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The authoress would like to take a moment to remind her readers that this fic is rated 'M' and for a reason. You have been warned.
DGM
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Meg sat on the other side of the compartment, absorbing this new turn of events. Erik was here! With her. For the next six days.
Oh, never mind the days. Think of the nights. Five nights. Trapped in a private car—with him.
Surreptitiously, Meg looked around. They would not want for much; that would be sure: a heady assortment of varied reading materials, a deck of cards, a chessboard? What did he expect? That they were going to play games of whist whilst whiling away their time together?
And then there were the sleeping arrangements. One bed—as in singular. As in small—a thick-mattressed camp bed, barely big enough to hold one person. Well, one of them was simply going to have to sleep on the floor. That was all there was to it. Meg looked at him assessing, vowing then and there it wouldn't be her.
He, after all, was squatting on her turf.
Drawing a deep breath for composure, she stated in her steadiest voice, "Alright, Erik. You have my attention. What is it you would like to say to me?" Meg sat stiffly in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, not looking at him.
His words—his hurtful, careless words came back to her, and she bottled down the feelings she felt. She would listen, although Lord knows she definitely did not owe him that much, and then when the train stopped next, she would ask him politely to leave and never, ever trouble her again. Yes, that is exactly what she would do.
She arched her eyebrows expectantly waiting for him to speak.
…the silence continued.
She could feel the weight of his stare; knew he was begging, no demanding, that she look up, to meet his eyes.
She patently refused.
And just when she contemplated retreating to the little corner inside her mind, he spoke."Sixty-seven."
Caught off guard, Meg looked up and met his yellowed gaze, a question forming in her own. His eyes shown with triumph even as his lips took on a firm line. "Sixty-seven times did you try to approach me. Sixty-seven times did I refuse you. Sixty-seven separate causes of hurt and pain did I cause you, Megan, in addition to the hurtful words I spoke that Day."
Meg gulped, her eyes immediately falling to her lap once more. She bit her lip, feeling tears spring to her eyes. A whisper of air, and she looked up to find him kneeling before her, inches from her face. She blinked, and he had moved closer still to where only a hairsbreadth stood between her lips and his own. He spoke, and Meg could feel the tiny puffs of displaced air move over her lips, warming them. "Sixty-seven opportunities for you to accept or return in kind the treatment I did bestow upon you." His Voice was hushed, almost reverential. A tear fell and his gloved hand caught it, even as she moved her cheek away from it, moved her lips away from his.
"One." His muttered sibilant sounded a gunshot in the confines of the cab, and with a strangled cry, she rose from the chair and retreated to the only spot of privacy left in the damned cab—the privy. She looked around, examining it. It wasn't that bad, really. She could make a suitable pallet near the wash basin. It would be cramped; the room was at most three feet wide, but she would manage.
Meg met her stare in the mirror and the dam broke.
Suddenly, all the emotions—all the anger, the pain, and the yearning she felt came galloping back to her, and she slid down the wall, floored by it all. Thoughts and emotions she had tried so hard to suppress, to forget, suddenly came bubbling to the surface.
Oh! How dare he! And why?
What did his being here mean? Was he over Christine? Was he playing a game with her? Meg's mind churned even as her stomach tensed in knots. She pressed a fist to her mouth to muffle the scream of pain she felt. She heard a gentle knock on the door. "Are you alright, Megan? Do you need anything?"
Meg counted to ten before she answered, "Yes. And to be left alone."
A beat of silence, then two. "I will give you ten minutes to compose yourself. And then I'm coming in there."
This couldn't be borne. Oh, this couldn't be! She felt trapped, cornered and desperate. And Erik really wasn't helping matters.
And so, Meg did what she always did when the world became too much.
She went away.
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Surpassing the lock on the bathroom door took seconds only, and Erik opened it to find Megan propped against the wall, staring blankly out into space, looking a marionette with her strings cut.
He had pondered for days how he could counter this particular behavior of hers. Short of dumping a pitcher of water on her to shock her out it, he did not know. But no; this was not her time. This was their time—theirs! And she would spend it with him.
Picking her up, Erik laid her down on the little bunk and blew out the lamp. Then carefully, he fit himself until he was beside her, not quite touching, but he could still feel her warmth, her heat. Tentatively, he drew her until her head rested on his shoulder.
And then Erik began to speak.
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"…asked once how I knew the things I did, ptichka, and I refused to answer you at the time." Meg felt him move his hand until it rested lightly at her waist, holding her. "I will rectify that slight now." She realized darkness had fallen. She didn't know how many minutes or possibly hours had passed with them lying thusly. But the fact remained, her head was pillowed on his bony shoulder, and his arm was around her waist. And they were fitted quite snuggly together on the little bunk.
