Let Your Fantasies Unwind
This chappie merits the M rating, and if you've read any of my work, you know I tend to write pretty explicitly. So click that little X on the corner of your screen if that's not your cup of tea.
Christine was still trembling as she and Erik made their way through the tunnels.
"You could have warned me!" she hissed, her breath misting, recalling the sick sensation of falling and the undignified squeal that left her lips. Erik's smile was mischievous, his grip warm on her hand. He stopped, the gas lamp washing half his masked visage in golden light. No man had a right to look so handsome in a simple costume of a black coat, white shirt, and black breeches. Lean, strong, virile. And he was all hers.
"I had scant seconds to act. Hardly enough time to brief you." he leaned close, so close she could smell coffee on his breath.
"Besides, I loved that adorable little squeak you made," he purred, before kissing her softly. Christine grinned despite her embarrassment. She loved Erik's lighthearted mood. When had they ever been relaxed enough to tease each other?
"I do not squeak," she said primly. Erik cocked his head in a playful, speculative look.
"Is that so? How about . . . now!" he draped an arm around her and tickled her sides mercilessly. Christine did utter a few squeaks interspersed between gasps of breathless laughter and half-hearted attempts at fighting him off.
The play ended when Erik abruptly stopped all manner of teasing, tickling and touching and shoved her unceremoniously behind him.
"Someone's coming," he said coolly.
A flick of his left arm and Erik's thin, deadly lasso slid into his hand. Every ounce of his mind and body dedicated to defeating his enemy. She had seen it only once before, and the awe hadn't slackened with repetition. Heart in her throat, Christine strained her ears but only heard the lap of the lake against the canal walls and the hollow plop of faraway dripping. Then, faintly, she heard the stomp of footsteps. Erik called out something in another language. A voice answered in kind and the tension rushed out of Erik.
"It's only Nadir," he threw the words over his shoulder, then noticed her shivering. He set down the lamp and turned to her. His large, warm hand cupped her cheek, regret shining in his eyes.
"I am sorry, my dear. This was not how I imagined our wedding night. Here," he shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Christine clutched the remnant of his body's heat with a wobbly smile. It was terribly cold down here, and miles from how she'd pictured this night playing out. At least they'd found a pair of slippers to shield her bare feet.
Presently, the Persian emerged from around the corner, his wedding finery traded for his usual somber black garb.
"How goes it above?" Erik said, his beautiful voice warm, but terse. The Persian's face emanated patient understanding.
"It's a madhouse, as to be expected. But the Vicomte . . . he, ah," he coughed, with an uncertain glance at her, "he called off the gendarmes. There is no sign of them in the Opera or the streets outside." Christine bit her lip, fighting the flare of hope. Maybe Raoul understood, maybe . . .
"What is the boy planning now?" Erik said, heavy with suspicion. The Persian shrugged.
"That I do not know. But he seemed very . . . upset. A sour conversation with his brother the Comte, it seems." Erik snorted, but refrained from commenting.
"Whatever he does, I would say you two are safe here tonight. You won't have any . . . ah, outside interruption." Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Christine thought she saw two spots of color burning on the Persian's cheeks.
"Thank you, Daroga. I have ascertained as much," Erik said acerbically. The Persian smiled.
"Then I will bid you good evening. Blessings to you both." He shook Erik's hand and bowed low in Christine's direction.
"Thank you for your help, Monsieur Kahn."
"My pleasure, Madame Rousseau." The first mention of her married name, and it gave her a soft thrill to hear it.
The rest of their journey to Erik's home was spent in contemplative silence, hands linked. When they reached the portcullis, Christine gaped. While still cluttered in a glorious jumble of art and furniture and other bric-a-brac, his home was . . . clean, tidy and lit with soft bubbles of golden candlelight. And . . . the lake and the path leading from the moored gondola were carpeted with crimson rose petals. Transfixed by this vision, she scarcely heard Erik use the strange metal object in his hands to open a door hidden in the stone.
"Your home awaits, Madame Rousseau," he offered with a gallant sweep of his arm. Christine's gaze skittered over his lean torso, the downy linen unable to conceal the lithe power of his form. Her hands twisted in the folds of her beaded skirt. In all of her imagined scenarios, she had never seen herself in Aminta's costume. She wished for something softer, more the virgin bride than the brazen seductress . . .
