, Christine could see what had made him pause.
A pair of muddy brown boots were arranged neatly beside the portico.
"We have a visitor," Erik said, but even after their prior conversation, he did not seem too bothered.
Indeed, the front door was unlocked, and Erik swung it open on silent hinges. Christine caught sight of a brown coat hanging on the rack, half soaked with mud and rain, and she brightened, recognizing the astrakhan cap perched atop it.
Erik peered over his shoulder at her, a single finger raised to his lips. She nodded. They both crept forward into the house. A figure slumped in an armchair in front of the fire, his bare feet stretched out toward the warmth. Damp socks hung on the hearth. His chest rose and fell evenly.
Monsieur Khan.
Christine would have stopped Erik from waking the sleeping Persian, but a copy of Le Petit Journal was shoved under his arm, and she knew they could not wait. Erik toed Nadir's leg, and the other man grunted, squinting open an eye to look hazily up at Erik.
"There you are," Monsieur Khan said, clearing the roughness from his voice. "What time is it?"
"Half past six," Christine replied after glancing at the clock on the mantle. "How long have you been here, monsieur?"
Nadir groaned, sitting more upright. "Only about an hour. Forgive these old bones their exhaustion, but I rode my horse hard the entire way here. Poor gal probably won't make it." He peered more clear-eyed at them both. "If you have been above, then perhaps you have seen this." And he gestured at the newspaper.
It was the same copy Christine had seen in Madame Giry's office. While Erik picked it up to read, she stalked over to the coat rack and swung off her cloak to hang. She stayed by the door while pulling off her gloves and unpinning her hat, well aware of how Erik had begun to pace.
Erik tossed the paper back to Nadir. "It seems the news of what transpired with Martel beat you back to Paris. Why bother running your horse into the grave?"
"To warn you." Nadir leaned forward, tested his socks, and finding them sufficiently dry, began to pull them on. "The Vicomte's family are not listening to the gendarmerie's findings. This should have been a clear-cut investigation, especially with Martel's sworn testimony."
"Then what happened? You were there to see it through, were you not?"
"Unfortunately, I was… released from the case."
Christine came back over, clutching her skirt nervously. "They fired you? Whatever for?"
Nadir swept a hand at himself. "I am afraid, my dear, that little reason is needed other than the obvious. Once the Vicomte's father heard that someone like me was working on the investigation, he demanded that I be removed. I learned what little more I could before word got around about my discharge, and then I headed back toward Paris immediately."
"I am so sorry, Monsieur Khan," Christine said, touching his arm.
"I am the one who is sorry that I won't be able to further help from within the system."
Erik's eyes were fierce, glowing with anger in the firelight. "The Comte himself was here today. He saw Christine."
Nadir frowned. "That won't help matters. The de Chagny estate has already stated that they believe Christine is further involved in matters than Martel is admitting. The surviving members of the Vicomte's gang spun a story about how she manipulated him into trying to steal from Martel. And some of the servants at the Vicomte's home place her there late at night just before she disappeared, implicating some sort of derelict relationship." He gave Christine a remorseful look. "I am sorry again, my dear, this time to speak to bluntly."
Christine did not like the look Erik was giving her. She knew she had told him what had happened when she had gone to Raoul's home, but she had never told him all the details of that night. With a snarl, he yanked off his wide-brimmed hat and strode to hang up his own hat and cloak. The way he swung the heavy black fabric from his shoulders revealed his tension; it was present in every movement he made, in the stiffness of his gait.
"They are twisting the truth to suit them," she said, raising her chin. "I am not at all culpable in Raoul's actions, but they wish to lay the blame at the feet of anyone but the member of their own family."
"Unfortunately," said Nadir, "this is a vicious habit of the aristocracy."
She twisted her fingers. "Perhaps if I went and explained to the father in person –"
"Out of the question," Erik cut her off. "You would be giving yourself over to their prosecution just as they wish." His eyes met that of the Daroga. "And besides, it is likely not you they truly want."
"W-What do you mean?"
Nadir Khan sighed heavily. "Pointing the finger at the daughter of a groundskeeper is likely beneath them, my dear. Admitting that the Vicomte was led astray by a slip of a girl will do little to raise society's deteriorating opinion of them. It is more likely that they are attempting to flush what they can from the shadows, even if it is only a means of diverting the attention of the papers."
Again, the Persian leveled a meaningful gaze at Erik, whose hands were fists at his sides. And again, Christine felt as though she was being left out of some other kind of conversation. These two men were speaking over her head, and she was suffocating under the weight of what they were hiding.
