She couldn't breathe, every muscle in her body was tense, and her vision was blurring. In vain she called to God for release. None came as her cries were quickly silenced by him.
Oh, it had begun innocently enough; a visit to her angel's home only moments after her and Raoul had parted ways. She hadn't expected to find him still inhabiting the place; it had been a waning hope in her heart that led her down the Communist Road to the cellars and the lake.
More than his presence and continued vitality, it had been the feral look in his golden eyes that had stunned her. Delicately, she had removed his mask, and traced kisses over every miserable inch of his death's head, running her hands through his sparse black hair. The assault had begun as soon as she removed her ruby lips from his mangled face.
Erik captured her in his iron grip, wrenching guttural cries from her; over and over they traversed the room, until it was nothing but a dizzying array of colors. She begged him for release, to end her torment; however, Erik deafened his ears to her pleas, and continued at his decided course. The first pain took her by surprise, her screams echoing through out the house.
Now she was here, her heart pounding wildly, entreating God and Erik for relief. She was sure she would die; no one could survive such treatment as this. Finally with a great cry, Christine was finished.
Looking down upon her, Erik pressed a soft kiss to her neck. "La petite mort." His throaty voice caressed her ear, as he moved to lay beside her.
"What a morbid thing to say." Erik chuckled at how tightly she still clung to her naiveté. He drew the covers around their still nude figures as they lay with their limbs entwined. His hands stroked her porcelain skin, still not believing she was there, her blonde curls fanning out on the pillow beside him. He once never dared to dream her room in his little house would see such a deliriously joyful moment.
He drew her close enough to him that Christine felt his every heartbeat. "Erik, I love you." Her soft whisper splintered the since that had descended upon them.
His lips brushed her ear. "And I you ma Madame, for I am born in your eyes, live in your arms, and die in your lap.
Author's note: La petite mort means the little death, it is an expression dating back to the renaissance age used to describe orgasm. The last line of the fic comes from a Shakespeare quote, Much Ado About Nothing I believe it was someone told me