Christine swallowed hard and stepped past him, through the short tunnel and emerging into his home, near the gondola. Christine hobbled on one foot then the other, peeling off the slippers so she could feel the silken caress of the rose petals on her bare feet. The floor was startlingly cold, but she didn't care. Christine clutched the tails of Erik's coat, more to cover herself than preserve warmth. Without the blinding passion of Point of No Return, how did one conjure that sort of intimacy? How did these things begin? Erik must have sensed her awkwardness, for he cleared his throat.
"You must be hungry. I have bread and cheese and wine. Shall I fetch some?"
Christine nodded, grateful for anything to fill her fumbling hands, hide her graceless eagerness. He disappeared down the hall and Christine peered into one of the mirrors, yanked the silk rose from her hair, finger combing her wild mane and scrubbing the last of the stage cosmetics from her face with the hem of her skirt. Her reflection wasn't the radiant bride or the sultry seductress now.
It was just her. Pale, scared, naïve Christine.
When Erik returned laden with foodstuffs, Christine stirred the petals idly with one toe.
"I love the petals, Erik. Thank you." His smile was shy.
"You are most welcome, my wife." his gaze wandered critically over his home and he shrugged.
"It's not much, but I hope it's . . . adequate."
They sat shoulder to shoulder on the organ bench. Her skin tingled, every inch of her aware of his thigh pressed against hers, the warm solidness of his shoulder, his warm hands. Christine was distracted by the play of muscle in his forearms as he cut hunks of bread and slivers of cheese, the grace evident in his beautiful hands as he poured the wine.
"More than adequate, I think," Christine murmured, nibbling on a piece of tangy white cheese. Erik's hand brushed hers as she reached for her wine glass, her wedding rings glittering on her finger. Her hand brushed his knee as she adjusted her skirt. These small, almost accidental touches flavored their conversation with a delicious subtext.
"Is Rousseau your family name?" she asked, when conversation stalled. The generous curve of his mouth thinned.
"No. My—My mother . . . when she wasn't cursing my father as a demon, said that my name was of no consequence since I was such a . . . a disappointment. 'Rousseau' is a name I chose for myself." Choking on anger and tears, Christine groped for his hand. He took it, lacing their fingers together, but refused to look at her. She sensed the burden of shame behind the words.
I hope you burn in Hell for hurting him, you wretched witch! Christine swore against this woman she'd never met.
"Erik, I don't care. Names and titles mean less than nothing to me. The names that matter are Angel, Friend, Husband . . . Lover." He did look at her then, with such honest desire that Christine felt something quiver inside her. His hand floated up to cup her cheek.
"Christine . . . oh I love you so," he crooned, his velvet voice caressing every syllable. The brush of his lips against hers was so sweet, so gentle.
Oh Erik . . .
Christine fisted her hands in his hair, dragging him closer, deeper. However clumsy and rough, he seemed to appreciate the sentiment. His low growl vibrated against her lips, enflamed her. Mmm, he tasted of sun-ripened grapes and the faint sharp tang of cheese. She blazed a trail of kisses from his mouth, across the hard angle of his jaw to his ear, where she nibbled along the upper curve gently.
"Take me. Teach me." she whispered in his ear.
XXX
A savage groan emerged from his chest, both at the words and her playful, teasing kisses. Every instinct urged him to haul her to his bed and take her, but he forced himself to find tenderness. He would be the thoughtful lover, the tender seducer she needed him to be. Never mind that he was as inexperienced as she when it came to the act of love. Erik grasped her hips and drew her astride his lap. Christine gasped at the feel of his erection pressed against her thigh, dark eyes wide. He saw the flash of fear, of uncertainty and groped for the words to coax his shy little songbird from her perch.
"Christine, Christine," he chanted her name, layering every seductive tone in his vocal repertoire. Silk, honey, velvet and chocolate, each syllable designed to torture and entice. He gently peeled aside the tails of his coat, his breath catching at the feel of her shoulders bare and warm under his palms. He would savor this. Unwrap her like the precious gift she was and worship every inch of her flesh. He could be patient for her.
