Her hand was cold, but her fingers squeezed his as she moved toward him on her knees. Erik couldn't move, pinned down by confusion and trying hard not to hope. What could she mean? She was still looking at him. If nothing else, she had not run away.
"Sing to me," she said, close to him now, still holding his hand. He raised his head and her eyes were clear. Had he not been a monster, he'd have said she was looking at him with concern. Was he dreaming? He opened his mouth to obey, but his throat was closed with tears. He shook his head at her, swallowed.
As further proof that he was delusional, she smiled. "Then I'll sing." She cocked her head to one side. "How did it go? … 'Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world,/leave all thoughts of the world you knew before./Let your soul take you where you long to be …/Only then can you belong to me'." He gaped as she sang his words back to him softly, moving forward again, still smiling. He backed away from her instinctively, sitting hard on the stone, but still she came toward him, until her warm weight settled into his lap. He was afraid to move, afraid to wake up. She leaned back against his arm and reached up to touch his disfigured cheek so softly that he barely felt it.
"Does it hurt?" she asked. Erik had to clear his throat twice to find his voice. "No," he said hoarsely. "Sometimes it itches." Her brows drew together and she stroked his cheek. He shuddered. No one had ever touched his face in kindness. "How can you bear it?" he asked, his eyes closed. Her cool, smooth hand moved across his face to cup his good cheek and turn his face toward her, stroking with her thumb until he opened his eyes. If he'd thought her an angel before, he'd been wrong. She was an angel now. Her dark eyes were so large and liquid, her hair spread out over his arm, the pressure of her against him. That small smile, again, that miracle. "You are my Angel," she said. Before he even realized what she was doing, his neck bent under the pressure of her hand and his mouth was pressed to hers. Her lips were as cool as her fingers. Not knowing what to do, he stayed as still as he could, until he felt her begin to smile. Then he pulled back sharply, expecting mockery. He glared down at her, but her eyes were still soft, and her hand was still cupping his face. "I just thought," she said. "My Angel. What is your name?"
He blinked. He was beginning to suspect that this was not a dream after all. For one thing, it was a lot more lucid than his dreams usually were, and it was verging on cheerful. "Um, Erik," he said. "Erik," she whispered. Then that sweet pressure again, and she was rising to meet him even as he bent to her. He still hardly knew what he was doing, whether it was real or illusion, but, as in all his dreams, he kissed her. Her lips grew warm as his mouth moved over hers, and his arm tightened about her waist. His blood pounded in his ears; it was as if every nerve in his body was tied to his mouth, her taste, and her arms around his neck. And still, on this night of surprises, part of him was stunned to feel her breath catch and quicken, that she kissed him with a fervor to match his own, her sweet tongue meeting his in a silent duet.
Time had no meaning, but eventually she pulled back from him, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. It was too much air---he leaned into her, but she pressed her hands against his chest and laughed a little. "Angel," she said, "Erik. I've dreamed of this for months … but it's awfully cold here on the floor." He looked at her arm and saw goose bumps running up the length of it. He rubbed her arm briefly, helped her to stand, although he could not believe that his legs would hold him up. She did look cold, shivering in her thin robe. He put his arms around her and she leaned into him, her teeth chattering. "My love," he whispered into her hair. "We must get you warm." He went back to the organ to fetch his cloak from the floor. This feeling in his chest was like not being able to breathe and swinging down from the highest flies all at once, like the first moments of composition and the comfort of a fire in the grate and a mug of tea. Is this happiness? he thought. Yet his arms felt empty without her, his lips felt lost.
But Christine was cold. He swept the cloak up and turned back toward her. He would wrap her warmly, see her safely back to her room. When he returned, the darkness would not seem so lonely. He would write. Perhaps tomorrow, she would meet him and he would take her into his arms again, she would again smile.
She was not standing near the boat. She was in the doorway to his bedroom, looking so small, her arms wrapped around herself. Erik's mind was still boggling over why she would be there as his feet carried him to her and he folded the cloak around her shoulders. She thanked him sweetly, and he caressed her cheek.. Yet there was something almost stubborn in the way she stood before him. He had seen it before, in the early days, when she had insisted that she could not sing his music, that she would not be able to do as he asked. "You don't wish to go?" he asked her, his voice catching at the wonder of it. She raised her chin, her face full of challenge. "I have seen what men and women do together," she said. "I am not afraid."