And Meg she felt comfortable, listening to his Voice hushed in the darkness. How long had he been speaking to her?
"I am older than you; considerably so, and I have travelled the world extensively. I ran from my mother's house when I was seven, ptichka. You have seen my face, you know its horror. You can imagine my mother's surprise upon being presented it at my birth." Meg winced, unconsciously putting her hand on his chest to comfort. He started, and she knew that he was looking down at her, assessing in the darkness. And then his other hand drew hers up to his lips and offered it a kiss.
She opened her palm, and he placed the most tender and reverent of kisses inside. "Two." She closed her palm, and he lowered her hand until it was once again on his chest. "Needless to say, my formative years were hell for both myself and my mother; my father having died months previous before my birth. Even though it was quite apparent early on that I had been gifted with a certain amount of intelligence and talent, she never let me forget, for one moment Megan, how I had ruined her life. I will not go into details, it would be too maudlin, even for me, and I refuse to put you through that. But I will say my running away from home was entirely justified, and by age seven, I found myself a prisoner of a wandering gypsy camp and was displayed as a freak in one of their tents."
Meg gasped, turning in the darkness, seeing nothing, but feeling her heart breaking. She put both her arms around him and held him tight. He stiffened at first, but then relaxed in her hold; his hands coming to her back and rubbing in gentle circles. His Voice hushed in the darkness, "We travelled, for months and then years. And I—I learned sleight of hand and ventriloquism as a means of keeping my handlers happy."
And Meg could imagine how important it had been to do so, dependent on them for food and kind treatment as he was. "And then I was presented with the opportunity for escape, Megan, and I did so. Will it shock you to learn that the first murder I ever committed was at age ten, ptichka?" And Meg began to tremble. He drew her face up to look at his in the darkness. "And now Erik has scared you, his Megan, with the talk of his past. He understands if Megan thinks him a monster. He knows he is one, but per—"
"Oh Erik, that's not it at all!" Reaching up, Meg grasped his mask, drawing it down until she was reasonably certain he was looking in her eyes. "I am angry, Erik. Angry at what you had to go through at such a tender age. I am not scared, or upset. At least, not at you. Please understand."
His hands came over hers and lowered them from his mask, kissing each of them and placing them on his heart. Meg settled back to where she was lying pillowed on his chest, hearing the vibrations of his Voice as he began to speak once more. "That was three and four, Megan dear." She smiled slightly. His Voice in the darkness was as soft and intimate as the rasp of velvet on her skin.
"And then I found my way to the Opera Populaire. And it became my home for a time. I began, during this time, to study voice and architecture, as well as any other subject that suited my taste. Science, medicine, music theory, astronomy, mechanics…everything I learned, I learned from the books in the opera library as well as the well-appointed book sellers down the way that you tended to frequent my dear." She nodded. "And all the while, my intellectual curiosity was being sated; my spirit was being nourished and fed by the music of the opera.
"Your mother came here when she was seventeen, already a very accomplished dancer in her own right. She was a few years older than myself, and I was drawn to her passion, her creativity in dance. She befriended me Megan when she chanced upon me one night walking the casement of the roof—I was not then nearly as proficient at stealth as I am now—and she has helped me through the years, conduct business with my solicitor and pass on praise and critiques of the opera to its various owners and managers that have come and gone.
"And the time came for me to leave, strike out and make my own way in the world." From his tone of Voice, Meg knew this was not to be a happy tale. "I have travelled, ptichka, to Germany, Italy, Russia, Persia, and parts of the Orient. I will not go into details for many of my travels were unhappy ones. The world was not kind, and I had learned how to counter such treatment at quite the early age." Meg realized he was talking about committing murder again. She shivered suddenly cold. He shifted and a blanket was thrown over them both.
"From China, I learned the usage of various herbs, roots, and draughts to treat things like colds, cuts, and injuries as well as a comprehensive knowledge of poisons. From Italy, I gained an appreciation for art and refined my knowledge of architecture. While in Russia, I performed as the Living Corpse, making my way across the country as a magician performing as a favorite to the Tsar and Tsarina. It was where my reputation as the Angel of Death got its start. And then in Persia…well, in Persia, my dear, I met the daroga. He likes to refer to our time spent there as 'the rosy hours of Mazenderan'. A joke I assure you, for nothing could be further from the truth. It was there I learned how to be the most ruthless of assassins." Meg gasped, drawing slightly away.