He bloody well could!
Anything for her.
Christine's submission was in her flushed, rapt gaze, her hungry hands that pulled his shirt from his breeches, and shakily plucked at the ties. Her touch on his bare chest felt shockingly intimate, her questing fingertips finding the puckered nub of his nipple. The cool metal of her wedding rings was a shock, but one he welcomed. He gasped for breath, the sensitive nerve endings going mad at that one delicate caress. His. She was truly his.
God, he wanted to consume her!
Erik growled, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along the snowy column of her throat and loving her salty-sweet taste, the hot throb of her pulse, her soft exclamations. His hands spanned her back, tangling in her hair, drawing her close. The loose white shirt, black corset and golden skirt of Aminta's Gypsy garb was, however stimulating, off-putting to Erik, who wanted his Christine. He wanted his woman, his wife, not the caresses of a fantasy woman.
The only way to remedy that is to get her naked as soon as possible, he thought.
Erik worked his way back to her lips from his wandering near her ear and stroked his tongue against her lower lip in silent entreaty. She opened eagerly to him and Erik lost himself in the hot, tingling pleasure of tangled tongues and shared breathing. He grasped her hips, stroking the length of her thighs, drawing her legs around him. Sensation muted by layers of cloth, Erik growled in discontent and stood, carrying her with him.
Not breaking the kiss, he made his way to his bed and gently deposited her on its downy softness. The coverlet and sheet were thrown back, gossamer curtain lifted. Erik's eyes roved over her hungrily, seeing her hesitation. Candles washed the bed and the woman in it in soft golden light, the undulating flames creating hypnotic patterns of light and shadow in the hollows of her body. Erik closed the door behind them, locking them in a cocoon of warmth and privacy.
"Erik?" she asked, her voice quavering slightly. Erik pried off shoes and socks, then knelt beside the bed, insinuating himself between Christine's knees.
"I'm going to undress you, Christine," Erik rasped, "If you wish me to slow down, or stop entirely, you must tell me at once." There was scarcely enough blood left for his brain to function. All of it had been diverted to his throbbing cock, desperate and selfish. But he would stop, if she wanted him to. Her 'no' was his 'no.'
"Don't stop, please. I—I want this. I want you," she said, stroking his hair, his jaw, his lips. Erik surprised her by parting his lips, drawing the tip of her index finger into his mouth. Her sharp little gasp pierced him. Lost in the depths of her chocolate brown eyes, he suckled her finger, caressing it with his tongue. He released her finger with a soft kiss and worked his way up her arm to take her mouth. His hands busied themselves with the ties of her corset. Erik broke the kiss, sharing that humid space where their breath mingled.
"Tell me. Tell me again," he pleaded. Finally, the wretched thing was loose, he yanked the corset off and threw it away. He could see her nipples pert and hard through the gauzy white shirt . . . he touched them, the lightest of swirling strokes through the fabric.
"I want . . . I want . . ." Christine whimpered, feverishly tugging at his shirt. Erik pulled back far enough to shuck it off and crawled over her, pressing her flat on the bed. God, the feel of her beneath him . . . better than any of his fantasies!
"What is it that you want, Christine? Tell me." he kissed her, worming a hand beneath her shirt, stroking her warm, soft belly, the dip of her navel. When his hand cupped her breast, they both uttered a helpless little sound. Hers of surrender, his of wild desire.
Erik helped her shed the shirt, leaving her pert breasts gloriously bare. With a feather light touch, he petted the angry red lines the boning of the corset had left in her skin. Christine sat up and wiggled out of the skirt as well.
The force of his lust winded him at the sight of Christine completely naked. He sat staring slack-jawed at her for a small eternity. Never had there been any woman as beautiful as she! Creamy white skin, slender, nubile limbs, ripe curves of breast and hip, dusky pink nipples, the dark thatch of curls shielding her sex . . . and amid this sumptuous feast of feminine beauty, there were the tiny features that made her unique. The small mole high on her forehead, almost hidden by her hairline, the crooked line of three freckles adorning the upper curve of her left breast, the shadow of an old bruise on her knee. Each was as precious to him as a diamond.
