Song Take Flight
One of Christine's stipulations for this adventure was that first they must stop and explore the manor house that Erik had spent so many years improving.
"It's not finished yet," Erik said, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. In his dreams, he swept Christine into the door in early May, when the trees were in blossom and the wide windows were flung open to let in the perfumes of the gardens . . . he did not envision scaffolding on the main facade where Erik carved whenever he had a spare minute, or the frigid tomb of winter making the gardens a forest of sad brambles. The time he spent here grieving over her supposed betrayal with the Vicomte—his brother! A ghastly thought!—left a foul taste in his mouth and it had been weeks since he had come to work. Christine gifted him with a bright smile.
"I don't care, Erik! I'm sure it is beautiful. If you had a hand in building it, I know I will love it." Her honest faith in him stung. Last night's innocent comment about wishing to know more about him sank into his skin like drops of acid. Christine did not know who she had tied herself to and every day that passed made burden more unbearable.
Since the fiasco with the so-called master mason, Erik had dismissed the staff, including the timid and pungent Monsieur Durand. To have the space free of their noise and whispers more than made up for the lack of creature comforts such as hot water or a fresh meal. Despite these warnings, Christine eagerly insisted, giggling like a little girl as they hailed a brougham cab from the train station. Erik found her joy uplifting and watched her adoringly as the cab bumped down the rutted track that had temerity to be called a road. He would treasure every second with her.
"Here we are," he said as they arrived, "the Rousseau Manor."
XXX
If Christine had been hard-pressed to envision the home of her dreams, it would have resided in the dark forests of her childhood home in Sweden. But upon seeing the graceful manor nestled in a cozy grove of trees, the simple, weather-beaten walls of a cottage with a pony munching hay in a lean-to vanished. The smooth columns held aloft a façade alive with carvings. Windows pierced strong walls with light. The whole house breathed of gracious welcome and idyllic beauty. Carved and built and restored with his own hands. Even shrouded in winter's veil, she felt a sense of belonging. Erik's angelic voice sought to fill the windswept silence between them.
"As I said, it isn't finished. I still have to-"
"It's beautiful," she said, breathlessly, fighting tears. She wanted to run inside, surrounded by the tangible remnant of Erik's embrace and stay there forever. Christine hastily dashed her tears, embarrassed by the unnamable upwelling of emotion. There was always something of the child who missed the home in the forest and the tidy plot where her mother was buried. The years and miles that separated Christine from that moment eased the unsung grief.
This was home.
"Y—you . . . you like it?" her husband said nervously. Christine flew into his arms, kissing him.
"Yes!" he laughed—oh, it was such a beautiful sound, Christine swore the birds stopped singing to listen!—and cradled her face between his hands. The unadulterated adoration in his eyes made her heart caper and dance.
"Would you like to see more?" Christine's answer was another kiss.
They roamed, hand in hand from room to room, Erik's voice filling the halls with its beauty. His chosen words were like poetry, creating a world from the mists of imagination and chaining them to reality. Christine saw as he saw, the room where they would create music together, a parlor where she and Meg would sew and giggle and banter as they had in Madame's rooms, the terrace where they would eat breakfast each morning with the sun washing over them and sip lemonade from the fruits of their own grove. And a whispering undercurrent wove their way into his words that spoke of children. Her heart gave a sweet little lurch imagining a wild-haired daughter with his eyes, or a black-haired son with his angel's voice.
He even guided her up the scaffolding to show her his carvings of roses and nightingales soaring over a sylvan scene. With Erik's arms around her, Christine wasn't afraid. No, today the world was bright and alive with joy and promise. They sat together on the scaffolding, legs drawing idle circles in the open air, Christine with her head pillowed on his shoulder, watching the dancing beams of sun peeking through the patchy clouds. Despite Erik's warm arm around her and the drape of his cape, Christine began to shiver.
"Come, love. I know of an exceptionally large bed where you are always welcome," Erik purred. That sentence made Christine's toes curl in anticipation.
"Hmm. Sounds delightful."
Their bedroom was one of the only fully furnished and completed rooms. Christine had a faint impression of sumptuous appointments and walls papered in a deep, soothing green, but with Erik's lips on her skin, she rapidly ceased caring about the decor. A skylight at the apex of the domed room bathed the barge of a bed in light. Christine attacked the knots at his cravat, then smoothed his coat from his shoulders, loving the strength she found there.
Mouths locked in a delicious, ravenous clinch, Christine snaked her hand beneath his shirt, lightly dragging her nails over his taut belly before yanking the shirt over his head. He was a study in contrasts, her husband, her lover, her Angel. Erik turned her to face the bed, seizing her waist and yanking her back against his warm, hard body and straining cock.
"Christine," he breathed. Oh, she felt like a goddess when he said her name like that!
His deft hands plucked at the buttons of her dress and loosened her corset. Even free from that constricting garment, her breaths came in soft pants, hands kneading the dark, downy coverlet of their bed. A study in contrasts. The same man who would scorn humanity and seek a dark den levels beneath the earth, built this open, sunny home.
