Good morning!
I think most of you will enjoy this chapter...
Nico
Christine was instantly on her feet, grasping for the closest thing she could find to cover her exposed body.
It happened to be a curtain, which toppled over the illuminated gaslight sitting on the vanity as she whipped the cloth across her bare skin.
The room fell into utter darkness.
Christine remained motionless, painfully aware that he was moving towards her.
She felt his hands on her bare shoulders before she was aware he was that close, causing her to gasp with fright.
Erik let his fingers linger across the soft skin of her arms and the nearly translucent skin at her throat that barely hid her spasming heartbeat.
He moved behind her, placing one thickly muscled arm around her waist, pulling her small frame impossibly close to his, splaying his large fingers across the expanse of her midsection.
The effect was a complete loss of time or space for Christine. There was only she, he, and the darkness that blanketed them both.
"It would seem you have found the face that matches the voice," he breathed into her ear, his tone menacing and bitter.
Christine closed her eyes as his other hand came up her side, moving the heavy veil of her hair from her neck so that he could lightly wrap a gloved hand around her swan-like neck.
"I…I don't know what you're talking about," Christine stammered, her voice cracking.
"I think you do," Erik countered. "Tell me, Christine…will you writhe in your sleep for him as well?"
Christine spun around, ready to slap him once again.
But Erik was never one to allow himself to be taken advantage of twice.
He grasped her right wrist as her hand came up, and then the left after he had captured the right. Her breath was coming raggedly…and although he could not see her face, he knew it was twisted into a mask of fear, anger and embarrassment.
Had she been able to see his face, she would have seen the smirk that came just before his lips crashed down upon hers.
At first, Christine could not think of anything else but struggling, desperately pushing him from her.
It was no use. His large frame easily overpowered her, the determined stroke of his lips and tongue locking her face to his.
At some point, Christine realized she was no longer pushing him away, but pulling him closer, her thin fingers grasping at the silk of his shirt, her chest pressed against his, her mouth soft and pliable as she devoured him, only slightly aware of the heavy white mask that was bumping against her cheek and chin in a rhythm that matched the movement of Erik's jaw.
Suddenly, Erik became aware of her submission…and the realization changed the moment…
Where he had originally thought of his kiss as a threat…as a show of the power he wanted her to believe he held over her…he now felt strange sensations of warmth…of the need to protect her…to prevent any hurt or pain to ever befall her.
And because of that, he pulled away suddenly, turning his back to her, placing his fingers to his lips.
Christine shivered as he left her embrace, feeling vulnerable, frightened and exhilarated all at once.
Perhaps it was the exhilaration that made her speak to him.
"What is your name?" She asked boldly.
She saw his back stiffen at the question.
It had been some time since anyone cared to ask his name.
He hesitated to answer.
He sensed Christine moving closer to him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, slowly turning him to face her.
Her lips were ruddy, as were her cheeks. A think line of sweat was visible on her brow; the heat of their kiss had obviously not gone unnoticed by her body. Her pulse still fluttered at the base of her throat and her hands were shaking, but she seemed braver…more intense.
"Your name," she repeated softly.
He looked down at her.
And for the first time since he lived with his mother, he felt a flame of possessive adoration for another human being.
"Erik," he said quietly, as if speaking his name would shatter her. "My name is Erik."
Christine smiled, her hand coming to rest on his mask.
For a moment, Erik feared she would remove it again, but she didn't. She merely pulled her hand away and lowered her eyes.
A knock on the door interrupted the brief moment of comfort the two shared.
"Christine?" Raoul's voice came from the other side of the door. "Christine, are you dressed?"
Erik's eyes ignited once more, the sound of the man in the hallway the source of the fire burning within him.
Christine looked frantically from Erik to the door, where another, more insistent knock was heard.
"Tell him to leave," Erik demanded, his voice deep, carrying all of the power that had ebbed as a result of their kiss. "Tell him you do not wish to be disturbed."
"I…I cannot!" Christine exclaimed.
"Tell him now!" Erik roared.
Raoul pressed his ear to the door.
He heard a voice.
A male voice, speaking harshly to Christine.
"Christine?" Raoul called a bit more loudly, trying the doorknob.
The room was locked.
Panic seized Raoul as he shook the door. "Christine! Whose is that voice? Who is that in there!"
Erik stared at Christine, becoming more enraged with each second that passed.
Raoul could be heard in the hallway, calling for a key…or a sledgehammer…anything that would gain him access into Christine's room. He was convinced she was in danger, and was announcing this theory to the small group of stagemen who arrived to begin to hack away at the heavy oak door that separated him from Christine.
Christine heard the splinter of wood, seeing the blade of a hatchet begin to peak through the thick wood.
"Dear God," Christine breathed. How would she explain Erik? How could she explain why she stood with him now, in nothing more than undergarments?
Erik looked at her.
An idea formed in his head.
"Come with me," he demanded suddenly, motioning to the mirror and then for her hand.
"What?" Christine asked, slightly horrified by the notion of returning to the lair.
"Come with me," he repeated, his eyes flitting to the door, which was almost completely broken through. He gestured for her hand once more, adding the word, "now."
So intense were his eyes…so resonating was his voice…the voice…
When the door was finally shattered, Raoul forced his way into the room, his usually perfectly groomed hair falling into his eyes like a veil.
He looked around, his hand on his sword.
The room, however, was empty.