As much as he immediately missed her presence, still it was good to have a few minutes of quiet, to gather himself and to think over these strange, miraculous hours. How long would it last? How long until she would want to return to her world of daylight and people? But he could not make himself brood as he stripped off his clothes and sponged himself clean with freezing water. Somehow he was unable to fret over the future. It seemed too much effort to dress fully---he wanted to return to her. A pair of loose silk trousers and a long velvet robe the color of new blood would do. He felt almost luxurious. He did not realize that he was humming as he walked back through the dim stone corridor to where she waited for him.
Christine was sitting in the middle of the bed, almost entirely hidden in his cloak. His heart sank a little when he saw that she had his mask in her hand. "I'll put it back on, if you like," he said from the doorway, and she jumped, his wild creature, his love. She laughed a little, her hand to her chest. "You startled me!" He sat down and held his hand out for the mask. Her smile faded. "Do you want to wear it?" He frowned. "It has always been a necessity," he said. "Well, it isn't now," she answered, dropping the hated thing onto the floor. "You don't mind?" he asked slowly, wondering how many shocks this night had in store for him. She took his hand in both of his. "When I thought you were an angel sent by my father, I loved you for his sake," she said. "And then, as you taught me, I began to love you for your music. You were strict, but always kind, and there were many days when I felt you were my only friend." Tears like diamonds stood in her eyes. "I used to long then for you to be real, to be flesh and blood and not an angel but an earthly creature like me. And so you are. I love you for your soul, and that makes you beautiful to me, no matter what you look like."
Clearly this could not be believed. He tore his hand away from her and swept up off the bed, turning his back on her. "You did not think so earlier," he said roughly. "Not when you first looked on me." She sighed. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was shocked, surprised, and then you were so angry …" He turned on her, fists clenched at his sides. "And what of your Viscomte?" She put her head to one side and frowned at him. "Raoul?" she said. "Yes, your precious Raoul," he growled. Christine drew herself deeper into his cloak, still frowning at him. He was standing on a knife edge of terror, knowing that it was stupid to bait her but unable to stop himself. "He's not my Viscomte," she said. "Why would you say that? We knew each other as children. He is precious to me only because of that and because he knew my father." Erik stood over her, staring, but starting to crumble inside at his own foolishness. "Why would you fight with me?" she asked him, her eyes again glistening with tears. "Erik, why do you argue when you could be kissing me?" She held her arms out to him, and his anger vanished as quickly as it had come. He fairly ran to her, kissing her fervently. "I don't deserve your goodness," he said as he rained kisses on her cheek. She hugged him tightly. "Deserving doesn't matter. You have my love and my heart."
All of his prayers were being answered at once, as if God had finally noticed him and pulled him out of Hell straight into Heaven. Erik kissed Christine and whispered his apologies until she laughed and begged him to stop. As in all things, he could only obey.
He was kneeling in front of her on the bed, and she leaned away from him, running her hands down the velvet covering his arm. "This is lovely," she said, nuzzling her cheek against the cloth. "I'll never wear anything else," he said. She giggled like the girl she was. "I think that eventually the smell would overcome its beauty." Erik could only blink and smile. She rose up on her knees to kiss him, steadied herself against his bare chest. The touch of her hand made him shiver, and as she drew back she seemed suddenly shy. They knelt quietly before each other for a moment, and Erik was unsure how or whether to go on.
He took Christine's hand and stroked it lightly. She looked tired, his poor angel. She had sung to great triumph, been spirited into darkness, and declared her love to a monster, all with precious little sleep in between. She had been brave and strong for him tonight, had fought for him against his very self. He felt such tenderness for her. She was so young and so small to carry these burdens. I must try to be better, he thought, for her sake. She had cradled him, cared for him more times than he knew even in this one night, and he must do the same for her.
"Are you still cold, my beloved?" he asked. She shook her head. He drew her up off the bed and pulled down the coverlet, slipped her robe off her shoulders and made her lie back down again, tucking the blanket over them. Her dark hair spilled beautifully across the white pillow. He lay beside her and ran his fingers through it, combing out tangles and massaging her scalp. She sighed and turned her face toward him, so of course he could not resist the temptation of her mouth.
He would never grow tired of such sweetness. But now, freed from his more frantic passion, he could savor her, could examine and explore her, unravel her deepest desires. His robe quickly started to tangle in the bedding; he shrugged it off and kicked it away. Christine ran her hands over his bare arms and back as he kissed her. Her touch raised goose bumps and made him shiver. "Are you cold now?" she asked, gazing up at him with liquid eyes. "No," he murmured, his voice low. "Never when I am near you. My love for you is like fire." She sighed, simultaneously arching toward him and pulling him close. He covered her mouth with his own, growling in the back of his throat as her hands roamed over his skin.
Before he became overwhelmed again, he pulled away from her, smiling darkly as she leaned in, trying not to break the kiss. Her cheeks were flushed, and she frowned at him a little, charmingly. When she opened her mouth to speak, he laid his fingers across her lips, traced their shape. He wanted to memorize her face by touch, the curve of her cheek in his hand. He drew his fingers lightly down her neck, back and forth across her chest, teasing along the top of her corset. Her breath quickened, and she tossed her head. He thrilled at it, to see her respond to his touch, even as he started to hate the contraption caging her sweet body. He sat up to put both hands to the stiff hooks down the front. Her face was solemn and eager at the same time, but when the last hook was freed she took a great breath and moaned, stretching.