He was flying and falling at the same time. Erik leaned against the stone of the doorway and groaned aloud. Deep in his belly, heat started to rise. There was no way he could trust himself with this girl.
She stepped into the room and sat on his low bed, still rumpled from her sleeping there such a short time ago. She slipped off her shoes while he stared at her, feeling utterly caught. After a moment, she looked up at him. "I'm cold, Erik," she said. His angel commanded. In an instant he was by her side, pulling her close.
Such sweetness, her kisses, more than he had ever dared think. How could he have known what it would be like? He would not have thought it would be so wet, nor that she would curve her body to his or twine her fingers in his hair. In his dreams, she had always laid still and silent while he pressed his lips to her, but how much more stunning, how much harder his heart pounded in his chest as she sucked his bottom lip, as she wrapped his shirt in her fists and pulled him even closer.
He was dizzy. There was too much and not enough air, and he could not possibly sit upright any longer. He rolled back and onto his side, pulling her with him. This was a whole new level of sensation---not only did she curl her length against him, but she even wrapped her leg over him tightly. She broke their kiss, glancing down to where their hips were pressed together, obviously feeling his hardness. She blushed. Erik started to pull back, but she drew him in again, her small mouth hungry. Each of her movements was the most exquisite torture. He had one hand wrapped in her hair, and the other began to explore her, distracting and delicious---the curve of her back, the soft mounds of her buttocks, her strong dancer's leg, the skin of her thigh nearly as soft as the silk of her stocking. He wanted to touch all of her at once, to taste every inch of her. He bent his head lower, to the warm and fragrant skin of her neck, that bit of skin under her ear that was like swan's down. When he kissed her there, when he ran his tongue into that little hollow, she moaned, she clutched at him, she whispered his name.
He would say prayers of thankfulness for the rest of his days and it would not be enough. Her fingers dug into his shoulder and it was as if his passion for her was too large to be contained within him. His mouth moved down her neck to the elegant planes of her collarbones, his hand moving up the front of her damned stiff corset even as he kissed the tops of her breasts, which he had never once dared to dream about, but she was here, with him, his angel, the scent of greasepaint and roses all about her, his hand lost in the softness of her hair, her fingers curled into the back of his neck, and it was all too much but so good and not like anything could have imagined, could never have known, his Christine, not only here but eager, not an angel at all but a woman, flesh, blood, music, and his.
He had been lost in her, and so it was without warning that he felt himself begin to fall, to shudder and cry out. She wrapped herself even more tightly around him until he collapsed against her, amazed but ashamed. She stroked the back of his head slowly. After a few moments, he found himself again and drew a little away. "Christine," he whispered, miserable. "I'm sorry." She laid still, touched his cheek. Her fingertip followed her eyes down to the front of his trousers, damp and sticky, and then she met his eyes, frowning. "What is this?" she asked. "My Angel, are you all right?"
It would have been easy to speak of shame and weakness, to curse himself, but her quietness gave him strength. All she had given him already made him want to honor her with truth. He didn't know the words for such a thing, save the ones from his book, and those were too coarse for what he felt. He cleared his throat. "It is my---release," he said haltingly. Praise God, she seemed to understand, for he would not have known how to go on. She nodded. "I've wondered about that," she said, blushing a little. Her hand cupped his cheek. "So it is---good, then?" she asked him.
He could only nod at her, her goodness, the miracle that she lay next to him in his very bed without shame or judgment, concerned only for his joy. There was suddenly a point of light in his darkness. Perhaps he would not have to lead her into the dark. Perhaps she would bring him into light. His love broke over him, broke him, and he pulled her close. He tried to hide his tears in her hair. She wrapped those slim arms around him, shushing him, stroking his back and his hair. "I am your slave," he sobbed, and she lifted his face to wipe his face with the soft lace of her robe. She kissed him---left cheek, right cheek, and lips---and smiled. "You are my master and my Angel." Erik rested his face on the pillow next to hers as she continued to stroke his cheek and his breathing slowed. He felt wrung out but also strangely calm, lighter. Unfortunately, he also became aware of just how cold and unpleasant his clothing was. He lifted Christine's hand and kissed her fingertips. "Wait for me," he whispered, and she nodded.