A/N—Ah well, yes, it's that chapter, in which they finally get together. Be warned, rated M, avoid the wedding night scene if such things bother you. Sorry it's taken a while to post; I've been busy at work and out of town on business. However, it's a nicely long chapter for your reading pleasure….I hope you like it!
Thanks to Child of Music and Dreams, BadassSyd, givelove1morechance, Glacifly4POTO, Mominator124, MomoxDerpy, Guest, Leopard1, garasu-no-kame, and emeraldphan for their kind reviews! You all are awesome and I appreciate you so much. 3
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Please read and review.
A Second Chance
Chapter 21
Copyright 2016 by Riene
Christine rested in his lap, utterly content, her head on Erik's shoulder and his arms around her as they discussed what the future might bring, seated together on the sofa in the apartment. Erik passed his hand over her hair and turned to kiss her forehead.
"You aren't listening to a thing I'm saying," she said in mock annoyance.
"I am," he replied, his dark velvet voice mild. "You do not wish a large wedding but instead a quiet short ceremony. Meg and Madame Giry shall be in attendance. Meg wishes to take you shopping, although for what I cannot imagine. You want me to ask Nadir if he would attend the ceremony. We must purchase rings. You like flowers. Tea and cake. What did I miss?" He brushed his lips against her temple distractingly and she laughed.
"Perhaps you were listening," she conceded. "Erik, there is so much to do! I must find a dress…and you…" she frowned slightly, "You do plan to live here, in the apartment, with me, yes?" A tiny line had appeared between her eyes.
"Yes, of course, Christine," he said softly.
To live in the apartment, in a flat like other men, with a wife. His wife. To be together each day, with their music. To feel her caresses and kisses, to wake beside her. To…he swallowed, his mouth dry.
Christine gave his jaw below the mask an impulsive kiss and rose, seating herself at her desk and starting yet another list. Erik moved to the window, pulling the draperies back and staring out across the twilight city, his thoughts whirling in a decidedly uneasy manner.
For now, when she was within his grasp, he could feel nothing. No stirrings, no capability. Years of erotic dreams, of yearnings, of self-denial. He leaned his head against his fist. How could he face her on their wedding night?
He was not, Erik reflected grimly, entirely without experience. There had been one disastrous attempt years ago with a prostitute. He had observed numerous trysts about the Opera, amongst the crew and chorus and occasionally the cast. The evening streets of Paris were filled with women, whores and courtesans alike, but he looked on them with pity and doubted he could ever have performed with any of them. The girls of the gypsy camp had enjoyed a certain malicious teasing, and few of the men noticed by the Sultana had escaped whole.
She nicked his lower arm, her tongue darting out to lick the dark blood that welled and ran in a thin rivulet from the mark down his hand. Slowly her lips moved down his wrist, and seizing his hand, she leisurely sucked his fingers. She stroked his arousal, and he forced himself to look away as she smiled and raised the tiny blade again. Denied any release, he had soon learned to associate any pleasure with more pain.
The little Sultana had been fascinated by his pale skin. Stripped to the waist, his bloodless wrists tied above his head, Erik felt her nails rake his chest, his back. She had added to the scars, in places no one had yet marked. Dispassionately, Erik stared at the grotesque image reflected in the glass. So many scars, a hideous marred form his angel had never seen…raised lines, the flat smooth marks of burning, the ridged marks of ropes, the white thin lines of whips, the darker marks of old shackles, each line of pain and degradation, of abuse and cruelty. He remembered the young sun bronzed handsome vicomte and turned away, letting the draperies fall. Even the little odalisque, his for the taking, had chosen death at the Khanum's hands rather than to lie with him once. No woman could possibly accept him, want him in that manner. His angel would not understand, and he could not bear her pity.
Two days later they returned to his childhood village. Erik had told her of his previous visit and of the young priest who had written with hope his information might prove useful. He had prepared to go on a solitary journey once again, but Christine had firmly rejected the notion. "We'll go together," she said briskly, and that was the end.
An investigation proved that the train shortened the travel considerably, then they would have to hire transport for the end segment. Erik's commentary on the necessity of enduring public scrutiny was profane, thus they had engaged a first class compartment for some privacy.
