Stories Like This Can't Come True

The bed was empty. Her hand reached for the warm, solid feel of his flesh and found only cool satin sheets. Brown eyes snapped open and Christine surged upright, clutching the sheet to her breasts. The curtain had been lowered, the gauzy black fabric rippling idly in wayward currents of air.

"Erik?" she whispered into the room's heavy stillness, lit by a fresh brace of candles.

No answer.

Stifling a surge of hurt, Christine reached for tasseled rope. As the curtain gracefully lifted, she scooted toward the edge of the bed. Pangs of soreness resounded through her, resonating between her legs. Her gaze fell to the downy sheet stretched over the mattress and the small spot of blood adorning it. Her eyes widened. She had heard stories among the ballet rats of their deflowering and was surprised by how little there was. Looking down at herself, she noted similar smears on her thighs. She rose from the bed and found Erik's robe draped over a nearby chair. She shivered in delight at the feel of cool silk sliding over her skin, embraced by soft clouds of his scent. Belting the sash, she wandered around the room, picking up items at random.

It was only after the pleasure-soaked blur of the night receded that she was struck by the enormity of the night. She—Christine Daae—was now a married woman. Wedded and bedded by the man that had haunted her dreams for years. Christine decided she was grateful for this moment of introspection. Erik, so ready to see his supposed inadequacies, would no doubt be hurt by any faraway look. The past was painful, full of too many misunderstandings and hurts, the present was deliciously wonderful, a dream of a honeymoon. Her marriage to Erik was a shining treasure in her hands, she longed to explore its shapes and textures, cherish its facets.

The future, however, was a question mark. To stay or go? Leave the Opera, leave Paris and all its tangled history and begin anew elsewhere . . . the idea had a certain, undeniable appeal. And it seemed prudent to put as much distance between Erik and Raoul as possible. As Erik so adeptly pointed out, they would always hate each other. Because of her. Christine swallowed a pang of guilt, her fingers stroking the delicate filaments of a peacock's feather draped across his dresser. In a new place, free of a resentful diva, two fumbling, blustering managers, and the scandal of an affair with an Opera Ghost . . . yes, she could rediscover the joy of singing for the stage.

The realm of dream and thought lost its appeal when her more urgent, fleshly needs asserted themselves. Namely, a rumbling stomach and a full bladder. It was only after she had finished her ablutions in the privy closet that she saw them. Small votive candles casting bubbles of ruby-hued light lined a narrow path out of Erik's bedroom. Enchanted, she followed them out. The main chamber was utter, inky darkness, with only faint dripping announcing the lake's presence. It was also noticeably colder. Christine clutched Erik's robe more tightly around her. The path ended at the bathroom's door. The door creaked opened at her light touch, and a gasp left her lips.

During the short interim of her sleep, Erik had transformed the bathroom into something out of an Eastern palace. Panels of gauzy white fabric were draped from the ceiling into a womblike tent around the full tub, steam dancing on its surface like curls of incense. Rose petals carpeted the floor. The changing screen painted with scenes of cranes and lotus flowers concealed the furnace. Steam blurred and softened the edges of objects; everything was cloaked in a dreamlike serenity. Crimson lanterns along the walls seemed to be suspended in midair, candles flickering like throbbing hearts within.

"Your bath awaits," murmured Erik's voice from behind her. Oh God, that voice layered with every manner of sinful pleasure.

"What? How-" she began, trying to turn to face him. His arms wrapped around her, his breath stirring her hair.

"No, love. Not yet. This is our honeymoon. Honeymoons are about . . . indulgence. Let me pamper you. Let us pretend that you are sultana of a mighty kingdom and I . . . I am your humble bathing servant. Here to indulge your every whim."

Every hair on her body stood on end at the shivering, naked desire in those words, interspersed with a few feathery kisses on her neck. He could seduce her so easily. One word, one caress and she was reduced to a melting mass of sensation. This made her inexplicably angry. He wanted to play games, hmm? Well, she would play, and they would just see who was begging in the end! Her spine stiffened as she affected the pitch perfect posture of every simpering aristocrat that had danced through the Opera over the years. She negligently spread her arms.

"My robe." Her voice held an edge of irritable command, none of the quivering breathless edge of a willing victim of seduction, she thought. She looked down and saw Erik's deft fingers pluck at the knot in the robe's sash. Soon, the silk slithered free from her body. Hotly aware of his hungry gaze, Christine approached the tub. A stool appeared as if by magic, and an offered hand to aid her. She cut a swift glance at him, noting his black bandit's mask, and Don Juan's ruffled shirt and black breeches, all the way down to his bare feet. His grey-blue eyes were subserviently downcast. He was taking his role very seriously.