At once, Nadir had to hide a yawn behind his hand. "Forgive me, but the day's travels are catching up to me. I should be off to my apartment now. There is little we can do until morning." And he rose to his feet, his weariness evident in the slump of his shoulders.
"Please," Christine said, heart thumping too wildly. "Would you take my room? It is quite a long walk back to your home."
Nadir gave a nervous cough, glancing at Erik, who stood impassively. "I should think not. Don't you… need it?"
Her face heated. "I would manage otherwise. Please, would you? I would like to show my gratitude for the way you rushed here to warn us."
When Erik did not voice any sort of protest, Nadir nodded. "Thank you, mademoiselle. I am exhausted enough to sleep on the floor, so I shall sleep well indeed tonight in a bed."
"Give me a moment to change the bedding." She hurried about, pulling off the used sheets and tucking the new ones upon the mattress. After hiding any of her own personal effects, she returned to the parlor.
Erik and Nadir were talking in hushed voices, their heads closer together. Erik moved away when he saw her, his tension and anger still a swirling mix of emotion within him.
As he headed to the spare room, Nadir paused at the door, turning back to them. "I suggest you stay away from the opera house for some time, my friend," he said to Erik. "It would not do to be seen now."
He bid them both good-night. The door swung shut behind him, and Christine knew he would likely be asleep in an instant.
Erik leaned an arm on the mantle above the fireplace, staring into the flames with a piercing glare. "A prisoner once again," he muttered. "This time without chains, but a prisoner nonetheless."
Christine's heart ached. She could not help but feel responsible for this shift in events. She was the one the Comte had seen above, after all. But she recoiled at the thought that Erik likened this to being chained back in the basement of MASE. Surely at least he had better company? She shook her head to clear such ugly thoughts, knowing they were born of her own exhaustion.
Erik angled his gaze upon her. "You did not have to give up your bed."
"It was an easy way to thank him for all he has done for us."
He blew a snort behind his mask though he did not argue with her. "Such an unreasonable thought to believe this mess could be pushed behind us, yes?" He straightened off the mantle. "Are you hungry?"
"No." The last thing she wanted was heavy food in her belly.
"To bed, then. Let me collect what I need from the other bedroom, and then it is yours."
As he strode down the small hallway to his own room, Christine's heart thumped wildly inside her chest. That was it? After everything that had happened today, they would simply part for the night?
She followed him into the bedroom, her face flushing as she said, "Cannot the bedroom be ours?"
At that, Erik froze. Then he placed one hand against the banister of his bed as though to steady himself. "Christine."
"We shared the bed last night, did we not?"
He made a move that looked as though he might try to dart out of the room, but she closed the door at her back, blocking his avoidant exit.
He swallowed, throat bobbing beneath his mask. "We can no longer afford to be naïve in this, Christine."
"I am far removed from the young woman you first met." Although tears stung her eyes, her voice did not waver. "I know fully of that which I am speaking, and I know whole-heartedly what I want. I want to marry you."
"Christine-"
"Impossible, you said. I remember the word. And while I apologize for the delicate conversation on which you eavesdropped, I do not regret discussing such a matter with Madame Giry. When you refuse to speak with me, I will seek my answers elsewhere! If marriage is impossible because of your lack of papers, then surely there must be a remedy."
At once, he drew up closer to her, his considerable height causing her to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. The line of his body pressed ever so slightly against hers. Her nostrils flared to draw in the scent of him – musky and dark, a swirl of something that caused desire to suddenly flood within her.
One of his hands outstretched and curled around her cheek. "This is not about the papers I lack. I am used to lying my way through life, and in this case, the lie is one I would not hesitate to make. If all I must do is lie to claim you, then I surely would have done so today."
"Then what is it?" she whispered, covered his hand with hers lest he pull it away.
His golden eyes cut away then, but then he seemed to decide something. "This attention upon you – in the papers, the Comte's visit here – all of it is intended to provoke me into coming out of hiding. When some of the Vicomte's men were left alive, I suspected they might try to save their own necks by telling the gendarmerie about my presence there."
"I don't understand. Monsieur Martel said he would keep you a secret."
"Even if Martel maintained he never saw me, the other men planted enough doubt for further investigation. The gendarmerie know someone was chained beneath MASE, they know someone helped you after your father died, they know enough for considerable doubt as to who exactly is responsible." His fingers flexed, the tips gently touching her hair. "I knew this would likely happen, but I have been too much of a coward to tell you."
She shook her head, refusing to believe it. However, memories clicked through her mind, pieces falling together, a puzzle made whole. Erik had tried to leave her with Martel, had he not? Even then, he must have suspected that a cage would slowly fall around him.
And he did not want her trapped with him.
She was stricken with a thought. "You… you are not going to turn yourself in, are you?"
