One Good Turn part VI
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"Erik, the tempo is too fast! I cannot turn that fast!"
He gestured violently with his bow, "You can, and you will! This part is meant to showcase speed and movement, in addition to elegance and grace! You are always late on the beat when you practice, now again!"
They had spent weeks of afternoons and evenings together blocking out steps and assigning dances for the various movements of his ballet. Meg had been just as demanding as he in choosing and debating the perfect steps that would showcase all the ballet could be if it was given full reign to thrive without the shadow of the opera hanging o'er.
The resulting effort was a very challenging and exhausting undertaking that would test the stamina and endurance of the most seasoned danseur. The lead was the most challenging of all, and after the steps were decided upon, Meg had begun to practice forthwith in the second cellar with Erik playing the violin.
And through it all, little shows of affection, of touching, of kissing—of any kind at all—had been noticeably absent.
If Meg tried, she was rebuffed quite neatly. Ever since the night with the Baron, when he had all but kissed the life out of her, she had tried to kiss him every day. And every day, he always turned so that she was kissing the cool surface of the mask instead. She would try to hug him, and he would turn his body so that he was an all but impenetrable wall, impossible for her to get her arms around.
He treated her completely platonically, and Meg was beginning to feel like a tag-a-long sibling and not the potential mate for him that she envisioned herself.
And so, tonight, after a grueling day of practice and performance, of weeks borne of being rejected again and again for her advances, Meg resumed position, and once more began to dance.
Almost immediately, a shrill note sounded from the violin. "No, no, NO! Megan you are late!"
Meg growled and pulled at her hair. She had had enough! Stalking over to her corner nook, she grabbed her towel, and throwing it around her neck, grabbed her carpet bag and made to leave.
A black shadow stood glowering in her path, "And just where do you think you are going, little Giry?" His tone was dangerous.
Meg was unimpressed.
She put her hands on her hips and stood toe to toe with him, her expression mutinous, "I am going to bed! There is no use talking to you; you won't see reason!" Her tone dripped with acid disdain.
His eyes narrowed to slits, "You will stay here, Megan, and you will dance until you get it right!" With practiced precision, he took the towel and bag from her shoulders and flung them back into her corner nook.
He gestured with the bow to floor center. "Again."
Meg leaned into him, her own eyes narrowing to slits as her chin came up, "Make. Me."
Two words. Two oh-so- very dangerous words! For with those words, she saw his eyes widen and dilate, and carefully, he sat down his violin and bow. Meg began backing away…slowly. His eyes never once left her, and she gulped. She hit the wall, and he began stalking towards her, "Care to repeat those words, my dear?"
"I… I said make me." Her voice shook, sounding a tad uncertain even though her chin remained a stubborn point.
He stalked slowly, and arriving in front of her, leaned in inches from her face. Meg could feel his breath ghost along the little beads of sweat dotting her forehead. "This is not open for debate, Miss Giry. You are a dancer. This is my ballet. You have been hired to perform a service so do it!" He poked her shoulder with a gloved finger, "And make no mistake, you will do so until you either die from exhaustion, or I dismiss you. Are we clear?"
With a frustrated growl, she shoved herself away from the wall and made for him, her mouth moving towards his own, piercing it with her tongue, claiming him.
A shocked second passed, and then his tongue was warring with hers, both fighting to master the kiss.
And it was a struggle, as the both of them were filled with repressed longings too long left un-assuaged.
They both groaned when he lifted her up in his arms, and Meg wrapped her legs around him, clutching the sides of his mask for balance even as she deepened the kiss further. Stumbling and sidestepping, he carried them over to the ancient divan, and sat them down in a cloud of dust with Meg sat astride him.
She pulled and tugged at his stiff collar, hearing buttons snap, and then his neck was free and exposed. She broke the kiss with an audible 'pop' to suckle his nape, drawing satisfaction when she heard him draw in a sharp hissing breath.
But then his hands were busy as well pulling and tearing at her practice clothes. And with a tug, she felt her breasts spill forth from her corset as her chemise was torn away.
And then his lips were them, suckling, drawing a rosy peak into his mouth, the cool surface of his mask gently abrading the tender flesh surrounding it. And his other hand reached to hold and tease her other breast; his long, elegant fingers working her nipple most ingeniously back and forth as he mimicked the actions he was performing with his tongue.
Meg closed her eyes at the dual sensation and bit his neck—hard—to stifle the screaming moan that wanted to break forth.
Great God! He was driving her wild! And oh, had the wait been worth it!
He gasped and sucked in harder at her nipple causing her to moan into his neck and grind her pelvis against him. He began to move his knees up and down in a measured, hurried rhythm, fueling Meg's desire to fever pitch. And then his hands were in her skirt bunching them to her waist, and her hands were fumbling with the unfamiliar placket of his trousers. And she felt him, the hard length of him for the first time, straining through the fabric. And she began to stroke him with her hand.
And he jumped, breaking away from her breast and looking at her in shocked amazement. Quickly, he shoved her away from him and stood, facing away from her.
"Fix yourself, Megan, and then get to bed." Meg gasped at his tone; it was glacial.
Hurriedly, she began to right her clothes. "Wh—what is it Erik?"
He didn't answer her; his posture rigid. She licked her lips. "Do you not want this, want us?" Getting up, she made for him, tightening her stays the best she could, but there was nothing to be done for the bodice. It was ripped beyond repair. "We can take it slower if you'd like? But I just thought—"
She turned to face him and was taken aback by the fury she found in his eyes. "Just what did you think, Marguerite?"
She stumbled upon her words, "I just—I mean… I know I'm not Christi—"
"DO NOT SAY HER NAME!" he roared, "YOU ARE NOT FIT TO SPEAK IT!" Twin flags of embarrassment and shame dotted Meg's cheeks even as her face drained of color. "I have known your kind before, Marguerite. You toy and trifle with a man's affections, spreading your favor around like so much meaningless currency, making you the contemptible, commonplace whore you are. She is worth ten of you, Miss Giry. An angel such as she would never have been caught in such a compromising position. She would never—could never—have taken the liberties you have just taken upon me."
Meg's emotionless mask descended upon her, shielding her from him, from the hurt he just induced. Her tone was unaffected, final. "If that is the way you feel, then I will trouble you no longer." Turning, she gathered her carpet bag and towel and made for the door. She paused, and stated off-handedly, "Oh, and by the way, Opera Ghost, I just thought you would like to know. Christine's pregnant, and the midwife says she's about five months along."
So saying Meg calmly walked out the door of the second cellar, never once looking back.
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A/N: Just what the hell was Erik thinking?! Never fear, we are soon to find out…
But I knew that whole 'angel or whore' Victorian idealized thinking would get him into trouble one day… and what of Christine? Why, that would mean she was pregnant well before the events of her abduction and almost wedding came about. Oh dear, oh dear. …please review; even if it's to kick me a good one in the bahookie.
More following soon. I promise!
DGM