Had they merely laid quiet and wrapped around each other, he could have lived out his days there and been perfectly happy. He had known rare moments of joy in his former life, had known the ecstasy of music. Not once before this evening had he known what others meant by happiness. No matter the future, this night he had been truly loved. He kissed her head, the pillow under his cheek dampened by tears of gratitude.

And yet---all the choirs of angels seemed to have chosen him for blessing, as had his Christine. For her hands stirred and began to move over him as he had explored her earlier, though her face was hidden from him again in the curve of his neck. Her left hand, curled from under his head, tangled in his hair while her right moved over his back and shoulders, soft fingertips and sometimes a tickle of nail. He sighed and tightened his hand over the curve of her hip. Their lower bodies were pressed close together---he knew that she could feel him hard against her, as he had been for centuries, it seemed, aching. When her hand found the back of his leg to pull him even closer, just as her lips and tongue moved at the base of his neck, he felt he should die of wanting, and gladly. He could not hold back his groan.

She had become wanton, his angel, in these hours since she had first touched his hand. He had always watched her, ever since he first saw her in that small stone room and she seemed to be the saddest, most beautiful child he had ever seen, singing a lullaby to herself in a voice that was rough and untrained but of unbearable sweetness. He had seen her grow into a solitary and melancholy young woman, always at the fringe of the ballet corps, preferring to wander the empty theater rather than lie about in the dormitory and gossip with the other ballet rats. She never took part in the giggly evenings of hair-braiding or the frequent and short-lived flirtations between the dormitory and the stable lofts. She shrank from the casual physicality of the other girls---he knew they thought her cold and haughty, except for Giry's brat, when he knew her to be shy and desperately lonely.

So who was this naked creature in his bed? She was a very angel of passion, and his breath caught in his throat as her hands moved to the waist of his trousers. "Christine," he said in a broken voice. She looked up at him, those gorgeous eyes shining. "This is my choice," she said. "You are my choice."

And then there was no room for thought, only love and desire burning through him in one harmony, her taste and scent, the gentleness of her hands on him, the only hands to ever touch him so. The silk of his trousers became their enemy as she fumbled with the buttons and his legs got tangled up in the fabric when he tried to kick it away. But then her two hands were wrapped around him, and she said, "Oh," even as he groaned through clenched teeth.

He rolled atop her, her precious length beneath him and those hands now moving over him. The candles had been guttering out one by one, and he could see little more of her than contrast of skin and hair, the faint shine of her eyes. It was the very height of beauty. "Are you certain?" he asked. Deliberately she placed her hand against the broken side of his face. "Yes, my Angel," she said. "Yes."

The Phantom of the Paris Opera had always been a weak and miserable monster, but he found a new strength of will within himself to enter her slowly, listening hard for any sounds from her that might be pain. It was unlike his most fervent and secret dreams, to be enveloped so in wet heat. Christine shifted under him, and her movement added a dizzying layer of sensation. His hands were nothing to this. Fractionally he moved further, and when he was pressed against a soft barrier, he couldn't stop his grimace. This had been written of gleefully, and it seemed to be about blood and pain for the girls in the stories. He held his hips still and bent to kiss her, to wrap his hand over the top of her head. "My dove, if I go further I will hurt you," he whispered. "Shall I stop?" He felt her shake her head. "I know it," she said. "And I know that it's only this once." She curled her fingers over his shoulders, digging in a little, and they were both trembling. "I want," she said in a shaky voice, "Erik, give yourself to me."

And so, swiftly, he did. crying out as he was fully sheathed in her and those secret muscles clenched around him, sending a shudder through his body. Christine hissed and whimpered a little, and so he again held still inside her, smoothing her hair away from her face, murmuring over and kissing away the tear that he felt rolling down her temple. "I'm sorry," he whispered, with kisses, into her ear, torn in half between concern for her and the overwhelming pleasure of being atop and inside her.

All in all, it was not very long before she shifted under him and her arms went around his waist. "Not too bad?" he asked. "No," she said, sounding a little surprised. "And now I feel as if … I don't know." She was still moving restlessly under him---he gritted his teeth at the torment of it---and one foot stroked his calf. "It's not enough," she said after a moment. "I want you to move."

So he must, finally and with great relief, for his flesh knew what it wanted, and it had taken all his strength to be still. That damned book was wrong, but nothing could have prepared him for it, to feel such pleasure that it was almost painful, utterly vulnerable and yet secure. He was almost glad that it was now too dark to see her; he was already nearly overcome by his other senses, her scent, the taste of her mouth, the small sounds she made in her throat, and the miracle of her flesh pressed against and around his own.

This was not his darkness of shame and fear. This was a different sort, a warm darkness, full of secrets kept because of their joy, not their danger. She had transformed his world for him, his sweet muse, his angel. Too soon he was past return and thrust into her with a feeling like splitting into thousands of shards of light, a brittle mirror broken and leaving behind it only this new, safe dark into which he gave a long, sobbing cry and felt himself wrapped in a pair of slim arms and strong legs, lips pressed to his cheek.

There was never such bliss as lying spent with his angel's head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. He wanted to stay awake, to savor each instant of it, but the strange comfort, the unaccustomed peace pulled him gently into sleep.