"Tell me what you want," he gasped, suddenly the supplicant, the slavering, worshipping slave. His heart was beating so hard it felt as if it would burst from his chest. Sweat dewed on his skin. His cock was painfully hard, yearning for the sweet haven of her body. Her voice drew him back.
"T—Touch me. I want . . . I want your m—mouth on me. Please," she stuttered, soft rosy color staining her cheeks. Even as her polite shyness filled him with tenderness, he found his power as a seducer. Hmm, drawing the passionate words from his virginal wife was more arousing than he'd thought. Erik's smile was wicked.
"As you command, my queen." He bent, pressing his mouth to her forehead, her cheeks, her chin.
"Does that satisfy?" he drawled. Her eyes, heavy with desire, blinked up at him, a faint frown tugging at her swollen mouth.
"Erik, please." Her hands threaded in his hair, tugged at his head.
Erik obeyed, loosing himself in the taste of her skin. The hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the inside of her arm, all that warm, silken skin covered in downy hair. Christine writhed beneath him, breathing little whimpers and chanting his name. The impassioned soliloquy grew feverish and fragmented when he lavished his attentions on her breasts, nuzzling and licking and suckling. Erik wrote his adoration on her skin, inscribed it with stroking fingers and worshipping lips. It was only when he nibbled the curve of her hipbone that she roused from her torpor.
"Erik?" she asked, confused. His hand dipped, long sensitive fingers parting her, stroking her entrance. Her cry was sweet, lost in his own guttural groan. So hot and wet . . . Erik kissed the soft skin below her navel.
"Please, love. Let me taste you. Let me . . . let me . . ." he begged, his mouth watering. Erik settled between her thighs and set his mouth to her. Christine screamed.
XXX
The pleasure defied description. Christine writhed in its grip, drugged by Erik's hands and mouth on her skin. An aching throb, soothed and made worse by the darting flicks of his tongue . . . oh . . . oh, his tongue! It was inside her . . . moving in and out and up, circling that unbearably sensitive nub . . . the pleasure crashed over her, the tightening coil snapping. Her fingernails dug into his scalp, and broken in two, she sobbed with the pleasure he'd given her. After what seemed like an eternity of distant lightning flickering through her body, she returned to herself, her pounding heart slowing, aware of the warm currents of air licking at the trails left by Erik's saliva at her breasts, her belly, the moisture of her own arousal slicking her thighs.
Erik rose over her, wiping his grinning mouth, eyes glittering behind the mask. The mask . . . he was still clothed? The haze receded at a fresh wave of desire. She wanted the wonderful silken slide of his skin against hers, the rub of his body hair, she wanted to make him beg and weep under her touch as he had done with her to such devastating effect.
Christine shoved him back on his haunches and rose to her knees, floundering a little in the soft nest of sheets and pillows. Holy Virgin, he was so beautiful. Gleaming black hair in wild disarray, mouth swollen, bright eyes flashing . . . his body looked dipped in gold as the candlelight burnished his sweat-dewed skin. He sat still, letting her admire him.
Muscle and tendon rippled fluidly as he moved, veins making pleasing patterns beneath his skin. She wanted to lick the sweat from the contours of his whipcord muscles, she wanted to suck and kiss and bite, claim every inch of him as her own. Here and there, she saw the memory of violence, thick scars roped around his wrists, the wound from his fight with Raoul slashing across his belly. Time to taste them later, time to draw his pain into herself and abolish it forever. He gave a tight, uncomfortable shrug, a wry quirk to his mouth.
"It's not much, but I hope it's adequate," he breathed. Moved by tenderness, Christine cupped his jaw and kissed him. Her hand, tingling with delight, followed the meaty curve of his shoulder to the flat shelf of his chest, tangling in the faint dusting of his chest hair, over his thundering heart.
"You're beautiful, Erik." Another lingering kiss.
She couldn't get enough of kissing him. But she wanted more.
Now.
The most important thing at the moment was for him to join her in the vulnerability of nakedness. She clawed at the fastening of his breeches, only to have Erik's hand steady her when she fumbled. The fly fell open and his cock sprang free. Christine swallowed hard. He looked . . . big, rising thick and stalk-like from a crisp mat of black pubic hair. The physical ramifications made her mouth go dry. Hesitantly, she wrapped her hand around it. So hot and hard, encased in silky skin throbbing with the echo of his heartbeat, the swollen head weeping drops of fluid. Erik sucked in a ragged breath, muttering what she knew to be very bad language. A fierce delight rushed through her, a surge of womanly power. His hand clasped around hers, showing her how hard, how fast he wanted her to touch him.
