She closed her eyes and listened as he played, listen to his sorrow and his anger echoing through the grottos.
It was a rage of the heart, resonant with self-destruction.
She still tasted his tears of her lips, salty and intoxicating. It was like a drug and she rose, forgetting her ankle completely as she stumbled down the steps to the organ.
She pushed his hands from the keys and edged her body between the bench and the instrument.
She kissed him again, letting her tongue eagerly exploring his mouth as he pulled her onto his lap.
"Erik, I want you," she murmured against his neck, "let me make love to you."
He made no move to resist her as she tugged away his cravat and waistcoat, but let his lips brush the smooth curve of her throat as she pushed herself closer to him.
"Comtessa…"
"No, Erik…Helene. My name is Helene. Say it, Erik," she begged him, "oh, please say it. Please say my name."
"Helene, Helene," he whispered, his voice ragged and breathless with need as her fine-boned hands worked feverishly at the buttons of his shirt.
Her mourning gown seemed so tight, so restraining…she longed to be free of it. He must have sensed it because, holding her steady with one hand, he drew a slim knife from the top of his boot.
With one quick stroke, he cut through the snug black bodice. A second later, he had sliced through the heavier satin of her corset and the chemise beneath it.
He threw the blade aside, his hands suddenly trembling as he pushed open the ruin garments and laid his palms against the softness of her full breasts.
She gave a little cry when she felt his touch on her bare skin, his fingers kneading her flesh.
But it was not enough and they both knew it as her own hands slid down his chest. She could feel his arousal through the heavy fabric of his trousers, hot and hard against her thigh.
"Erik," she repeated, desperate to feel him within her, "let me make love to you…now."
He nodded and rose, keeping his arms tight around her as he carried her back…not to the swan bed…but to his own little room.