Chapter 29: A Climactic Evening

The wedding was small and uneventful, attended only by the groom's father, the bride's childhood friend, and a very grateful police inspector and his wife. The bridegroom subsequently took everyone out for a wedding luncheon before he and his radiant bride returned to his house beneath the opera.

There had been some talk of where they should spend their first night together, as Erik told her the day before the wedding about his purchase of Philippe's flat. But for sentimental reasons, they both decided to spend their first few nights in the place that had been "home" for both of them for so long.

"I rather like the idea of having you all to myself," Erik told her with a shy smile. "And of no one else even knowing that we're there, or how to find us."

Christine liked the idea too.

So Erik and Christine Carrière returned to the opera in the late afternoon, just in time to see that evening's production of La Traviata (for which Christine, being an ingenue when the part called for a more worldly and mature actress, had not been cast).

The performance was enjoyably heartrending, and then they were going to go out for a late supper when Christine stopped her new husband. "Erik, perhaps we could simply go home instead? I've rather had enough of being around people for the day."

So they returned and had dinner in Erik's old house. Christine was acting more and more nervous as the meal progressed, though, until Erik finally put down his fork. She met his calm, even gaze miserably.

"Shall we go and sing a bit?" Erik asked, thinking that might be a good way of breaking the ice that had formed between them over dinner.

Christine nodded gratefully, and followed him to the music room. She had difficulty singing her part, though; Erik had chosen the wedding-night song from Romeo and Juliet, and every line she sang only made her more nervous.

Erik finally stopped and stood up. "My love," he said simply, and extended his hand to his bride. "Come, let's go sit and talk about this." He led her into his sitting room and sank down on the divan, pulling her down to lean against him. He put his arms around her and pressed his lips gently to her temple.

"Talk to me," he ordered.

"It – it's nothing."

"Christine."

"I'm nervous," she blurted.

"About me?"

"About… us."

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked quietly. "Or repulsed by the thought of my face?" He braced himself for the answer.

She nearly stuttered in her haste to reassure him. "Oh, no, Erik! Of course not! That's the last thing – I mean, how could you think so, after all this time? I'm sorry if I said anything, ever, to make you think I was afraid of you, or repulsed by you, or anything like that! I'm terribly sorry!"

"There's no need for apologies, love," he said. He flashed her a quick smile. "Now, then," he said. "If it's just the usual wedding-night jitters, then we can do something about it. Do you know anyone – do you have any women friends who could advise you about this?"

"Well, no," Christine said. "I do know a little… about what men and women do together, I mean. I've heard the corps de ballet talking about it. They were mostly talking about Philippe, though," she added.

Erik made a low, scornful noise in his throat. "Well, as you haven't married Philippe, I'm not sure how much stock you can put in their chatter."

Christine giggled at his disgust, knowing how the two men played at disliking each other. "Yes, and I'm glad of it!" she said. Giving him a pert look, she added, "I wouldn't want a man who's been with the entire corps de ballet!"

Erik snickered. "You're quite safe with me, then, my love; I've never 'been with' anyone before." He sobered and cocked an eye down at her. "You aren't the only one who's nervous about this," he admitted. "Probably more nervous than you, truth be known."

Christine, having become used to reading Erik's body language since it was impossible to see his facial expression, then noticed the uneasy set of his shoulders. "Erik, would you take your mask off?" she asked suddenly. "Please?"

Erik hesitated a long moment, as he always did, before he complied with her request… as he always did. He laid the mask on the side-table and looked back at Christine.

She stretched up against him and touched his mouth with hers. His arms tightened around her as he responded to the kiss (and his body responded to Christine's sliding up against him). The kisses grew more heated as Christine, suddenly desiring to taste her new husband, opened her mouth under his.

Oh, God, the feeling of her soft mouth clinging to his, the taste of her – it nearly proved his undoing. He backed off a little, staring down at her in awe. That she could see his naked face and still desire him continued to astound him.

She noted his surprise and one side of her mouth curled up in a mischievous smile. Having such power over him went a long way towards diminishing her nervousness!

"You took off your mask for me, Erik," she said. "What would you like me to take off for you?"

Erik smiled, the expression lightening up his gruesome face considerably. His grin was positively wicked. "Stockings, please, madame."