They'd boarded the carriage very early in the morning. Erik had worn an unusual, nearly flesh-toned mask of some thin leather, with his hat pulled low over his face. Christine had walked beside him, realizing how uncomfortable he felt, and pressed her fingers to his arm in sympathy. The rail trip was short, only a couple hours, but Erik had kept his face turned away from the door the entire time.
He came back from the hostelry and stables tight-lipped and white with fury, but courteously handed Christine up into the waiting horse-drawn cab and gave directions to the church. The cab driver's dour expression lightened somewhat upon seeing Christine, as she took a minute to stroke the horse's glossy neck.
Father Julien was waiting for them by the gate in his black cassock, a man of medium height, waving brown hair brushed back from his wide forehead, and lines already forming around his kind eyes. His look of anxiety smoothed out into a welcoming smile. "I am glad you agreed to meet me again," he said to Erik. "Won't you come inside?"
The young priest escorted them into the small office space, firmly shutting the door, before turning to Christine. "I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mlle," he said, "but I can assume you are the fiancé of Monsieur Rouillard."
Christine smiled softly, her eyes going to the silent man beside her. "Yes," she said simply. "My name is Christine Daae. I do hope you are able to help us."
Father Julien smiled and released her hand. "That is my hope as well. Won't you please take a seat?" He turned to the masked man.
"Monsieur Rouillard, I…"
"Erik," he interrupted harshly. "I am Erik."
"…Erik, I think I will be able to help you. First, I must ask you a few questions."
Beside her he tensed, and she quietly slid her hand over, entwining her fingers with his own.
"Was there anyone else who was there in the house of your childhood with you?"
"Yes." His voice was tight, and Christine's heart ached for him, having to revisit what seemed to be painful memories. "There was a woman, a friend of my…mother's …a servant of sorts. Her name was Helene." He took a deep breath and she gently stroked her thumb across the back of his hand. "She would…tend my wounds, saw to it I was fed, had clean clothing." His voice was bitter.
"What caused you to leave home?"
Erik shut his eyes briefly, and when he spoke his voice was strained. "I had…entered my mother's room. There was a portrait of my father there I liked to look at, above a shelf where she kept a few of his things. Almost a shrine, I suppose. I was never allowed to enter the room. She found me there…I had picked up a book, become absorbed in it. I did not hear her approach." The staccato sentences paused. "She…flew into a rage and struck me." Beside him Christine made a soft sound of distress.
"What has this to do with anything?" he asked harshly. "I fail to see how your prying into the past can assist me."
"I am only trying to corroborate your story with one I have heard from another source. I must be very certain, you see, but I think…yes. Here, my son." He lifted a thin soft-sided book and slid it across the desk to his tense visitor.
Erik took the fragile volume in his long hands and opened it. Christine leaned over to look as well. It appeared to be a diary. "Go on," Father Julien urged quietly. "Look through it."
"It is Father Mansard's," Erik grated. He carefully fanned the pages and froze. Tucked between two pages of faded brown ink, lay two pieces of heavier, thicker paper. Certificate of Baptism, read one, and the other a certificate of birth, both with the name of Erik Rouillard.
"I don't understand."
"I've read his journal, or most of it by now," the young priest said quietly. "Father Mansard often visited your mother. He was troubled by her refusal to attend Mass, so he called upon her. Despite her wishes, he fulfilled his duties and recorded your birth, and apparently even baptized you without her knowledge, leaving the proof here, in his journal. He was…deeply troubled by your mother's actions."
"She thought me a demon," Erik said bitterly. "And punished me accordingly."
"He asked, repeatedly, about the bruises on your face and body. She always had an explanation." At his expression, the young priest leaned forward. "It wasn't enough…I'm sorry, M Rouillard. But he did what he could—it was he who was your tutor and arranged for your books, and he counseled your mother, urged her to love her son."
"Enough," he snapped. "I do not wish to hear any more." Christine captured his hand again, curling his fingers between her palms.
"What does this mean for us, Father?" she asked. Her voice was soft but her eyes were direct. Erik turned, locking his gaze on the young priest's face.
Father Julien leaned back, smiling.
"You can marry."
Raoul stalked the corridors of the Opera House, watching for any sign of Christine. Part of him regretted his harsh words, anger fueled by hurt and disappointment, but he had very little experience with angry women and had not been prepared for Christine's reaction. She had returned the ruby and gold ring with a stiff, polite note, and sent a bank draft a day later. His overtures had since been rebuffed and Raoul knew his only chance lay in seeing her, apologizing in person. Pride had long been an integral part of a de Chagny's upbringing, and his had suffered a blow.