"Oh, Christine!" He wrenched himself away, his shoulders hunching with despair, hands clutching his masked face. "I must!"
Christine would not let him stay apart from her for long. She grasped onto his arm, forced him to turn back toward her. "You cannot! You are no more responsible for Raoul's death than I am. And after all he did to me and Papa – after all he did to you, he deserved… he deserved…"
"Those thoughts are beneath you, my love."
"He deserved what came to him, Erik!"
"And so shall I." His golden eyes swam with emotion. "Do not forget that I earned the nickname the papers have given me, I earned the moniker of Strangler with the very hands you allow to touch you. Do not forget that I am merely a phantom who has taken human form, for certainly they shall never let you."
She took those bony hands and clutched them to her. "All I know is the man who rescued me, who has saved me time and time again. That is the man who stands before me."
He shuddered. "Oh, little bird. Would that I could ever deserve you. Will you let me kiss you, Christine? This vile husk of a man?"
"Hush," she said, stroking the backs of his hands. "You will not speak that way of someone I love so dearly."
She reached and gently pried his mask from his face, allowing it to plop softly to the floor. Tears cut damp rivets down his sallow cheeks, and she thumbed the wetness away and pressed her lips to his. His lips parted with a gasp, and she dipped her tongue within, finding the slick warmth of his mouth a sensation that stirred hunger within her.
His arms came around her, lifting her to her toes, and he crushed their mouths together, his own tongue chasing hers. For a while, they just kissed and kissed, passing their own desperation between them like a shared cup of wine. She could not bear the thought of him leaving. She had already lost too much. Losing him would completely undo her.
She allowed their lips to part, both of them panting to catch their breath. Gazing up at him, she took in his appearance that he had sought to hide from the world – the hard ridges of his pale flesh, the hollow cheeks, the missing nose. She loved every part of him; she wanted every part of him.
Reaching up, she grasped the edge of the wig he wore. He took a step back, eyes flaring wide, but she soothed him with soft sounds. "Be at ease, my love." She continued the motion, removing the copse of dark hair. "You may undo my hair next, yes?"
She set his wig aside on his bureau, then pulled one of the pins from her hair. After showing him, she turned her back on him and waited.
He did not disappoint. Fingers settled on her hair, their trembling noticeable, and began to pull each pin from her chignon with tender precision. Once her long locks were free, he gathered the curls in his hands and held them to his bare face, breathing deeply. Then he pressed against her from behind, his lips to her ear.
"What shall I remove next?"
Delighted, she turned around, nearly pinned between him and the dresser. She grasped onto the lapels of his coat. "May I?"
His eyes flashed, but he nodded. She pushed the heavy fabric from his shoulders, the weight of it dragging down his arms before falling to the floor. Wordlessly, he mimicked her, his deft fingers starting at her throat and flicking open each button from neck to navel on her bodice. Soon, her bodice had followed his coat.
She let out a nervous little laugh, which he cut off by stooping over for a kiss. He had seen all of her completely, so she should not have these butterflies doing loops within her stomach. However, tonight felt differently, less desperation and more a mutual acceptance that they wanted each other.
And now, with the cloudiness that hung over them, they would not stop until they had driven the fears from each other.
Hands shaking, she undid his necktie and flung it aside. "I have not a comparable article of clothing, monsieur," she said, feeling breathless.
"A welcome advantage," he quipped.
He found the tie of her overskirt and tugged on it until the black fabric came free, pooling at her feet. The protruding cage of her bustle embarrassed her, but he only raked his eyes down her form, the look he gave her setting her blood boiling. Next was his waistcoat, followed by her bustle, and the toeing off of his shoes, and then the rest of her skirts soon followed until they were standing in puddles of fabric.
"Take me to bed," she whispered.
He gathered her in his arms and set her on the edge of the expansive black satin coverlet. Then he knelt before her and unlaced each of her boots almost reverently. His mouth was hot against her stockinged ankle as he kissed the delicate bone there, then again at her knee as he met the hem of her chemise. Then he pressed lips to her hipbone, to her ribs, to the exposed ridge of her collar, and then finally, to her own lips.
"And here I am afraid is my own disadvantage," he said, stretching out beside her on the bed. One hand rested on her thigh, curving warmly there. The other cupped part of his face. "I have been able to bask in your loveliness, but you… you have not seen me. I am not a handsome man, Christine, and this body has often – has often paid for it."
In one quick motion, she straddled him. His sharp hipbones dug into the backs of her thighs, but that is not all she felt pressing intimately into her through the layers of clothing that still separated them. His eyes were a startled roundness, but they were dark with longing. She unbuttoned his shirt at his throat, working her way down until she could press a kiss to his collar much like he had hers. She kissed the significant rise of his ribs, finding the ridges of scars there. By the time she had unbuttoned to the concave dip of his stomach, he was shaking beneath her.