"Yes, now Erik repulses his Megan. He will not lie to you, his heart. He killed; killed for pleasure, killed for payment. He killed or was going to be killed himself. That little room with all the mirrors in Erik's home. That, Megan, was one of the first torture chambers Erik ever designed. But it wasn't his last." Meg gulped, beginning to tremble. "Erik will not go into details with his Megan. Not because he would be afraid it would elicit pity, but because he is afraid that to do so would cause his Megan to never look at him the same way again. And Erik, well he is just selfish enough not to take that chance." Meg nodded, burying her head in the crook of his arm, and breathing deep; his soothing, familiar scent a balm to his words.
"And then Erik came back to Paris, Megan, and proceeded to teach a young dancer how to sing." A heavy silence followed his words. "And the rest Megan knows." His Voice was hushed once more.
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Meg closed her eyes. She was tired, so tired of denying the attraction she felt for him; so tired of repressing her emotions. "What is it you want for us, Erik? What are your expectations?" He shifted once more and then she was lying on her back blinking up into the darkness. She felt his breath ghost across her cheek; he was looking down at her.
And his ungloved hand came out of the darkness to hold her cheek. "I want to be yours and for you to be my own. I want us to be together, Megan.
"I know you are with Demidov. And Megan, he is perfect for you. His passion for your art is counter to your own. But he does not know you—truly know you. He does not know the strong woman that I—your Erik knows—the woman that could kill a man and take down a gang of foolish young men intent on pursuing her. He does not know the foolhardy young woman who befriended a deformed recluse due to the generosity of her own heart. He does not know how much time you truly spend in the world inside your mind, enacting each and every one of your dreams, and that when you practice and perform on stage, it is an extension of that." His Voice broke. "But I do. I do, Megan." He drew her hand up and placed it on his chest and thumped it.
"This Demidov—he could make you happy. I know this, but I cannot let you go. You mean too much—and Erik is far too selfish." Her tears began to flow, and he caught each one of them, lowering his lips to her cheek, kissing them away." Meg gasped.
He was no longer wearing his mask.
"Yes, for you, Erik has removed his mask, Megan. For only you he would do this thing for how else is he to kiss you properly with its edge always in the way?" And he lowered his head and proceeded to do so, gently, reverently, bestowing little tingling kisses along her face, culminating in a pause at her lips. He held there, one beat, then two, and Meg lifted her head, closing the distance between them. And her hands drew his shoulders down until he was resting his weight upon her, and both of them groaned at the feeling.
"Erik."
"Erik loves his Megan very much." He kissed the lids of her eyes. "And if Megan would agree to love him even half as much, Erik would count himself to be among the most blessed of men." Meg's composure deserted her. She hugged him to her, burying her face in his neck. "You may now belong to Demidov, but you will always be Erik's little bird."
She shook her head, her voice mystified in the darkness."But Erik, I'm not with Demidov." She felt him pull away and look down at her.
"But…but Erik saw you. He was kissing you, and you allowed it, my Megan."
She shook her head. "No, Erik. Nikolai. He knows that I— that I've already given my heart to another." She moved her hand until it rested once more upon his heart. "We are just friends. Friends and dance partners only." Meg felt him begin to tremble above her, and a drop of moisture fell on her cheek, then another. And she realized he was crying.
"Oh, Erik." Through the darkness, she reached out for the back of his head, absently registering he had removed his wig as well. And she brought his lips back down to hers being so very careful not to hurt his unfortunate face. She whispered, "Make love to me, please. I want to belong to you—only you. Make me yours."
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"Oh, my Megan." And his whispered Voice held the wonder and hope of a child. And she kissed him, tasting his tears as her hands began to slowly work the buttons at his collar. She knew he could see her, but she was having to rely primarily on her other four senses. It made the experience all the more real, all the more impactful.
The feel of his fingers as they began dexterously undoing the little pearl buttons that fell from her collar to her shirtwaist. The smell of him—spices, wood smoke, and damp from the cellars. The rustle of their clothes shedding layer by unhurried layer as each of them divested the other of garments. The taste of his kiss: each and every one a seeming surprise to him, as he never expected it when she sought out his lips, and he responded each time with a sense of wonder.
And then her dress and corset were gone, and she was only in her chemise and pantalettes. And his hands were reaching for her hair, and with a gentle tug, all of the pins in her hair came undone, causing the golden mass to ripple across her shoulders and down to her waist. He gathered handfuls and lifted the fragrant mass. And Meg's heart rose to her throat as she realized he was trying to smell her hair. "Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Your eyes are doves behind your veil. Your hair is as spun gold that descends from the rays of the heavens."