"Yesss," he hissed, "oh God, Christine!" The way he wept her name, his head thrown back, his hips arching against her hand . . . Christine had never felt more powerful. A sudden thought occurred to her. She slowed her stroking.
"Take it off," she commanded. Passion-glazed eyes popped open and a whimper escaped his lips.
"Wha—What?" his voice was weak and small, almost boyish.
"Take off your mask, Erik," Christine said again. Her hand pumped once around him. Her name sounded like it was being torn from him: "Christine . . ."
"Please, my love," she crooned coaxingly, "Let me see you. Did you think I'd throw down all of my barriers and lie naked in your arms and let you hide away from me?" She kissed his mouth, his jaw, his chin, every inch of skin she could reach. Erik's quivering hand snatched hers away from his cock. He pressed his forehead against hers, bringing her hand up to his right cheek.
"Christine. All my life, this has defined me, marked me a freak, an outcast. Let me be a man in your arms tonight. Just a man making love to his wife. Please." His tender, broken voice undid her. Christine swallowed the rush of tears that threatened.
"Of course. I'm sorry."
Erik forgave her with a kiss, winding his arms around her. She fell back on the bed, and relaxed under the persuasion of Erik's talented fingers dancing down her belly, parting and stroking and teasing her most private place, that nub of flesh. The wet little sounds were evidence of her arousal.
Oh . . . the tension was building again and Christine knew now the sweetness that waited. Her hips arched for more, grasping blindly for what only he could give her . . .
His body pierced hers just as her climax washed over her. Christine screamed, in pain and pleasure both, body arched like a bow beneath him, fingernails digging into Erik's shoulders. Erik remained still and gasping over her, buried to the hilt inside her. It took a moment for his broken words to reach her.
"All right, love?" he asked, kissing her gently, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He kissed away the tears that leaked from her eyes, combing her hair from her face. She saw his eyes were moist too, and loved him for it.
Christine arched and writhed, feeling invaded, stretched. Her body clutched at his unfamiliar, unforgiving hardness, and, slowly, the pain ebbed into simple discomfort, a feeling of fullness. Erik groaned, poised rigid and quivering.
"So good. Oh God, Christine . . . you feel exquisite . . ." His hips surged and Christine whimpered, unable to identify what coursed through her to be terrible pain or equally unbearable pleasure. Erik showered her face with kisses as he moved inside her.
"I'm sorry . . . I can't stop. I can't stop!"
"Don't! Don't stop. Don't ever stop," she breathed, hands splayed on his poor scarred back, holding him close.
The pain receded like a wave from the shore, replaced a hundredfold by exquisite pleasure, all pounding water and foam as he pumped in and out of her. They shared breath, looking deep into each other's eyes, marveling at the beauty of their joining. His eyes, like the sea, so deep and warm, she could drown in them. One flesh.
Her hands slid down the meaty muscles of his back and cupped the hard curves of his buttocks, drawing him deeper. Christine sensed the tension quivering in his body, felt it in the tempo of his thrusts.
Oh . . . oh, he felt so good, moving like that. It felt as if her body clung and suckled his invading presence, bathing him in her arousal. Suddenly, Erik's lean body jerked above her and he uttered a sound like a sob. He plunged deep and she gasped as a warm rush spread inside her.
He collapsed on top of her, trembling. Christine's body thrummed and shook with arousal, an ache of unsatisfied desire knotted in her belly. She forced tense muscles to uncurl, instead delighting in the feel of his weight, warm and sheltering. She stroked his sweat-dampened hair, loving the bloom of his hot breath against her neck. She didn't know how long they lay like that, linked and breathing the same air, but all too soon he roused, bracing his hands on the mattress to lift himself from her. She gasped as his now flaccid cock slid from her body. Christine stiffened at his hard, flashing eyes, the angry twist to his mouth.
"What—What did I do wrong?" she whispered. An unutterable tenderness filled his face. He kissed her, slow and languid and deep.