Raoul slowly became aware of another presence, a watching darkness, and spun around. "Show yourself, Phantom."
A shadow shifted, separating itself from the wall silently.
He stood there, as Raoul had seen him only a few times before, tall, imposing, a white porcelain mask covering half of his face, nearly invisible in his long black cloak against the darkened corridor.
"So. You live after all."
He said nothing, merely inclining his head, his expression contemptuous, disdainful.
"The Opera Ghost..."
"The Opera Ghost is dead. There is only Erik."
They faced each other, tension crackling the air between them.
Anger and betrayal rose in a red haze. "How long did it take before she went running back to you," he sneered, but Erik heard the bitterness in his voice and answered calmly.
"She deeply and sincerely mourned you," he said quietly. "Do not denigrate her grief."
"You...you manipulated her, spied on her, twisted her every which way until she did not know what she wanted, and the moment I was gone, you lured her down there again."
"She came to me, of her own free will," Erik snapped. "I tried to make her stay away. I am well aware I am a monster, that she deserves so much more. But she returned to me...and I would love her for that alone."
Raoul stood there, his fist clenched and eyes flashing. "She cannot love you. You have lied to her, twisted her thoughts. You're a murderer."
For a moment rage contorted Erik's face. "At least I do not presume to tell her what she thinks or feels," he snarled. "Christine is free to choose, as she always has been." He could feel his control beginning to slip and clenched his hands, his voice icy. "Go now, boy, before I do something I regret."
Raoul did not find her that day, for a pink-cheeked Christine was with Meg and Madame Giry happily shopping. Adele Giry had dispensed calm, practical advice on the subject of household linens and "suitable" clothing for a new bride. Christine had ordered a new hat, gloves, and a day dress, undergarments, stockings, and shoes. After a light luncheon the ballet mistress had returned home, leaving the two younger women alone for shopping of a rather more intimate nature. Meg's eyes had been far away, dreamily thinking of a time when she too might be able to consider creamy satin and delicate lace. Christine had blushed and stammered, and the smiling shop girls had been delighted to make suggestions. All in all, it was a very pleasant afternoon.
Boxes and bags piled around their feet and spilled from the table onto extra chairs. The young women were restoring themselves with tea and cakes as the afternoon drew to a close. "That new overskirt is going to look fantastic," Meg gushed. "And I love the style of the blouse and jacket. So very sophisticated."
"You don't think the color is too drab?" Christine wondered.
"No, that steel-blue color does wonderful things for your skin and eyes, Christine, and those charcoal street shoes and gloves are so smart and match perfectly. You'll look so stylish." Her voice was wistful. "Just don't forget me, please, when you're an old married woman?"
Christine squeezed her hand. "How could I? You're the sister I never had. You and Madame will be my first guests. Erik had me choose the most gorgeous tea and coffee set for afternoon entertaining. I can't wait for you to see it."
Teary hazel eyes blinked and her oldest friend forced a smile. "I'm going to miss you."
"Not much will really change," Christine said softly. "I will still see you at the Opera and we'll make time for luncheon or tea."
"He won't mind?" Meg hesitated. "I know sometimes husbands get very strict with their wives."
"Erik's not like that."
Meg sat back, biting her lip for a moment. "Christine…are you sure, really really sure, that you want to do this, that it will be all right? I mean…we all know what it was like last year." She grasped Christine's hand, seeing her friend frown. "Please don't be angry with me. I don't want you to regret anything or be hurt."
Christine took a deep breath, fighting back sharp words. Meg was only concerned. All they knew of Erik was the Opera Ghost, whereas she knew the man, a man who had been working endlessly for her happiness, a man trying to be better for her sake. "I will be fine, Meg. He loves me truly, and," she blushed, "I want to be with him." She glanced at the watch pinned to her jacket. "Now, if you're quite done with your refreshment, I think we are about due for our dress fittings."
Though the days passed slowly, the two weeks sped by. Father Julien had accompanied them, Erik being somewhat stunned, to the civil offices there in the small village, where Erik and Christine provided their documentation and filled out the required sheaf of papers. Though the clerk at the office des marriages looked askance at the masked man, Father Julien's warm and smiling presence eased the process and soon the banns were date set, all that remained were the preparations.