For her.
At last, the last lace was free and Christine shoved the whole assemblage of gown and corset down. Erik uttered a savage groan finding her still clothed in shift and petticoats.
"I want you," he rasped in her ear, pausing his fevered undressing to grind his cock against her buttocks. Mmm, there was none of the angel now, but a man, raw with need. Christine whimpered, arching back toward him, delirious with the melting heat spreading from between her thighs.
"Take me then," she said, moaning as he pressed damp, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of her neck.
"Up on the bed," he commanded. Christine eagerly obeyed, rolling on her back. She wet her lips in anticipation at the dark god who shoved off his trousers and parted her thighs with one insistent knee.
"Christine," he breathed her name like a prayer, peppering her face with light, sipping kisses.
Erik attacked the laces of her petticoats and sending the layers of flounce to join his clothing on the floor. He rucked up her shift, bunching the muslin above her breasts. Her nipples pebbled in the cold air. Erik stopped all manner of grinding and kissing and simply . . . stared. There was a pensiveness in his eyes that she didn't care for. Christine reached up and peeled the mask from his face. The rough, pitted skin rasped her palm as she attempted to tug his head down to hers.
"Why do you love me?" he demanded, turning his lips into her palm. A low, throaty moan escaped her lips as his long, warm fingers toyed with her molten core. His callused thumb rasped her swollen nub as one finger, then two slid inside. Christine clenched her thighs together around his knee, hips surging in time with those delicious thrusting fingers. What was he saying . . . ? How was she supposed to think or even breathe when he touched her this way? The sun blazed through the skylight, blinding her.
"Why do you love me, Christine?" Erik's hoarse voice breathed in her ear, accompanied by his lips and tongue doing something sinfully wonderful to her earlobe.
"Erik, please . . ." she whimpered. His fingers left her, and in a blur of pleasure-softened motion, Erik rolled onto his back, pulling her atop him.
"Take me," he growled, his fingers wet with the dew of her pleasure cooling on her hip. Desire blurred and frayed the edges of her thoughts. All she could think was that she wanted him. Now.
A few abortive attempts of her hips and finally, that long, slow plunge inside. . . they shared a rabid groan of animal pleasure. As she rode him, Christine watched sweat dew on the planes of his face, the rapt expression he wore. A study in contrasts, she thought, his face half twisted, half whole, but altogether beautiful to her. She loved his intelligence, his kindness, the hunger and hope of a battered heart. She loved it all. How could she tell him so and have him believe her? In their lovemaking, Erik had always held a degree of control over himself, a dedication to her and her pleasure. Now he groaned and arched beneath her. The cords of his neck stood out, his trembling hands guiding the depth and angle of penetration.
"Angel . . . Angel . . . Angel . . ." he chanted, mindless in ecstasy, "you're so beautiful. Oh God, I love you! I worship you!" the words combined with the sight of him so undone, so wild with the pleasure she alone had given him soaked her brain in fire and she flew, her body convulsing in paroxysms of pleasure. Christine was dimly aware of Erik flipping her on her back, pumping frantically towards his own release.
"I love you. I love you!" he roared as he spurted his seed. The sensation sent Christine into another earth-shattering release.
They collapsed in a sweaty tangle of limbs. Christine dropped gentle kisses on his throat and shoulder, luxuriating in his weight and warmth. The cold air soon assaulted them as sweat cooled and Erik guided her under the coverlet. Christine snuggled against his side and breathed in his spicy masculine scent mixed with the earthy leavings of their efforts and considered herself supremely content.
XXX
Erik gasped for breath, feeling as if heart and breath and life had been sucked from him. One thought penetrated the pleasure-soaked fog he floated in.
She needed to hear it. She had to. He resolved to himself.
"I need to tell you something." his voice sounded strange. Choked. Warbling. Not unlike the seventeen-year-old boy who had nearly robbed Giovanni that night in Rome.
"Hmm? What is it?" her sweet voice was sweet and soft, like a frayed edge of silk. Erik sat up and looked at her. God, she looked so beautiful with her mouth red and swollen from his kisses, her hair in glorious disarray, the musky scent of their mingled pleasure rising from the bedclothes. She deserved his trust. He had promised never to leave again. And he wouldn't. Not unless she asked him to.
"It's about . . . what I . . . How I was . . . it's about my past," he stuttered, seeing the concern and apprehension dance across her beloved features. She reached for his hands and squeezed encouragingly.
"Tell me." Erik looked down at their braided fingers, and saw the sparkle of her wedding ring. He heaved a shaky sigh.
"I'm afraid. Christine," he said, breaking off to chafe her hand between his, treasuring it with kisses.
"If you only knew what I have done . . ." His adored wife rocked up onto her knees, an unaccustomed pugnaciousness stiffening her features. Her shift fell back into place, hiding the tantalizing distraction her naked body was to him.
"I don't care what you have done in the past. I love the man you are, and I'm sure I will love the man you were." Her tone was crisp, matter of fact, so like Minette he grinned, despite feeling like he had swallowed broken glass.