"Oh my love, you did nothing wrong. You are perfect. The problem lies with me."
"I don't understand," she said, hating her ignorance. His smile was brittle and self-deprecating. He shrugged.
"It's the way we're made. Women can climax multiple times while a man is spent once. I must . . . rest."
"Oh," Christine said.
The word was so small, so ineffectual. How could she tell him how wonderful he felt, that she loved every second even when it hurt? Christine marveled at herself. She could lie naked in a man's arms, give him her body, but couldn't thank him for the miracle of their love? Christine yanked Erik's head down for a kiss, boldly thrusting her tongue in his mouth. He grunted in surprise, but reciprocated with his usual wicked skill. They were both breathless by the time she pulled back.
"Never doubt how beautiful you are, Erik. You are the best man I know a—and the most talented lover and . . . and every time I look at you, I want to throw myself at you and beg you to ravish me!" she blurted, glaring at him, daring him to contradict her. Erik responded by stretching his lean body atop her, an insistent knee parting her thighs.
"Ravish you, hmm?" that darkly seductive purr of his fallen angel's voice sent shivers of delight through her. Christine cried out as her swollen, sensitive tissues were parted anew by his hard, hot cock.
"That can be arranged."
XXX
Desire burned and crackled inside him, a voracious wildfire blurring the edges of his vision. His body, weak and spent before now thrummed with life, lust wakening like a lion in a cage. Awake and roaring as his hands and mouth roamed and roved, seeking every sweet inch of her. Gone was the tender seducer, now he was a man raw with need, ravenous and desperate. When she pulled his head down to worship her breast, and spread her legs to welcome his intrusion, he nearly wept.
Christine, Christine, his wife, his lover, his goddess, his life . . .
"Anything . . . anything for you!" he gasped in her ear.
The wet, silken clutch of her body was heaven around him. A heaven of pulsating muscle, liquid arousal and sweet heat. Pleasure quivered and sang in him, but he viciously clamped down on the instinct to pump inside her until he lost himself. No, damn it! He would not disappoint her again! Anger smoldered deep in his belly, hating the depth and scope of his starved, traitorous body that spent itself so quickly like a callow boy.
Erik hooked his arms beneath her shoulders and drew her upright in his lap. Christine drooped, boneless, arms draped over his back, face pressed against the cradle of his shoulder. Erik pressed kisses on her forehead and breathed in the scent of her riotous mane of curls, fingers dancing lightly down her back to cradle her hips as he thrust up into her. Christine uttered a choked gasp, her fingernails digging into his back. Erik relished the sting. He felt so crude and blunt next to this exquisite creature, all coarse, rasping hair, thick muscle and a heavy club of a cock. Christine, his beautiful, delicate wife.
He soon lost himself in the rhythm of their lovemaking, like an orchestra's bass and rhythm, punctuated with the occasional piercing cry. Erik assaulted her with sensation: lips and hands touching and teasing, her nipples rubbing his chest, the sweet pearl of flesh at the apex of her sex kissed and caressed by the root of his cock with each stroke.
Christine writhed in his grip, restless and hungry for the promise of release that wavered like a mirage just beyond her reach. Her lips moved against his skin, soundlessly forming his name. Determined to please her while fighting down his own release, Erik's thrusts grew deeper, harder.
Then there it was . . . ah, that sweet breathless moment, soaring on a violin's high note, before the string snapped and her body convulsed around his in wild spasms, her teeth sinking into the muscle of his shoulder. That, combined with the sensation of her shuddering around him warped and frayed the edges of his reality. He fell on top of her and plunged once, twice, then scalding pleasure struck him like a blow and he was coming violently, almost painfully, spilling his seed inside her still-quivering core.
"I love you," she whispered in the sweaty, trembling aftermath.
"As I love you," he gasped.
Erik summoned his once formidable strength and drew sheet and coverlet over both of them. Her limbs tangled with his and he fell into a sweet slumber with a smile on his face, arms wrapped securely around his Angel.
xxxxxxx
A/N: (Tiptoes away from Phantom's lair) Aren't they sweet? Ah, nothing like a little E/C smut to brighten one's day! Tell me what you think!