VI
I do not own PotO. I just play.
The supple feel of her lips against his sent a hot, lustful jolt through his body, joined by a twin ache somewhere beneath his left ribs. Plump, velvet soft lips hiding a garden of sweet delights, the tantalizing promise of heaven. Erik deepened the kiss with a series of languid pecks, slithering his tongue across her lower lip, catching her soft gasp in his mouth. Her hands fisted in his vest and Erik slid his fingers through her curly hair, so warm and heavy at the crown and cool and dripping bathwater at the ends at the small of her back. To have her so warm and sweet and eager in his arms . . .
Wait—Not eager. Desperate. It struck him like a thunderclap. This was not a willing woman in a cozy apartment; this was a brothel and a whore no doubt coerced by her madam to make her valuable customers happy.
Erik hissed, breaking away from the warm temptation of her mouth. Looking into her chocolate brown eyes, wide with puzzled fear, Erik was smote by a blow of vicious guilt that nearly crippled him. Where was the tenderness, his vaunted protectiveness? No, like the hundreds of men before him, he had swaggered into this establishment secure in his conquest and assuaging any guilt he felt with a cheap trinket or a smooth compliment and having the unmitigated audacity to expect gratitude, favors.
"Oh God!" Erik said, his voice cracked and hollow, "Christine, forgive me!"
Because his body was roaring at him to continue and the sweet scent of her enticed him, Erik staggered to the ewer, tore off his mask and doused his face and neck with freezing water. The cold wakened and chastised him.
His own words returned to haunt him, flaunting his erection and expecting . . . what? For her to be aroused by it, impressed by the part of male anatomy that had only abused her? How could she ever feel that way after what happened to her? The true implications of what he had almost so gleefully committed filled him with a self-loathing so complete it dragged his soul down like a weighted net.
Moaning, he dropped his head into his hands. Feeling the roughness of his deformity, he quickly mopped up the water and retied his mask. He turned to find Christine where he had left her, standing awkwardly before the fire, wringing her hands.
"What did I do wrong?" she whispered, her entire posture that of quivering defeat, of a kicked puppy who expected punishment. The ache under his ribs flared to burning life. Tenderness just as powerful and ruthless as the lust rose in him. He wanted nothing more than to hold her to his chest and tell her she was safe. When would he ever earn the right?
"Nothing. You are blameless, Christine," he reassured her, hating that he needed the distance between them to keep him from teasing apart that infuriating wrapper and mapping the terrain of her body with his fingers and lips. He would pay homage to her body as was her right, her due as a woman . . .
"Cover yourself, please. With the coverlet." His voice sounded strangled even to his own ears. Christine scurried to obey, sitting curled at the foot of the bed and swaddling herself in the velvety down. Christine was made formless and sexless by the blanket and Erik found his self-control.
Use that exceptional brain of yours, Erik! He told himself. He could think beyond the thrumming pulse of desire surging through his body. Erik chuffed out a rusty laugh.
"I have done precious little thinking since I saw you downstairs." He threw himself into one of the chairs, staring pensively into the fire. Mercifully, his arousal descended.
"I must beg for your forgiveness, Christine. I . . . forgot our circumstances. I had hoped that here . . ." Erik broke off, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I had hoped that you would consider yourself safe here with me, and free to speak and act without fear of reprisal. Madame Sophia told you in no uncertain terms to keep me happy, did she not? Threatened to sic that brute Bruno on you?" At the mention of the bouncer's name, a discreet shudder rippled through her and Erik vowed to keep a close eye on the other man. If he laid one finger on Christine . . . hot rage flooded his chest at the thought.
"Yes," Christine said quietly from her perch on the bed, "but . . . but that's not the only reason why . . . why I . . ."
"Yes? Go on," he coaxed, the ache under his ribs replaced with a delicious fluttering. Christine dropped his gaze and plucked lint from the coverlet with nervous white fingers. She took a steadying breath and the words rushed out.
"You're kind to me. And your voice is so beautiful." Erik swallowed hard, unsure of whether to be pleased or insulted. He was aware of the singular effect his voice had on others, and used it to his advantage almost unconsciously. A musician's daughter would be even more susceptible than most.
"Are you saying you would have slept with me because you're grateful? Grateful that I treated you like a human being and not a piece of meat?—well I did until tonight when I tried to wheedle you into bed." Christine's nod was solemn.