Meg swallowed the lump in her throat, instantly recognizing the verse he paraphrased. She gently kissed his mottled, mangled cheek, and he gasped when she whispered in his ear, "You are altogether beautiful, my love. There is no spot in you."
Moaning, he gathered her close, and they both of them held each other, drawing reassurance from each other's breath, the steady beat of their hearts. Meg's fingers went to the fine linen of his shirt; the only layer left before his bare skin would be exposed to her, and her fingers wandered to the last of the buttons, parting the linen and kissing her way down each inch of exposed skin as she removed the bit of cloth. His skin was a patchwork quilt of scars, divots, and burns, at least that's what it seemed to her questing fingertips in the dark. She bent and kissed a particularly vicious-feeling assortment, wondering what just had happened there and how much pain he had to have had to endure for each and every one.
He drew her lips away from his skin and placed a chaste kiss on her brow. All the while his fingers tugged at the top of her chemise, and the material parted and pooled to her waist. And she heard him moan.
Meg stood still as, with tentative fingers, he reached out and caressed her pebbled breasts gently, testing their firmness, their weight. His hands held them, treating them with reverent care that had Meg rising up and moaning softly into his chest. Laying her down below him once more, he removed her chemise completely, and with a tug, divested her of her pantalettes as well. Meg bit her lip, knowing she was exposed fully to his sharp-eyed scrutiny. "Behold, you are beautiful, my love. Behold, You. Are. Beautiful."
And he lay down beside her, drawing her close, running his fingers over her face, her breasts, and then gently down her abdomen, to rest in the nest of down just above her core. "Are you certain, Megan? Certain you want Erik to always be with you? There is no turning back once this is complete." His Voice held warning and a new note of almost strain.
Meg wished she could see his eyes!
In answer, she drew his hand down to where she ached so badly for him and heard him draw a gasping breath. "I am yours, Erik. And you are mine." Fumbling in the darkness, she found his lips and shivered in his kiss as his fingers moved to part her feminine folds. His clever fingers moved within her, dipping down into her moistness, and Meg gasped feeling one finger enter.
"That's right, my girl, my Megan, quicken for me." And his thumb touched her little pearl of flesh, stroking it tentatively, and Meg moaned, feeling herself—her center—begin to gather and ache. Something—some strange and wondrous feeling was occurring within her, and she—she didn't know what to do except cling to him amidst the gathering tide and float along in the rhythm he set. His other hand stayed at her breast, rubbing and squeezing at her nipple as his mouth rained little kisses down her face and neck, crooning encouragement with his Voice.
And then, he slowly parted and worked another finger inside her, and Meg gasped at the sensation of fullness. And he encouraged her hips to move and grind against him as she labored toward climbing a precipice; some never before imagined peak. And then she was shattering into a million tiny pieces of rainbow color on a gasp of delighted wonder.
She came back to hear him say, "That's right. That's it, my little bird. Fly, fly for your Erik." His fingers remained inside her, pulsing, keeping her grinding against his hand to give her little pleasurable aftershocks. Gently, he removed his fingers from her, and lifting, Meg heard him lick and taste them. His quiet Voice broke the stillness, "How beautiful is your love, my bride! How much better is your love than wine! The fragrance of your perfumes than all manner of spices!"
Drawing a shaky breath, Meg muttered, "Then let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth; for my bridegroom's love is better than wine." And taking his face in her hands, drew him down for a soul-searing kiss. She felt him quiver and quake, even as she tasted the soft, musky scent of herself on his tongue, and then Meg was reaching for the buttons at his trousers, and his hands were there, helping her.
And then finally. FINALLY! He was freed, and kicking off his pants, was exposed for her hand's perusal.
Meg was hesitant.
Hadn't her touch last time sent him into a fit of rage?
Biting her lip, Meg looked up at him questioningly. A hand reached through the darkness and grabbed her own, even as another caressed her cheek. "Touch me, ptichka. Let me feel your love." And gently, he drew her hand and placed it on him, and both of them drew a startled breath at that first bit of contact.
He let her explore him, running her fingers gently over his hard length and breadth, feeling him. And he took her hand and showed her exactly how he liked to be touched and where, and he moaned softly when Meg innocently thumbed the tip of him, spreading the bead of moisture she found there.
His hand stopped her progress, and Meg realized it—he was shaking. "Not too much, little bird. I want this—us— to last." And he removed her hand, kissing it and placing it by her waist once more.