The hot water felt heavenly. Christine sank gratefully into the silken, rose-scented water, leaning her head back against the rim with a soft sigh of bliss.

"May I wash your hair, Mistress?" Erik purred. She opened her eyes to find his gaze, so hot and steady behind the mask. Looking at her. Wanting her.

"Y—You may, Servant." she stuttered. This was wrong. She didn't want some twisting game of power between them. She wanted Erik.

Then his hands were in her hair, buried to the wrist in her wild locks, massaging her scalp and patiently washing and combing. All her protests died on her tongue as Christine relaxed under his ministrations, all but purring like a cat. In a warm, languid silence, Erik offered her tidbits of succulent filet mignon, juicy chunks of fruit, mouthfuls of bread laden with cheese. It felt so wonderful being cosseted and pampered. Armed now with a soaped cloth, Erik's hands wandered down her neck, her shoulders, breasts and belly, feet and calves. When his hand dipped between her thighs, she snapped out of her drugged indolence. So easy! Cast again into the unfathomable mystery of Erik. She was putty in his hands.

"I didn't permit you to take liberties, Servant." Even she was surprised by how cold her voice was. He flinched, like it was a blow.

"Forgive me, Mistress."

A knot was in her throat. What did she say? Was this still a game, or had she hurt him? He had more experience than she in these matters. How was she to play a game when she didn't know the rules, or the stakes? She wanted to scream with frustration. An idea rose from the torpid heat. She rose to her feet, swaying a little as her thudding heart tried to bring enough blood to her brain.

"Dry me." Confusion clouded those bright eyes, but Erik rose from his kneeling position and took up a downy towel and rubbed her dry with tender strokes. Swathing herself in the towel, her gaze raked over him, faltering a little at the sight of his erection trapped in his breeches, then peering fearlessly into his eyes.

"Your turn," she said in that remote sultana's voice. He swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Mistress?"

"My whims are meant to be obeyed. And . . . I want to bathe you. Now." He moved to pull the shirt over his head.

"No. That is for me to do."

His hands clenched around the hem, wringing handfuls of cloth like a bashful little boy. Christine pried his hands loose, dropping a kiss on the center of each palm. She kept her touch light and grazing as she pushed his shirt from shoulders and peeled the breeches down. There he was in all of his dark, masculine glory.

"Beautiful," she breathed, a fierce joy rising in her. Beautiful and strong and hers! All hers. Her hand cupped his silk-clad cheek. He recognized her intent and gripped her wrist.

"No, please Mistress!" he begged.

She rubbed her lips against his, whispering against his mouth, "Erik, my love, let me. Let me see you. Nothing could make me turn away from you. Nothing. Let me . . . let me . . ." It was true. Whatever lingering fear she had vanished. Regardless of a few inches of marred skin, Erik was still the most beautiful man she'd ever known, inside and out.

"Christine," he rasped, shoulders sagging in defeat. Another grazing brush of lip.

"Thank you. Thank you for trusting me, my love." Christine grasped the edge of the mask. His fists clenched, as if warring against the desire to push her away. Eyes clenched tight, his shoulders shook and Christine realized he was weeping.

She removed the mask and clenched her jaw around any foolish noise that would send her husband into a hasty retreat. Yes, it was hideous. The slack, pitted skin was red and angry-looking after years of constant abrasion. Beneath, she clearly saw the snaking shapes of blue veins, and the muscles looked twisted and shortened. His cheek—God, was that bone?—was slightly off-kilter, and a few sprouting hairs peppered the jawline. His right nostril was caved in, his eyelid sagged. Instinctive revulsion quickly ebbed, replaced with compassion—the purest and most selfless form of love. Christine cupped his skull and drew him down to her.

XXX

The touch of Christine's lips on his deformed flesh was a miracle. The moment he had so dreaded and feared had come and . . . and she was still here. Not only here, but touching him! Not only touching him, but loving him! A miracle, a holy blessing of a goddess with curly brown hair! There were no deities in all the world that would be worshipped as he worshipped her!

Christine.

Erik moaned, her homage to his skin leaving him terribly, overwhelmingly aroused. She mapped new paths to pleasure in his brain, searing heretofore unknown nerves. Feather-light, warm, and gentle, her mouth wandered along the crooked curve of his cheekbone to his ear and gently nipped the lobe.