"I wanted to. I've never wanted to before."
Erik closed his eyes. God, did she even realize how devastating her brand of innocent seduction was? The temptation of inaugurating a succulent beauty such as she in the delights a man and woman could share together flavored his thoughts for several lurid moments. Then the tenderness whispered to him like the cool balm of a quiet melody, revealing how harsh and cruel the world had been to his shy Swedish rose.
"In the interest of clearing the air, my dear, allow me to say that my agreement with the Madame is such that her payments are secure, regardless of the nature of our arrangement. You need not fear me voicing any disappointment in your performance." He watched some of the tension seep from the set of her shoulders.
"I think," he said, choosing his words with great care, "I think it would be best if we take things slow. I find I have . . . very strong feelings for you, Christine."
A dreadful thought occurred to him, fraught with the insecurities fed to him from birth.
"And are you . . . might I inquire as to your feelings for me? Be honest. Would you prefer to spend your evenings elsewhere? I could arrange-"
"No!" she said, straightening swiftly, making an abortive attempt to rise. Then she ostensibly remembered his edict to sit and hide herself and burrowed deeper into her downy cocoon. It was on his tongue to say she was free to move as she wished, but refrained, giving her time to gather her thoughts.
"No," she repeated emphatically, "I want to stay with you." Erik repressed a small thrill.
"But honestly? I . . . I don't know what I feel for you. It's all so confused. Gratitude, surely. Admiration. A—Attraction." Erik's heartbeat stuttered in his chest. Her gaze was warm and shy, skittering over his face.
"Whatever my feelings are, they are strong," she whispered at last. Erik nodded sagely, trying not to grin like a fool.
"I am glad," he murmured. She gifted him with a small, sweet smile. The moment was warm and comfortable and he was loathe to break it. At last, Erik rubbed his palms together briskly.
"Very well, then. Shall we dine?"
XXX
Tonight, Cook had prepared an elaborate steamed cod resting on a soft nest of pasta drizzled in creamy sauce. It tasted marvelous. The wine was red and sweet, and Christine found herself pleasantly mulled by its silken persuasion. Its heat warmed her all the way down to her belly, stoking a small fire there. Erik's sharp green eyes weren't cutting, glittering gemstones now, no, no, no; they were pools of emerald green water, an oasis where she found solace.
"Tell me your happiest memory, Christine," he drawled in that voice. The voice that did marvelous things to her insides and coaxed the cowering being hiding in her soul into capering with joy at the knowledge that Erik held her dignity and sanity in high regard. He would not touch her without her permission. What a beautiful, beautiful man!
Christine delicately chewed on her lower lip as she pondered. Thinking of Papa was a bittersweet exercise for her, the fond memories of her golden childhood casting her present misery in even sharper relief.
"Hmm. Let's see . . ." she paused, thinking. A memory occurred to her and she giggled.
"I can't say it was my happiest, because I treasure every moment I had with Papa. But there was this one time when Papa and I were making our way through England. A Count was having a party at his manor and invited Papa to play, which was good, because Papa and I had spent our last coin making ourselves look presentable. Everything was going well, Papa was playing beautifully and once the guests had had their dessert and sherry, Papa invited me sing. Mind you, I was ten at the time, and deathly shy in front of strangers."
Erik sipped his wine with negligent grace and Christine wondered if he had ever been in a situation which broke that impenetrable poise. She doubted it. His tolerant smile faltered a little.
"Was your father aware of your shyness? Exposing you to ridicule is entirely unacceptable," he said, the edges of his words holding a note of sharpness that puzzled her. Christine was faintly flattered that even in a memory he would be protective of her.
"Oh I couldn't bear to tell him. He thought I had a voice like one of God's angels, and was exceedingly proud of me. He would have never pressured me had he known, but I couldn't bear to disappoint him.
Anyway, the guests were more or less ignoring me, so I completed the first song without mishap. However, on a high note near the middle of the second song, the Countess's lapdog decided to join in howling. Then another of the guests' pets joined in, then another . . ." Christine couldn't stifle the giggles rising up like champagne bubbles. She could barely gasp out the last sentence.
"Before I could finish the song, I was leading a chorus of yapping dogs! You should have seen Papa's face!" Erik's laugh rolled out of him like a burst of music that colored an otherwise drab world. Christine's laughter left her breathless and euphoric.