Christine blushed. "Naughty man," she teased. She shrugged and sat up to take her shoes off. Then, with one eye on Erik and one eye on what she was doing, she tugged her skirts up to her thighs and carefully unfastened her suspender snaps.

Erik swallowed hard at the sight of her shapely white thighs, revealed little by little as the stockings came off.

Then she looked back at him, smiling impishly at his dazed expression. She leaned up to kiss him again, and sat him lick his lips in anticipation. At the last minute, instead of kissing him, she turned aside to whisper in his ear, "Your turn, maestro." Then she leaned back, eyes dancing.

Erik, primed for a kiss but then denied, grabbed her by the back of the neck and hauled her back to him. His kiss was not as gentle as the last one, but just as satisfying. He reluctantly let her go. "Don't ever do that to me again," he grumbled. "Little vixen!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Contrite, Christine covered his face with kisses. Erik closed his eyes in bliss. When she finished, she got close enough to his mouth so that he could feel her lips moving when she said, "But it's still your turn."

"Ah, yes," he said. He bent down and pushed off his shoes, and then cocked a ridged and blackened eyebrow at her.

"Not fair. You got to choose, so I should too."

"What is your desire, then, my lady?" Erik asked.

Was it her imagination, or did his voice seem to caress the word "desire"? Erik had a beautiful and seductive speaking voice; Christine had always loved just listening to him talk. When he'd begun singing along with her in her lessons, it had sometimes been all she could do not to throw herself at him when the song was over!

And now, hearing him ask her what she desired..! She saw him lean back, watching her with a lazy smile on his lips, as if he had forgotten it was there. She suddenly remembered the night before the masquerade, when she had seen him come back from his midnight swim with his white linen shirt clinging damply to his torso. "The shirt," she said, blushing furiously at the memory, yet wanting to see if he was as well-built as he had seemed that night.

He was. As Erik slowly undid button after button and revealed more and more of his chest and shoulders, Christine's mouth went dry. His shoulders were broad, his stomach flat, his chest muscular, with a thin coating of fine brown hairs. She had seen him shirtless before, but bloodied and covered with bandages, and only for a moment. This was far, far better.

"Oh!" she exclaimed in a whisper.

"I'm sorry – is there something wrong?" Erik asked, closing his shirt again and holding it together with one hand. He thought of something. "It's the scar from the gunshot wound, isn't it? I know it's not terribly attractive." He started to button his shirt again.

Christine reached out to stop him. "Oh, no," Christine said. "That's not it at all." Slowly she reached out and pulled his shirt open again, hand stroking up to push it down his shoulders. "It's just that – well, you're very handsome, Erik."

The tender expression in his sea-grey eyes was almost enough to make her forget the swollen, blackened horror that was his face. And his body really was nice to look at, she admitted. "May I – ?" she asked, reaching a tentative hand toward him but stopping short of contact.

"Of course," Erik replied quietly, taking her hand and pressing it to the bare skin over his heart. "I'm all healed up, and we are married now, my dear. That means that all you see is yours… if you want it. I am yours. Completely." As her hands travelled up across his chest and over his shoulders, stroking his skin as she learned the textures of him, he closed his eyes and murmured, "I always have been, you know."

"Just as I am yours now, too," she replied, leaning close to touch her lips to his shoulder. He gasped, and she drew back sharply. "I'm sorry! Was that wrong?"

"Not at all," he answered, taking a deep breath. "In fact, I've been wanting to do that to you for quite some time now."

"Oh!"

"And it is your turn now, my dear," Erik smirked. His eager hands reached around behind her to the hooks of her wedding-dress. "And I think the dress, lovely as it is, cannot compare to the beauty it hides – and so, should be cast aside."

They had to stand up for Erik to reach the lower hooks, and Christine just leaned against him, her forehead tucked into the hollow below his chin.

"Ha!" he exclaimed in triumph, having finally finished undoing the last hook, and Christine smiled against his chest to hear him being so playful.

The dress came down and pooled on the floor, leaving her in her corset and shift. His attention was drawn to her shapely white shoulders, and he couldn't resist kissing her there in turn.

After that, the rest of the clothes came off easily, and neither one of them ended up having any cause to be nervous.