"Beautiful," she whispered. Oh God. Every imagined scenario involving the removal of his mask ended in terror and disgust at worst, and indifference at the very best. Never acceptance. It was exquisitely unbearable.

"Christine," he ground out, vaguely amazed that anything passably coherent left his lips. Her name: his prayer, his sacrament, necessary for his salvation. A mischievous smile curved her mouth.

I'm a dead man, he thought. She'll kill me with that smile.

"Into the bath with you, love."

But dying happy.

Erik obeyed, wide-eyed and needy. She must have sensed his fragile state, for she spent several wonderful minutes stroking and petting him, popping tidbits into his mouth and rewarding him with kisses. She cherished his scars with her mouth and his gasps and moans urged her on. In that steam-clouded bathroom, amid the artifice of a fantasy designed to please and torment her, Erik discovered how little he knew about love or lust, or even himself.

"Oh Erik, I'm sorry! You must be freezing! Come, I'll dry you off." His Angel's face was creased in concern, brown eyes troubled. Dimly, he realized the water had chilled.

He scarcely noticed, but rose meekly, his turgid cock bobbing in obscene eagerness. Christine lavished particular care on drying him, kneeling down to dry his calves and feet. Then, that smile that hinted at all manner of mischief.

"Christine, wha-" whatever he had been about to ask was lost in an inarticulate howl as her lips closed over the head of his cock.

Oh . . . God!

"You'll tell me if I do anything wrong, won't you? I want so much to please you . . ." her husky voice floated up to him, her breath unbearable against his skin. Please him? She pleased him by breathing, by the simple fact of her existence! His fingers knotted in her cool, damp hair, urging her back. Speech was beyond him.

Her mouth enveloped him again and Erik's melted brain could scarcely discern the separate sensations of her tongue cradling and stroking his shaft, or her hands petting the base, or the tickle of her hair on the tender skin of his thighs. The sight of his cock disappearing into the hot cavern of her mouth and her scorching dark gaze was unspeakably erotic. Pleasure built to a thundering crescendo. Too soon, damn it, it was too soon! He wanted more! He gently pushed her head back. An endearing vulnerability filled her expression, sharply contrasted by her lush, swollen lips, her restless hands caressing his thighs.

"Did I do-"

"Any better, and you just might kill me, love," he wheezed with the rueful husk of a laugh, "I'm a greedy man. I don't want to finish just yet."

Eagerness lit her eyes. Her pink tongue darted out for a playful lick. He groaned. When he had calmed slightly, his hips arched and she took him again. How long he stood hunched over her as she sucked and licked and caressed him, leading him with gentle strokes to the very edge of his sanity before easing back, he didn't know. Soon, his release pummeled him with a blast of dark heat and he came shouting her name. Christine was so tender with him. She crooned and kissed away the tears on his cheeks, both the smooth and the twisted one.

"Thank you," he said stupidly. Her answering laugh filled the room.

"You're welcome, love."

XXX

Now that he had finally relinquished his mask, Christine was determined to keep it that way. A sweet melting feeling filled her at the thought of his trust, the reluctant hope of a beaten, enduring soul. She was honored by his regard, and swore she would never give him cause to regret it. So when the flat buzzing of his alarm announced the approach of a visitor, she was disappointed to find the familiar white covering set firmly in place. The visible half of his face was soft with love, embroidered with dry humor. His hand stroked her from shoulder to hip with hypnotic grace.

"As fond as I am of you dressed in nothing but your hair, my love, I find that I am most covetous of the sight. We should dress for our guest." Christine wrinkled her nose, but obeyed.

Somewhere in the night, Erik had found a shift and underthings which Christine now donned. Aminta's costume was nowhere to be found. She turned to find her husband looking devastatingly desirable in his breeches and robe. It left triangle of his chest exposed and Christine wanted to nuzzle that warm patch and feel the rasp of his chest hair against her cheek.

"Where did you find these clothes, Erik?" she asked, smoothing the fine muslin of her shift.

"I bought them for you. What is a new bride without her trousseau?" he purred. With a conjuror's air, Erik produced a gown of deep green satin subtly embroidered with the pattern of roses. She accepted it with wondering fingers and a grateful heart.

"To replace the one I ruined," he murmured.