She had just been about to depart for the Opera House one afternoon when Erik arrived at the apartment, bearing another stack of parcels and intent on having the kitchen completed and perfect for her. For some days they had not seen each other and Erik rapidly crossed the room to sweep her into his arms. He was all hard planes and angles, but she nestled against him, enjoying the feel of his unyielding body next to hers. Eventually Christine gave him a tiny kiss and began to step away, but his arms tightened around her possessively, pulling her back against him. "Erik?" she questioned softly.
"Sometimes I fear when you walk away, you'll come to your senses and never return," he said quietly against her hair. "And then what would become of your Erik? He would die, Christine….for he cannot bear to live without you."
She tilted her head back and traced his jaw line below the mask with her thumb, causing him to shudder. "I am yours, beloved, and you are mine. I will never let you go," she whispered. "Only a few more days and we will be together."
"That is still so hard for me to believe." His hand stroked her chestnut hair then cradled her face, long fingers gently caressing her temples down to the nape of her neck, making her shiver.
Oh, he was an enigma, this man, simultaneously craving her touch and fearing it. There were days she could kiss him, her arms around him, until he pulled back rigid with control lest desire overtake his fragile restraint, and days he flinched and snarled if her hands roamed too near his back or the mask. There was no rhyme or reason for it; it simply was Erik. She'd learned his hands were always the safest to touch and she clasped them now, bringing them to her lips, those long thin sensitive musician's fingers with their hard calluses from years of violin, piano, and physical labor. She kissed the swollen knuckles gently and felt him shudder. "Oh, Christine…" he whispered, "promise me…"
"Always," she said with love in her eyes, a vow itself.
Nadir happily sank into one of the two chairs by the fireplace, brushing the dust from his elegant tan suit. "That should be it. Darius will come with me tonight and we will move these last few items to the apartment." He cradled the cup of mint tea in long brown fingers, pleased.
Erik nodded absently, looking around the underground home. He had asked Christine somewhat hesitantly about the cellars, his abode for so many years. They had discussed it earnestly and decided to leave the rooms ready for emergency retreats, nights when the weather was horrible or as a safe place in the event of some catastrophic occurrence. Oddly, Christine had wanted to spend their wedding night in the underground house.
She'd reached for his arm and leaned her head against his shoulder wistfully. "Could we stay here our first night?" He looked down at her, his dark eyes reluctant.
"Why, Christine? I would think this to hold nothing but painful memories for you."
She shook her head. "This is where it all began. It just seems right to come back here for…." She was blushing.
"If you wish it," he said simply, "then of course." They had continued to sort and carefully wrap the few items he wanted to bring to the flat. His new life…much of what remained here were things he preferred to forget.
Erik rose, pacing the floor, pouring himself a glass of wine then leaving the glass on the sideboard. The Persian watched him with amusement.
"I have never seen you like this. You are as nervous as a virgin." There was a stricken silence as he met Erik's bleak eyes. "I am sorry, my friend," Nadir said quietly. "That was unforgivable." The other man nodded once, stiffly.
"I will give you the advice my father gave to me, on the day of my wedding, if you wish it."
Erik's eyes fastened on his face. "Did I ever meet him?"
Nadir smiled a bit grimly. "You would remember it if you had. I was equal parts in awe and terrified of him. But he gave me two pieces of advice where women were concerned, and both have stood me well over the years."
"And what is that, pray tell."
"He said that a woman will forgive the man she loves many things, but she will never forget."
"And what is the other?"
Nadir leaned forward and smiled, but his eyes were far away. "Always see to her pleasure first, and then she will never want to leave your arms and always welcome you back." For a moment he was back in Persia, the night air scented with jasmine, the breeze cool on his skin, Rookheya's soft cries in his ears and her supple limbs entwined around his. He smiled wistfully; she would forever be young and lovely, her voice still softly calling him in the dark hours of night. Nadir swallowed the remainder of his tea and wished his friend such pleasant memories.
In the end, their joining was a simple affair. The wedding party had gathered the day before in the little village, occupying most of the rooms in the hostelry. Nadir Khan and Adele Giry stood as witnesses, and Meg helped Christine dress and carried flowers.