And then his hands were again at her breasts, fondling and caressing them, his mouth drawing little tongue-flicking kisses on her nipples. And then one hand traveled lower, back to the core of her, testing and spreading the moisture found there, and Meg moaned softly in his ear, when he stuck his finger once more inside her and crooked it, finding a spot that had her hips bucking wild with abandon.
And then his thumb flicked and plucked her little bundle of nerves once more, and Meg shattered again, even as he positioned himself atop her, and began working himself inside.
He was big. Bigger than his fingers, and quickly coming back from bliss, Meg hissed at the invasion so foreign. "We shall have to take this easy, my Megan. You are so very small." His Voice was strained in the darkness.
There was a suction noise and Meg felt the tip of him enter. They both of them gasped, and slowly, he began working himself in and out, spreading their joint lubrication. Meg bit here lip, little beads of sweat dotting her forehead. It stung, feeling him enter her and leave her like this. But his little surprised gasps and whispered moans were well worth the momentary pain she was feeling.
It seemed to take an eternity for him to get deeper within her, and then he encountered her maidenhead. Meg closed her eyes tight and grit her jaw, trying not to think of the horror stories she'd heard about ripping, tearing, and hemorrhaging.
He bent down and placed a kiss on her brow, whispering lowly in her ear, "Never. Never, my Megan, could you outlive my love for you." And he thrust into her, swallowing her gasp of surprise and pain as he kissed her mouth, distracting her from the rending, tearing sensation in her loins. "That's it Megan, breathe, adjust to this, to us." And Meg did as directed, focusing on the sensations he was eliciting from his kiss at her mouth even as her body adjusted to the invasion of him embedded deeply within. "That's right. Oh, my girl. That's right. That's it." And he kissed the sides of her cheeks, tasting the tracks of her tears, and Meg moved slightly, adjusting position.
And Erik gasped and stilled, looking down at her. "Megan…" Her arms came around him, and Meg drew her legs up so that they were around his waist.
Gently, she urged him to move.
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Erik felt her legs wind around his hips, pulling him closer even as they were joined as closely as two beings could possibly be. She moved slightly, and he sucked in a breath, the sensation almost too much for him to take. Tentatively, he moved, and she hissed. He could not cause her any more pain. Not to satiate his own pleasure.
He began to draw out. "Don't you dare."
Her voice broke the stillness even as her feet crooked behind him, effectively pinning him to her. God, but her legs were strong. "Megan—" She rolled her hips experimentally, and he groaned, "I don't want to hurt you anymore."
"You will hurt me more if you don't." She moved her hips again, this time with more precision, and Erik grunted. "Seek your pleasure, my love." Her hand tentatively touched his cheek, and Erik leaned into the caress, even as he felt himself beginning to gather inside her. "Please."
One softly uttered word and his resolve broke. He shifted his hips, gently at first and drew a gasped breath. He would have liked to say that his focus remained solely on her—on her comfort, or discomfort as the case may have been, but it did not. It was like none of his imaginings. None of the varied books he read or even the rare dreams that featured himself and some nameless, faceless woman in an act of this nature could have prepared him for the reality of being sheathed in Megan's liquid warmth.
Tentatively, he adopted a rhythm, savoring the sensation. Her feminine passage was so tight, so warm; her muscles gripping him so completely. It quite overwhelmed. He built quickly, feeling himself begin to lose control, and with three successive thrusts, he was spilling himself within her as he groaned his release into her shoulder.
She gathered him close, even as he heard her slight gasp of pain as he withdrew. But then her hands were stroking his shoulders, his back, his head. And her lips were on his neck kissing him sweetly.
And Erik drew her up and gathered her close to him, so that her body was lying lengthwise across his own. And she tucked herself neatly into the crook of his arm. So quietly did she sigh when he drew the blankets around them. And then with a kiss to his scarred chest, she relaxed into the rhythmic rocking of the train and drifted to sleep.
His whisper broke the stillness in the night, "Set me as a seal on your heart, as a seal on your arm; for love is strong as death. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a very flame. Many waters can't quench love, neither can floods drown. For I am now yours, and you are now mine. My very own. Megan."
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A/N: Oh, but I contemplated cutting this update in half and leaving it at an evil, smutless cliffie. But I did promise you smut, dear reader, and I do hope I delivered! Won't you please leave a review in the alms box to let this unassuming authoress know?
As an aside, I played fast and loose with some passages from Song of Songs; it is my favorite book in the Bible as it is all about romance.
DGM