Courage man!
His self-loathing rose up.
"I'm not a good man, Christine. Don't you know how I lusted after you when you were no more than a child? Barely bleeding and I wanted you! Is that not the action of a monster?" He raked his hand through his hair, trying to temper his thundering heartbeat. Christine flinched uncomfortably.
"And de Chagny? My brother? I would have killed him. I fantasized about it, a hundred times over. Certainly not the actions of a kind and benevolent Angel!"
He was at war with himself. The selfish, grasping part urged him to keep his mouth shut and wallow in her love like a fat cat in a sunny windowsill. The smaller, louder part berated him for being such a coward and urged him to do his duty and tell the cold, hard truth. The words flew out before a decision had been fully formed in his mind. Christine was composed, attentive, calm, her grip on his hands warm and strong. How was she taking this so well?
"I have killed, Christine. And I'm very good at it." Horrible silence stretched on and on in minutes of tiny agonies. Her calm facade cracked the slightest bit, revealing an edge of raw fear.
"Was it Giovanni's daughter?" she whispered.
Erik flinched as if she had electrically shocked him. What . . .? How . . .? He blinked at her wide-eyed face bathed in the sun's loving rays.
"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, striving for a neutral tone.
"Raoul. When I returned the ring he gave me, he said Philippe had told him that you k—killed a girl in Rome. The daughter of a stone mason named Giovanni—Erik you're hurting me!" Erik instantly loosened his grip, rubbing her hands in solicitous apology as he dissected the de Chagny whelp's newest slander against him.
"What rumors did he repeat?" Inwardly, he congratulated himself. No childish outbursts or storming out. Perhaps there was hope for him.
"He said that you killed her when she refused to share your bed." Her words emerged in a rush, but no less devastating for the brevity in which they were uttered. Erik threw back his head and laughed, a cold, withered thing that tasted of desolation. He was unsure what he hated more: that the de Chagny boy had concocted such an outlandish story or that Christine had ostensibly believed him.
"What really happened Erik?" Erik watched her through slitted eyes.
"What do you think happened?" he demanded.
"I don't know what to think!" she said, shaking off his grip and clamboring off the bed, "You say you are a terrible, depraved person, you won't believe me when I say I love you. What am I supposed to think?" her voice escalated until she was shouting the last phrase, stamping her foot.
"You don't know who it is you think you love," he said gently.
"Because you refuse to tell me!" she shrieked, anguish twisting her features. A similar anguish was gnarled up in his heart, a reflection of hers.
"I'll tell you then. No, I didn't kill the girl. Luciana, she thought she loved me; she wanted to see my face and forced me to remove the mask. She so utterly reviled me that she ran away screaming and fell as the railing crumbled." Erik sucked down a breath of cool air, reminding himself that he was not on that hot roof in Rome. He felt bereft and lonely without Christine's presence in their bed.
"I did not kill Luciana, but I have killed others. Many others. I was the shah's finest assassin and most clever torturer in Persia."
Shock rippled across his wife's features and Erik forged on, driving his point home.
"I am a murderer, a liar, an extortionist, a morphine addict and not entirely sane. God help me, I couldn't bear to tell you. I couldn't stand to see you hate me."
A heartbeat later, Erik found himself pressed against the pillows with Christine sprawled on top of him, pinning his arms to the pillows and stifling any more words with her drilling gaze. Smitten fool he was, he admired how the sunlight caught ruby highlights in her mane of hair. So beautiful.
"I could never hate you," she whispered, before kissing him. With a groan, Erik kissed her back, stroking her tongue with his. He tasted salt, from her tears and his. It was a sweet, cleansing flow, of acceptance that Erik had never dared contemplate. Hope tantalized him like a ripe peach and he could almost sink his teeth in and take a juicy bite of it. Soon, the kiss tapered in a series of decadent caresses.
"I'm not stupid, you know," Christine breathed, her voice husky and her breath warm on his face, "I knew when I married you that you had a past. An ugly one. I have seen you with the morphine, remember? I've seen your scars and knew how well you can fight." Joy and hope, his enemies for so long, now greeted Erik like old friends. He laughed.
"I'm a right fool, aren't I?" Christine's lips melded with his in another lingering kiss.
"Yes, but I love you anyway."
An indeterminate time later, spent kissing and gazing adoringly at each other, Erik was struck by a sudden thought and tried valiantly to bestir himself from this languor.
"We should go if we want to catch the train to Milan."
"No Erik, let's stay," Christine said, combing his hair back to pay special attention to the skin just behind and below his right ear. Erik sucked in a gasp through his teeth and shook himself free of the passion threatening to overwhelm his thoughts.
"Stay?" Erik frowned at her.
"But what about your career? La Scala? I thought you wanted this." Christine smiled, dropping a kiss on his brow.
"I do love to sing, but I could do without the squabbling and intrigues and strife that goes along with it. I know I can be happy here. With you." She laid her hand over his heart.
"This is home."
"Christine," Erik whispered, drawing her down for a reverent kiss, "I am in awe of you."
A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews and favorites!