Her dress was of ivory silk, with cutwork, embroidery, and lace, and a plain draped bustle and long sleeves, a gown closely fitting her slim form. She wore a delicate veil that had been Adele Giry's, and carried Erik's flowers. Beside her, Meg stood in a gown of dark gold taffeta, a color that suited her hazel eyes and upswept blond curls. Erik had been persuaded to wear a new suit of fine grey wool, with a snowy shirt, embroidered waistcoat, and black cravat. He stood beside a smiling Nadir Khan, stiff and uncomfortable, but to her eyes tall and elegant. Once she stepped into the mairie, the small chamber that served to host the civil marriage ceremonies, Erik had been unable to look anywhere else. His black eyes burned with intensity and a flush of high color stained his normally pale cheekbone. Coming to stand beside him, Christine took his icy hand.
The official spoke calmly, asking them their intentions and to repeat their vows, and all too soon the short ceremony was over. Erik slid a delicate gold band onto her finger next to the sapphire and diamond ring resting there, and much to his surprise, Christine slid a heavy gold band on his own hand. When told he could kiss his bride, Erik hesitantly took her into his arms, brushing the barest whisper of a kiss across her lips, loathing the weight of others' eyes on this first, sacred act. But she was his, and in her warm tender gaze, Erik felt the promise of joy to come.
The parish hall of the village church served to host their small reception. Marie had happily provided tea and cakes for the mysterious folk from Paris who had come for a wedding. Sharp was her disappointment that the gowns and suits were not haute couture, but the glimpse she caught of the glowing bride made the housekeeper's own heart swell with memories. Father Julien had been oddly close-mouthed about the affair, saying the couple wished for privacy, and Marie had contented herself to look from afar. They had stayed for only an hour or so before departing in a carriage for the train back to Paris.
At the station, Nadir had insisted on keeping the Girys company in a separate compartment to give his old friend some privacy with his new bride. Erik still wore his fine grey wool, but Christine had changed into her new street suit of steel blue for the trip home. Across from him in the carriage, his bride's open face glowed with happiness, and often she dropped her eyes to her hand, self-conscious of the additional circlet of gold residing there. In the window her luminous blue eyes reflected excitement, pleasure, and perhaps a touch of apprehension as to what the night might bring.
For his part, Erik was numb. The weight of the heavy gold ring encircling his finger was a constant reminder of his new status, and he was silent with conflicting emotions, unable to quite grasp that a lifetime of enforced solitude, of abandonment and rejection, of loneliness and anger might have ended. She was his…his wife. Surely it was only a dream and he would still wake to the chill dark silence of the underground world, aching and empty, pushed to the very edges of madness and despair that such treasures would ever be his.
Rain pattered then slashed against the windows of the train compartments. Across from him Christine swayed slightly on her seat, suddenly tired from the two days' travel and excitement. Silently he held out his arms and she awkwardly crossed the tiny space to lean against him. Within minutes her eyes drooped and Christine slept, her head on his shoulder, one small square hand curled against his chest. Erik leaned his good cheek against her sweet smelling hair, not moving any more than necessary, for his angel was in his arms.
Silk charmeuse settled around her ankles like a whisper, clinging softly to every curve. From a cut-crystal jar she dabbed the tiniest dot of perfume behind her ears, her wrists, her knees. Thoughtfully Christine extinguished all but two candles.
The journey back from their wedding ceremony had taken only a few hours. Nadir Khan had offered to see Meg and Adele Giry safely back to their home, while she and Erik had returned to the Opera House, slipping past the few people on the streets. Dinner had been awkwardly quiet, Erik's burning eyes following her every move, and eventually she had retired to the Louis-Philippe room to bathe and prepare for their wedding night.
Erik entered the room and froze, searing eyes noting the unbroken line of the fabric; she wore nothing beneath. In the candlelight, her ivory skin was as luminous as the champagne-colored gown.
He had discarded the jacket and waistcoat elsewhere. "Come to bed, my husband," she said softly, catching his hand and pulling him down.
Erik sat heavily on the side of the bed. "Christine," he said, almost inaudibly. "I can't do this. Please…I never thought…."
She leaned up and wrapped her arms around his waist pressing her cheek against his back, and held him tightly. "Erik…it will be all right."
