A/N: Christine is finding it increasingly more difficult to hold Erik at bay...We females can certainly understand...How many of us would be able to resist this man? She has her principles, nevertheless, and this is the 19th century...I have revised this chapter in order to have it reflect these realities.
Chapter 10: The Bud Bursts Into Bloom...Or Does It?
Reclining on the cot, she arranged her skirts about her, facing him with her most radiant smile. Erik smiled as well, but then abruptly made an attempt to rise.
She was immediately apprehensive. "Erik! Why are you getting up? Your arm..."
"I am quite all right, my sweet," he replied, as he grasped a cushion from the nearby settee, and tossed it to her. "Here. Lean your elbow on this cushion."
She obligingly put the cushion underneath her elbow, and once more took up her position. He studied her calmly for a few seconds, and then settled down to work, satisfied. "Hold your position for as long as you are able, my love," he instructed, while he began skillfully blocking in his composition with the pen, dipping it quite frequently into the inkwell.
Silence dropped over them, and the only sound to be heard was that of the pen scratching on the paper, as Erik drew, at first in broad, bold strokes, accompanied by muttered curses referring to the inadequacy of his instrument. Then, he began to firm up his strokes as he put in details.
Christine was fascinated, watching him work. He gave her the impression of a clinically precise surgeon, sharply focused on his subject, as he analyzed her figure, and the shapes around her, with unerring determination. He was seeing her, he would explain later, not as Christine, the woman he loved, but as a series of shapes, interlocking with each other, as well as the space around them. However, once he had the composition and drawing firmly in hand, he could then afford the luxury of coming out of his artistic detachment, to see once more the object of his eternal devotion. Thus he could imbue the drawing with all the passionate adoration he felt for her, while at the same time making a bold compositional statement.
She fell easily into the spell he wove about her, once more becoming the muse who inspired the fire of his endless creativity. When at last the drawing was finished, or rather, when Erik deemed it ready for contemplation, he looked up from the paper, nodding at her. She arose, a bit stiffly, to go take a look at it. What she saw simply took her breath away. The woman depicted on the paper seemed to be alive, breathing, and appeared to be surrounded by real atmosphere. Her weight was solidly supported by the cot she lay on. Each line of her flowing gown formed part of the total scaffolding of her figure. She was firmly ensconced in the space of the drawing, with sculptural majesty. Her face bore an enigmatic smile, somewhat reminiscent of that adorning the face of "La Gioconda", otherwise known as the "Mona Lisa". Yet, her smile was totally hers, and Erik had masterfully captured it with a lover's keen, adoring eye.
She was totally mesmerized, as well as deeply moved. Words would not come to her, and she could not contain her astonishment.
At length, Erik cleared his throat, gazing fixedly at her while a slight smile played about his own lips. "I perceive that you are quite pleased with it, Christine," he remarked at last.
She turned radiant eyes upon him. "Pleased? Oh, Erik, it is a masterpiece! How have you been able to capture the essence of who I am?"
He was visibly moved, and, picking up one of her hands, kissed it, then brought it up to his face. Taking a deep breath, and keeping his eyes firmly locked with hers, he whispered, "I, too, have seen the face of your soul, my beautiful Christine..."
Her eyes at once filled with tears, and she went into his arms as he laid the drawing aside. He wrapped her firmly into his embrace, crooning softly to her, using any endearment he could think of to convey the depth of his love. They lay back on the bed, she with her head on his chest, he resting his chin on the top of her head. His hand began caressing her curls, almost of its own volition.
"My love..." he murmured, with all the ardor of a man totally obsessed with his beloved. "Oh, my love..."
She brought her head up to look into his eyes. What he saw in them made his heart sing with gladness. She loved him. She really and truly loved him, with all of her self, soul and body. She was his, and he wanted to make her life with him a pure delight. He wanted her to feel nothing but happiness at his side, forever...
Christine felt as though her soul was slowly melting into his...She brought her lips closer, tenderly brushing his, as her eyes closed. She sighed in contentment. Erik shuddered with restrained desire. He returned her kiss, blissfully opening his mouth, requesting admittance to hers. When she gave it, he groaned in pleasure, and thrust his tongue boldly in. Her tongue met his just as boldly, and thus they began a dance of moist embraces. He tightened his hold upon her, and she squirmed higher, so that she now lay fully upon his body. Fire enveloped them as their kiss deepened, as their two impassioned selves sought to join irrevocably into one.
Erik's left hand held her waist, while his still somewhat painful right hand moved slowly to gingerly caress her back. They continued to kiss, breaking off occasionally to nuzzle each other's necks, to travel over each other's features with panting breath, gazing into each other's eyes with sweet, soulful intensity...
Christine suddenly lifted her head, and Erik opened his eyes to look at her in a haze of love and passion. "What is it, my beloved?"
His voice poured over her like warm sunshine, leaving her limp with pleasure and a love so fierce it threatened to engulf her.