"You have no idea how good it feels to have that off," she said, arching her back to slide the corset from under her and fling it to the floor. Erik could see the sharp creases in her chemise from her tight lacing, and the thought of her skin underneath, lined and red, filled him with tenderness. He laid back down to gather her into his arms and stroke her back gently, smoothing out wrinkles in the thin muslin. She stretched against him like a cat, seeming smaller and more fragile than ever. He kissed her gently, ran his hand down her flank. Half-drunk with desire, he felt he could dare anything. As his lips moved down to her neck, he drew his hand upward, slowly, until he cupped the soft warmth of her breast. She gasped and moved restlessly, making a small noise when his thumb brushed over her nipple.
In the book, men were always squeezing breasts and suckling them, but Christine was so delicate, so tiny and fragile, that this seemed wrong. But he wanted to see her, to touch her, so he lifted his head and struggled with the drawstring at the neck of her gown. When the knot came undone and he drew the fabric down, she wriggled her arms free, earning a kiss for her bravery and another for her audacity. Indeed, her skin was marred by red lines from the corset, and he traced these with his fingers, whispered over them and kissed them. He thought her breasts were beautiful, white shading into deep rose like little puckered buds that seemed to beg for kisses. He could not deny and bent his head to taste them, softly at first and then more eagerly, savoring the texture in his mouth, under his palm, even as she began to move restlessly. He took one nub between thumb and forefinger, squeezing gently, and she hissed his name.
"Is it not good, my love?" he asked her, and she drew him upward. "I never thought," she whispered between kisses, "I did not know that I had such fire inside me." Then she kissed him with her mouth wide, delving into him even as she twisted and fumbled, shoving down the muslin of her chemise and drawers, kicking them away, down into the tangle of the sheets, her stockings pulled off in the process. She was warmer and more soft even than his beloved velvets, twined against him and devouring him. All that separated them was a thin layer of silk, and he could feel his mind clouding again even as his body responded to her.
It would not do. If she would accept him, he would take his pleasure on her, but later. Later. This time was hers. He pushed her gently onto her back, marveling at the beauty of her wide eyes, her lips reddened by their kisses. Each time he gazed on her she seemed ever more angelic. As he drew his fingers down her throat to again cup and stroke her breast, she reached for him, pulling. Perhaps it was wickedness, but he wished to see her caught and powerless under him. He shifted to free his arm and took her two small wrists in his hand, lifting her arms above her head and pinning them there. Her gaze seemed a little frightened and confused, but her kiss was eager.
His other hand moved downward over her tender belly, the jutting curve of her hipbone, stopping when his fingers encountered her tangle of hair. It was more coarse than that on her head, he noted as he teased his fingers through and Christine's breath grew jagged---it was much like the hair between his own legs. Slowly and softly, he moved his fingers lower. He had only the vaguest sense of what he would discover, and he knew that he wanted to look at her, these most secret parts of her body, but not yet. First he would see her this way, as if she were a fine instrument, and he would learn to play her, to bring out her subtle and sublime beauties with his genius and his musician's hands.
It was an amazing progression of textures: two warm mounds of flesh and a smooth valley in the center that seemed draw his fingers down to a bit of hardness that, when he touched it, caused Christine to yelp and jerk. He curled his palm over her and kissed her gently to calm her, feeling a quick, hot pulse in the center of his hand. When he dared move his fingers again, palm still pressed to her, he was surprised by how slick she was, how wet. He pulled his hand up to see---the liquid had no color but a delicious scent, one that seemed to work on his entire body. His lips, his tongue longed for her, and he kissed her deeply as he placed his hand back down on her. This time, as his fingers moved, now more smoothly, over the hard spot, Christine inhaled sharply, but without that cry that seemed on the verge of pain. He pulled back to watch her face as he stroked her, and she looked almost frightened, but she frowned at him as he drew his hand away, purred when he ran the length of his finger over her again.
Then he made a new discovery of delights, for as his finger moved downward, there was more of that sweet slickness and then he dipped actually inside her, a place of muscular warmth---it even felt secret---and as Christine mewed in surprise he realized that this was what he had read of so many times and never understood until this moment. There was no end to the marvels around him. "My love," he whispered, and she sighed. "Please," she said, shifting her hips, and, as he moved his finger back over her, then, "kiss me." So he did, and as he stroked her she began to kiss him more eagerly, to struggle, until his hand was covered with the liquid that came from her. She was almost rough, nipping at his lips with her little teeth, until she jerked her head back and looked at him with startlingly wide eyes, lips parted. Then a long shudder ran through her; her eyes rolled back as she tossed her head and pulled against the hand that pinned her. Her low moan was more beautiful than any aria. When he at last stilled his hand and freed her arms, Christine wrapped herself around him, buried her face in his neck. As she had done, so he for her, his hands gentle on her hair and her back as her panting breath slowed. Soon, he felt her lips against his neck---it made him shiver. She gave a low chuckle, then lifted her head to meet his eyes. "I had no idea," she said. "I never knew." "Yes," he said as she tilted up to kiss him.