His breathing was ragged. "Christine…you don't know what you're asking," he said in agony.
"I want you to be with me tonight," she said simply. "As my husband, my friend, my lover."
He rose so suddenly she nearly fell. "Don't ask me. Just…please don't." And he was gone.
For a moment, Christine blinked back tears of disappointment and anger, her nails biting her palms. Then decisively, she reached for the gown's matching robe and slippers.
He was not in the music room, as she had thought. Chill air on her ankles revealed a draft from below the heavy draperies in the entryway. He was outside. Dimly, she could see his solitary form facing the lake.
Christine paused only long enough to gather his heavy cloak and slung it about her shoulders. He did not seem to hear her approach and did not turn when she awkwardly draped the soft wool around him. With a sigh he covered her as well and she deliberately nestled close, putting her arms around his waist and leaning her head on his shoulder. Stiffly, he moved one arm around her.
"We're always walking away from each other, Erik," Christine said sadly. Her hand pleated the ruffle of his shirt.
He shut his eyes, feeling the gentle sensation of her fingers through the thin fabric. Longing so intense it nearly overwhelmed him rose in a tidal wave, but he caught her hand and held it still. "Do you think I don't want you?" he said sharply. "You are mistaken, if so. But it is impossible."
"Why?"
"You wouldn't understand," he said bleakly.
"Then show me. Teach me," she whispered, pleading.
In the darkness, it was somehow easier to speak. "Christine…I am…it's not only…"
"Your face?" she asked softly, and felt his slight shudder in response. "I always wondered," she said quietly, "and…assumed so. But Erik, it's here that matters." She rested her hand on his chest, feeling the erratic heartbeat beneath.
And that was the crux of the matter, thought Erik bleakly, for his heart was surely black with the sins of the past, sins he hoped she would never know.
"Let's go back inside, my love," she whispered.
o-o-o-o-o-o
Resigned, he stood before her.
"What do you want of me, Christine?" he said harshly. "As you see, I am here."
Her voice was soft, gentle. "I want you, Erik. All of you. Not just the parts you want me to see."
"It is not a thing a woman should have to see."
"You underestimate me."
"Experience tells me otherwise."
"Do you have so little faith in me? In our marriage?" she asked softly.
His face was like stone, his eyes empty. She sensed he had distanced himself as far as he could, prepared for, no, expecting, ridicule and humiliation.
"Do not ask this of me."
"I am asking." She held his gaze.
A lifetime of rejection warred with resignation in his eyes.
"Then so be it," he said bitterly.
Stiffly, he unbuttoned the starched and pleated shirt, letting it fall open as she moved toward him. Erik stared stonily past her, focused on the far wall, unable to meet her eyes, afraid to see the revulsion on her face. In the silence, Christine took a step forward and set the candle on the edge of the mantle. His pale skin was like ivory in the candlelight. "Oh, my love," she said softly, her eyes full of tears. Though she had glimpsed his body during the week she and the Persian had cared for him, the full extent of his injuries had been hidden. She laid her hands flat on his chest. He flinched violently, and she could almost hear the pounding of his heart.
Her small hands were tender and cool on his bare skin. Slowly she touched the horrible marks of his past, gently tracing the lines. "Do they hurt?" she asked softly, and he shook his head.
"No. Not any more."
Her hands moved around to his back under the fabric, gently questing upward from hips to shoulders, feeling similar acts of violence under her fingertips. He was trembling from tension and skeletally thin. "I am so sorry," she whispered.
His face twisted. "I don't want your pity," Erik said harshly.
In answer, Christine curved her hand around his masked cheek, forcing him to look down at her. "I am sorry," she said steadily. "How could I not be? I would do anything to take away the pain of your past. It's not pity, Erik." She stroked his back gently. "And it doesn't matter. I don't care if you have a thousand scars."
Christine freed her hands from the shirt and raised them to his face, pulling him downwards, and kissed his uncovered lips. Her mouth was warm, sweet and soft on his. Slowly, Erik embraced her, responding to the kiss hesitantly, his arms tightening around her with growing desperation and need. Her hands twined around his neck, caressing his dark hair, stroking his shoulders. Erik finally broke the contact, looking down into her face, his breathing ragged. How could she possibly want to touch him? Christine gazed back, holding him to her, her color heightened and eyes dilated, an expression he'd never seen before. Erik pressed a kiss onto her forehead then firmly set her aside to stalk to the sideboard. His back was to her, but she heard the clink of crystal as he replaced the stopper in the decanter.