"The best part was when the guests thought it was part of the act! The Count was so pleased he paid Papa double what he asked. Papa was so happy. He bought me a charm bracelet with a dog on it," the laughter died out of her voice, "I can't believe I lost it." A contemplative silence filled the room. The mask made reading his expression nigh on impossible, but she watched his full mouth soften, a simple relaxation of muscle around his eyes.
"I am sorry for your loss, Christine. You honor your father by loving him so." Hot emotion rose up in her throat and for one terrifying instant, Christine thought she might cry. She feared if she started crying, she might never stop. She shut her eyes tight, focusing on her breathing.
In . . . and out. In . . . and—a large, warm hand folded into hers on the table.
"Oh Christine," he murmured, weaving magic into those letters, folded comfort and distilled compassion. Christine squeezed his fingers, grateful for that hand gripping hers.
His hands spoke so well of him: long, well-made, graceful hands that performed hundreds of tasks to perfection, a man's hand chafed with calluses of pen, rein and sword, bare of adornment. The nail on his little finger was torn; it gave his hand a plebian air.
"Thank you. And you, Erik? What is your fondest memory?" she asked, not releasing her grip on his hand as she reached across the table for her wine glass. Erik's relaxed, watchful posture stiffened a little.
"I envy you, Christine. My face made it impossible for my father to love me, you see. My mother was often sent away to a home in the country, as punishment for the sin of bearing such a son." Christine's expression must have given away her distaste for the man, because Erik's eyes grew earnest.
"I do not want you to think ill of him; he is not an evil man. I simply do not fit what he wants in a son. As such, my early memories of the de Chagny Château are somewhat tainted. My fondest memories would be with my tutors, especially Monsieur Eklund—remember the Swedish gentleman I told you about? It was hard for my father to find a tutor that could keep interest for longer than a month; I was an avid and voracious reader from four years of age," he said without a touch of arrogance.
"I cannot select anything specific, but nothing rivals the quiet peace of being utterly absorbed in an enthralling subject. Monsieur Eklund and I would spend hours debating what we read as we walked the Château grounds. He wasn't afraid to cuff me when I was brash, which was often," Erik said, chuckling.
"How old were you when Monsieur Eklund was your tutor?"
"I was nine, eleven when he . . . left." Christine sensed a deep well of sadness lurking between the last two words. Well accustomed to the feeling of loss howling through a hole punched in one's chest, Christine chose not to pry.
"I'm . . . I'm sorry you lost your friend," Christine stuttered, lacking Erik's effortless eloquence and feeling young and obtuse as a result. Erik didn't seem to mind, a grin softened the firm line of his mouth. Slowly, respectfully, Erik lifted her hand to his mouth and dropped a soft kiss on the back. A tingling feeling raced up her arm and settled somewhere in her abdomen at the press of soft, damp, warm lips.
"Thank you."
From there, their conversation ranged over a variety of topics, with Christine sharing more anecdotes of her gypsying with Papa across Europe, and Erik elucidating on his education and his relationships with his half-sisters. More than once, Christine was left in awe of his incredible intellect, but he explained things in such a manner than she felt neither cowed nor pandered to.
"I should like to meet Elise, and Jacqueline too," Chrisitne said, her cheeks aching from the unaccustomed burden of a smile.
"I would like that," Erik murmured, relinquishing her hand only to refill their wine glasses. Somewhere between their fevered kiss and the meal, Erik had discarded his waistcoat as well as his coat and cape. He sat in his shirt sleeves, the downy white rolled back in precise turns to reveal thick forearms dusted with black hair. Christine admired the play of muscle under his skin as he carved wedges of cheese and bread. His mouth quirked in one corner and Christine read a sort of shy eagerness in his manner.
"I have a somewhat impertinent question to ask," he began. A vague foreboding fluttered madly in her belly. Was he a monster?
"Oh?" the syllable emerged strangled and soft. Erik nodded, a peculiar blend of sweetness and trepidation filling his green eyes. The knots of tension eased a fraction. Or was he a man?
"Would you sing for me, Christine?"
A/N: First off, thank you everyone for your interest in this story! Your reviews and comments keep me writing! A note on the previous chappie: while it may have seemed a bit abrupt, these two did have three weeks to percolate in their turmoil and desire for each other. I am (trying) to write complicated emotions convincingly. Give me time, have faith in me and you won't regret it. :)