"It's beautiful. Thank you," she murmured, touched. Erik grinned, his tight little shrug speaking volumes on how often he had been praised. Christine once more wished his mother a merry eternity in Hell. Christine submitted to her husband's deft ministrations as he fitted her corset and helped her into her dress. Christine leaned back into his embrace, gluttonously enjoying the feeling of his arms around her and his chin resting on top of her head.

"Who do you think is coming, Erik?" Christine felt his voice rumble up from his chest.

"Probably Minette or the Daroga, coming to check up on us." Christine twisted, gazing at his strong profile.

"I thought Madame knew the paths to take to avoid your alarms." Erik's lips quirked.

"She does, but given our circumstances, a certain amount of tact would be warranted, hmm? I'd rather not have her interrupt a delicate moment." His grip tightened, his voice dropping to that particular smoky timbre that always melted her bones.

"I see your point," she replied breathlessly.

When Madame arrived outside the portcullis, she found the two of them respectably clad seated together on Erik's organ bench, sharing morning tea. Her usual thin smile spread into a dazzling one that creased the corners of her eyes.

"Good morning, Minette," Erik said, rising to kiss both of her cheeks, "to what do we owe the honor?"

"Business, I'm afraid. I do apologize for interrupting your honeymoon," she said, spreading her arms to embrace Christine.

As she pulled back, Christine realized that the dynamic between her and her warden and surrogate mother had changed. That nebulous transition between mother and daughter to friends, to equals. Christine felt a pang of regret. Little Lotte was gone forever. While she relished the prospect of making her own choices, there was also that latent terror of mistakes and disaster.

"What sort of business, Madame?" Christine asked. A curious expression flitted across her face, a blend of discomfiture, apology and irritation.

"Unpleasant business."

Erik's visible brow rose.

"Oh? Our friend the Vicomte?"

Christine bit her lip, marveling at her dual reaction. On one hand, the silken menace of Erik's voice filled her with warmth, and on the other, it did not bode well for Raoul. She moved toward her husband and laid a hand on his forearm. A breath escaped his lips and he squeezed her elbow gently. Even now, did he doubt his hold on her? Madame noticed the byplay between them and grinned, her restless fingers stilling from her habitual nervous gesture of touching her crucifix.

"His brother the Comte, actually."

"Philippe? What is he doing here?" Christine wondered the same time Erik said, "The drunken letch? What is he doing here?"

They shared a glance and the three of them dissolved into a quiet laugh. Madame's face creased in seriousness and she pinned Erik with her gaze.

"He wants to see you and refuses to leave until he does. Meg and I checked around the Opera, he is alone." Madame said with an eloquent shrug. Christine eyed her husband and any derogatory quip against Raoul died on his tongue under her quelling glare.

"Well, ermm," Erik coughed, "relate if you would, my dear Minette, that a life of ordering at restaurants and spending your parents' francs does not prepare one for the world. He will wait on my convenience." Christine hid a grin. She would allow this oblique comment against Philippe. One couldn't fault its truth.

"Did the damned man say what he wanted?" Madame shook her head. Erik exhaled a breath through his nostrils and turned toward his pipe organ, bracing his hands on a table.

"Thank you for relaying the message, Minette." Both women heard the curt dismissal in his tone, and both stiffened in affront.

"Erik, aren't you going to even see what he wants?" Christine asked.

"No."

"Erik-"

"What would I want with this man?" he snapped, interrupting Madame Giry.

"His fool of a brother has done nothing but vex and insult me since he breezed into this Opera with his fat wallet!" this was said with an eloquent glance at her and Christine flushed with guilt. Even with the night's intimacies, his anger still made her feel like a scolded child.

"Damn Philippe de Chagny, damn Raoul de Chagny, damn all of the fucking de Chagnys! Do I not deserve even one day of joy with my wife?" Christine suddenly couldn't stand the two steps separating them. She crashed against his chest, flinging her arms around him. His arms snapped closed around her, reflexive and as natural as breathing.

"You deserve all the joy I can give you, my love, and if I had my way, I would lock you away down here and keep you all to myself," she pitched her words for his ears alone, not wanting to scandalize her surrogate mother. Erik's eyes lost their deadly bright edge. He exhaled a heavy sigh.

"He has come in peace. Why not see what he wants?" A wry smile quirked his lips.

"Ah, my prying Pandora. Ever curious," he murmured, softening the words with a gentle kiss on her brow.

"Very well then. Let us see what the entitled chit has to say."

xxxxx

A/N: So what do you think? Like it? Hate it? Review!