Erik consumed the brandy in one hard swallow, feeling it burn on the way down and returned to where Christine waited silently. She slid her arms around his waist, looking questioningly into his eyes. Erik rubbed his cheek gently on her hair then tipped her chin up to kiss her. Christine's lips parted, tasting the cognac on his breath. His hands dropped to her waist, and unsteadily, he untied the ribbon belt holding the robe closed. She shut her eyes, feeling his lips trail down her bared shoulder, the thin ribbon strap falling down. The robe slipped from her arms and fell to the floor. Slowly, she pulled his shirt loose from his trousers, caressing his back, as his hands slid down the silky fabric to her hips, up to her breasts.
"No," he murmured, "not here, not like this." Bending, he swiftly lifted her into his arms and carried her, lowering her on the bed in the Louis-Philippe room and sat beside her. Christine pushed the loosened shirt from his shoulders, finding the scarring extended down his arms as well, and pulled him down beside her. She brought his wrist up to her lips and kissed the underside, her lips tickling his sensitive skin. Gently, Christine caressed his hated body, his back, his chest, as if her touch could smooth away the pain of the past, trailing kisses down his throat to his collarbone. Erik shut his eyes, barely breathing. No one had ever touched him with such gentleness, such compassion. The whirlwind of sensations was overwhelming.
Faced with a need of his own to explore her body, he leaned over her, the masked side of his face toward the shadows. Carefully, Erik pulled the silken material from her shoulder, baring her breast, his touch tentative, unsure as he stroked her smooth skin, so different from his own. His thumb brushed her nipple and she gasped, causing him to stroke the aureole in slow circles, amazed as she hardened beneath his touch. Lowering his head, he tentatively tasted her, and she clutched his head, holding him to her body, encouraging him to continue his explorations with soft sounds of pleasure.
She freed her arms from the ribbon straps as he slowly pushed the silky fabric downwards. In form, she was no different than the naked gilded nymphs, but how warm, how utterly right. He lay beside her, bare chest to breasts, stroking her back, slowly, so slowly working the slippery fabric downward and over her hips. Shyly, she shifted, allowing him to remove the gown, and lay there, blushing.
"My god," he murmured, his eyes sweeping her, "you are beautiful." His hands caressed the curve of her hip and swell of breast. She ducked her head, blushing again. Slowly his hand moved downward, tracing patterns on her skin, swirling movements that left her dizzy and yearning for something…his touch… He heard her gasp his name as his hand moved up her leg, then gently, insistently, pushed her knees apart, stroking, swirling upwards. Christine clutched his shoulders convulsively, hardly breathing, wanting him to touch her there. She arched under him, gasping as his long cool fingers found damp curls, and with tantalizing slowness, caressed her gently. Nadir's words echoed in his mind.
"Does this please you?" he murmured, entranced, watching as she bit her lower lip, her eyes squeezed shut, focused so intently on his movements, trembling beneath him as he gently explored the most intimate part of her body. Unfamiliar heat and moisture pooled; the intensity was nearly overwhelming. After a minute, she pushed his hand away.
"Erik…please…I want to touch you, to hold you too."
He shed his trousers with unsteady hands, and after a pause, the Persian undergarment he wore and lay back beside her, extinguishing the remaining candle with his fingers. Shadows deepened, with only the dim illumination remaining from the outer rooms.
In the near total darkness, she explored his scarred body, tense hard shoulders, taut thighs and buttocks, reveling in the way the flat muscles of his belly jerked when her hands slid lower, caressing, and heard him gasp when she finally clasped him there, firm, smooth, so heated. "Erik," she whispered, "show me how you want to be touched."
He wrapped his hand around hers, daring to tighten her grip, to move her hand up, and down, shuddering in the aching pleasure of her warm hands on his flesh. Suddenly his face tightened and she froze. "Oh god," he moaned, "stop now, Christine, please." He held himself very still, panting with shallow breaths, as if holding back from some great precipice. His eyes opened, dark and desperate. "….let me…please…I want to…"
Her hands urged him above her, pulling him forward. He knelt, supporting his much greater weight on his hands, searching her wide eyes. "Christine," he whispered, needing permission for this last, final act of intimacy. In answer she drew his head down, kissing him fiercely. He entwined his fingers with hers, raising their hands above her head. She felt his cool hand brush her thigh, then his hardness probe cautiously at her cleft.