"Erik..." Her voice was not her own. It had become a husky, love-filled whisper, and dripped like honey over his senses, setting them aflame. "We...must stop, before we are unable to do so...I...am feeling...Oh, my love...I cannot...be with you like this, not yet...Ah, my love!" As she said this, she tearfully tore herself from his arms, and stood, rather shakily.
Her eyes, when they met his once more, were pools of endless desire. She turned from him, however, and walked slowly to the window, her hands trembling as she pulled them up to her hair, attempting to re-arrange its disarray.
He felt a jolt of searing pleasure in his groin as he observed her. She was obviously doing her best to control her rising passion, and he was mortified, but pleased as well, that he was having such an effect on her.
"In my heart, you are already my wife, Christine..." His voice was husky as well. He hesitated, then went on. "But, despite all my teasing, I really do not wish to pressure you into doing something you really are not ready for ."
She sighed, and an errant tear slipped down her cheek as she turned back to him. "Would you...like me to sit for you again, Erik? Or perhaps," she added quickly, "we should have some breakfast first. Are you not hungry?"
He smiled his wolfish smile, as his eyes roved over her, bringing a very becoming blush to her cheeks. "Indeed, I am, my sweet..." he said, so sensuously that she was suddenly quite out of breath. "It is you I hunger for!"
She was unable to answer as she stared at him, her body dictating its own commands to her, while her conscience strove to hold it in check. Erik was aware that her mind was waging an intense battle with her heart.
There was a long pause, one laden with the sparks of an almost unbearable sexual tension. Their eyes were heatedly devouring each other. They could not tear their gaze from each other...
Erik's breathing was becoming irregular and shallow, while his eyes gave hers a hint of the sensual assault he meant to subject her to, if she would only consent to it. For a moment, he firmly believed that she would succumb, making his happiness complete. Although he had every intention of marrying her, he was finding it sheer torture to be near her every day and night, without being able to touch her as he wanted to touch her -- with a lover's sure, intimate caress...
She turned from him again, breaking eye contact with him. "I must really see to our breakfast, Erik," she mumbled, as she pulled the door open more forcefully than necessary. She inexplicably paused on the threshold, taking a deep breath. He was chagrined when she did not turn back to him as he was hoping she would, but resolutely stepped out of the room, firmly closing the door behind her.
Erik let out his breath all at once, allowing his body to sink into the mattress, hoping he could stem the flow of his arousal. He wanted her so badly he could almost feel her body once again on his, this time unclothed, and moving in the seductively slow rhythms of love...He closed his eyes, then, and pictured her, gloriously naked beneath him, while he stroked her flaming center, sweetly, oh, so sweetly, her little moans of pleasure nearly pushing him over the edge...
He snapped his eyes open, forcing himself to sit up in bed. Taking another deep breath, he mentally reminded himself that he had to give her some time. After all, she was a well-brought up, rather sheltered young lady, in spite of the worldly influence she must have encountered in the dressing rooms of the Opera House. He could not expect to bed her without a romantic ritual of seduction, and he knew that she would prefer this to be preceded by a ring, accompanied by a wedding ceremony. Ah, but she, too, was being tempted mightily...He grinned with masculine pride. She was completely his. There was no doubt about it. It would simply take some time and romance to convince her that, wedding or no wedding, they were meant to be joined in every way...
His eyes wandered over to the drawing, which he had placed on top of the night table. He sighed as he stared at it. Her soul shone forth from those eyes that captivated him so, and he was drawn into them just as though the real woman were sitting before him. Her beauty went beyond the merely physical, and this was what made her so irresistible to him. Leaning over with a bemused smile upon his lips, he gently picked up the drawing, studying it intensely for a few minutes. He must really have her sit for him again, and many more times to come. He would never tire of gazing upon her loveliness, setting it down on paper with incisive precision and loving detail...
It suddenly occurred to him that he wanted to paint her portrait , as well. This would be quite interesting, as he had never actually painted before, but he had no doubt that he would have no trouble mastering the intricacies of the medium. He remembered having read something about the painting methods of the great masters. Ah, but then, he was beginning to hear about this avant-garde fellow named Cezanne...Erik had seen one of his canvases, not long before the unfortunate fire at the Opera Populaire. Quite interesting, indeed. He pursed his lips as he continued to study the drawing. His swift mind was already beginning to plan out the laying in of the background, the mixing of the colors with linseed oil, as he dimly heard the door open, and the delicious aroma of food softly reached him.
Looking up, he smiled at her she as she entered the room, bearing a tray laden with mouth-watering dishes.
"Christine," he said triumphantly. "Your likeness will soon be hanging in the most prestigious gallery in all of France!"
She smiled sweetly at his exuberant new mood. "That sounds just wonderful, my love. But first, here is your breakfast!"
He put the drawing down, and gave her his most tender, loving look. "You must sit for me again just as soon as we have finished these bountiful delights!"
"Gladly, Erik!" She set the tray down, going over to his side. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a big peck on the cheek. "You are so full of surprises, dearest angel! I shall truly enjoy being married to you!"