Leaning forward, she pressed her cheek to his quivering skin, curling herself atop him. "I love you, Erik."
He moaned softly. For a moment, they hung in suspension. Then he surged upward, flipping her onto her back, her thighs spread wide across his hips. "My turn," he said, tugging free the rest of his shirt.
When she tried to touch his bared chest, he nudged away her hands, but it was an improvement from last night. She acquiesced to his need to not be touched, instead allowing her eyes to feast on the exposed paleness of his skin shining in the firelight, on the magnificence of how he towered over her.
His hands slipped under her chemise. His fingertips trailed lightly over her ribs and found the underswell of her breasts. She arched under him, encouraging such advantages. Fingers grazed her nipples, pinching lightly, and she squirmed, feeling herself grow warmer still, beginning to throb between her thighs.
"Please, Erik. I-I need…"
He bent and his lips found the tip of one breast through the linen of her chemise. The wet heat made her cry out with pleasure, and her hips bucked against his, beginning to seek a friction she did not understand.
"Gods, you are beautiful," she heard him say. His hand slid down her belly to the waistband of her drawers. "May I?"
"Please, oh please!"
His other hand, his mouth, continued to work her breasts, but her focus soon came upon the fingers pulling her drawers free and slipping between her thighs. She realized the dampness pooling there as he skirted one long finger along her cleft.
"My beautiful Christine," he murmured.
Her lashes parted to gaze up at him kneeling over her. She could see the scars from their recent struggles, the bruises in his sides turned green and dark. She placed her hands upon his forearms, feeling the tense muscles rippling there, but he did not ask her to remove them. This was so much more intimate than before. She felt herself bloom for him, opening to him in more ways than one.
"Will you… Erik, will you?" Her face burning, she could not quite get out the words. But oh, she wanted him desperately.
He pressed a reverent kiss upon her lips. "I would take you tonight if I could in good conscience, my love. I cannot, I cannot, until we are wed." He sank down next to her on the mattress, pulled her close until they were aligned side by side. "I would love to touch you, if you would allow it, to bring you pleasure if I may receive such a gift."
"M-May I do the same to you?"
The next kiss was full of want, his lips crushing against hers. He took her hand and placed it upon the front of his trousers, and her heart leapt in her chest. She found the button there as his own hand slipped back under her chemise. Emboldened, she hooked her thigh over his hip, opening herself to his perusal, even as she undid the button of his trousers and slid her hand within.
A single finger ran along the slit between her legs before dipping within her core. The fit was tight, and the two of them groaned in unison. Almost like a response to feeling her, his hips canted toward her, and she felt the rigid shaft of him suddenly against her palm. Soft skin encased an unforgiving hardness, and for a moment, she was too fascinated to notice that Erik had shifted his hand, bringing his thumb against the nub between her legs.
They both cried out at once, and at once, they chased each other's sobs, their lips falling upon each other. Erik's hand worked between her legs, his fingers now slick with her, and she felt herself tightening, her muscles clenching against her will. Erik pumped into her palm in a way that seemed against his control, and she would have been more captivated by his loss of control if she herself had not been falling apart around his fingers.
The pressure built, his tongue flicked across hers, and suddenly she was spasming in new ways, throbbing around his finger, her body overcome with a rush of feeling so strong it brought tears to her eyes. She whimpered into his mouth and he shuddered and something fiercely hot and damp coated her hand. He drove himself against her once, twice more, then fell still, chest heaving.
He murmured against her forehead sweet words and affirmations. When he slipped his finger free, she gasped at the sensation. Her limbs were languid, her body heavy, and she lay still as he rolled off the bed and padded to the bathroom. She was aware that he wiped the two of them clean, and soon a pillow was under her head, the coverlet pulled to her chin.
"Stay with me," she whispered.
He did return, again wearing his shirt, on which she chose not to comment. As he laid next to her, she sighed with a new sort of contentment, giving a chuff of laughter when he reached out and pulled her across the bed to settle against him. He kissed her hair, and his arm was a welcome heaviness across her waist.
His words were soft in her ear, barely heard as she slipped under.
"My heart is yours, always."
When she woke, she was still in much the same position, having been too drained to shift in sleep. She had the grogginess of having slept less than she needed, but she could peer at the clock when her eyes were less heavy. Remembering last night, her lips curled.
She shifted, stretching, and that was when she noticed his absence. She rolled onto her back, felt the mattress with a unsteady hand, touched the cooling sheets.
Erik was gone.