Oh god, she was so soft, so wet, so willing…he gathered her in his arms, and with a sudden hard thrust, pierced her. Beneath him she cried out, turning her head, tears squeezing from the corners of her eyes, clinging to his shoulders. How had he forgotten that she was virgin? He held very still, feeling her trembling, trying to give her time to adjust, but the sensation was overwhelming…tight, hot, sheathed within her. "Christine," he groaned, and began moving against her.
She choked back another cry as he withdrew and pressed into her again. Oh god, it hurt, unrelenting pressure and pain, and she hid her face against his shoulder, determined not to cry out. She shifted beneath him, seeking a better position, raising her knees and he moved with her, whispering endearments, kissing her temple, caressing her. His chest brushed her nipples, and a fluttering feeling began again somewhere inside; the sharp pain slowly receding into a dull ache, masked by a tightening, spiraling sensation as his uncertain, awkward movements ignited something deep inside. "Erik," she moaned, and began to meet him movement for movement. He felt her suddenly clenching all around him, crying out, and with an inarticulate cry, he thrust deep within her and crossed the threshold as well.
He collapsed on top of her, spent, holding her tightly, then rolled them both sideways. Panting, they lay entwined, coming down from that dizzying pinnacle. Stunned at the intensity, Erik kept his eyes closed, savoring the aftermath of their lovemaking. Christine's hand lay against his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart. After a moment, she felt him sigh.
Dark eyes regarded her questioningly. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I hurt you. That wasn't…"
"Shh." She put two fingers over his mouth and he kissed them, smiling crookedly. She stroked his back gently, then reached up to kiss him, cupping his face. Her fingers encountered the warm porcelain mask. Deliberately, she raised it, pulling it from his face to carefully drop it on the floor below. He jerked away from her, eyes blazing suddenly in anguish and betrayal. "Christine!"
She caught his face in her hands, gently holding him. "Nothing between us, Erik. Not now." She brushed back the hair from his eyes, then cautiously, her fingertips moved down the side of his face. He shuddered, closing his eyes tightly, as she slowly stroked the prominent cheekbone and jaw line. The skin stretched so tightly across the planes of his face that it pulled his mouth and eyelid askew. Her fingers gently traced the damaged eye socket and eyebrow. Carefully, Christine smoothed his thin hair, streaked with grey, back from the collapsed temple. For the first time, she considered if the mask might also protect the ruined flesh and bone from further injury. He caught her hand in his before she could touch the terrible deformity of his skull.
"No, don't," he whispered. "I can't bear it."
"Have I hurt you?" she whispered, stricken.
His dark eyes opened and looked down into hers. "No, my love. You've given me more pleasure than I ever dreamed possible." He kissed her palm and she curled into his arms, her head on his shoulder, stroking his chest.
"Stay with me tonight," she whispered. In answer, he drew the bedclothes around them both and pressed his scarred lips to her hair. She fell asleep listening to his steady heartbeat, their fingers intertwined.
His cries awoke her in the depths of the night, shouting, on his knees thrashing against some unseen enemy. "No….NO!"
"Erik! Erik!" she begged, frightened. "What's wrong?" She caught his flailing hands, clasping them together and pulling them to her heart, holding them tightly.
Some recognition came into his haunted eyes. "Christine," he whispered hoarsely. His ragged breathing slowed and she pulled him to her, feeling the frantic beating of his heart as he shuddered in her arms.
He could not meet her eyes. "Just a nightmare," he said, almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry. My mask….where is my mask?"
"I have it," she whispered, and felt for it on the floor. "Here."
His hands deftly secured the bindings around his head, and only then did his breathing slow. "My god, Erik," she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.
In the silence, she folded him into her embrace, holding him closely like a child, his head on her shoulder, stroking his back and thin hair. His shaking body felt like ice, and she pulled the blankets back tightly around them both. It was not until she felt the slowly spreading wetness that she realized he could weep.
Well, what did you think? Worth the wait? Please leave me a review and let me know what you thought!
~R
