A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Yeah, things have been pretty dark and angsty…This chapter deserves the rating...And now…
LVI
.
In the haze of shadow that bordered the brilliance of light, an image of a woman appeared on the distant horizon. His heart painfully beat within his ribs to see soft lines merge into glorious detail and Christine's features appear. A diaphanous gown of angelic white blew against and around her nude form, its whisper of illuminated folds enunciating every glorious plane and shadow, her wild ringlets of dark curls also kissed by the gentle wind.
She held out her slender arms, a beseeching siren of light, and he was struck dumb by the glow that seemed to emanate from her body. The gown disintegrated into particles of luminosity that suddenly fell away and left her form unveiled to his hungry gaze.
"Come to me, Erik," she whispered, her smile an enticement, her eyes bright and sparkling with challenge. "Come…"
She was suddenly so close he could reach out and touch her, but his arms felt leaden. Unable to move, he could only look at delectable curves and imagine their softness. Her hands cradled the weight of her breasts and lifted them for his full scrutiny as she began to dance before him, as a harem girl would her master, her thumbs brushing the rosy peaks, her hips softly swaying in wanton suggestion, until he felt he might explode from the heat of his desire. She bent to him, her soft, cool lips ghosting over his, her hand reaching for and placing his palm over the swell of her breast. When she let go, his hand fell away like a dead weight – and he realized he was paralyzed, the heat she had stirred in him now searing his flesh in anguish.
She laughed and sensuously danced away from him. "You are nothing but an ogre and a beast…" Her lips formed the words but the voice that came from her throat was a man's, coarse and foul. "I was wrong to think you could be more. You sicken me with your talk of curses and death. I wish you had never come to The Heights, I wish you would go away…"
He stared in horror as her face grew hard and evil, dark pillars of smoke invading where light had been. His shoulder burned with fire and he saw that a large patch of blood soaked his shirt. He could no longer move any part of his body, the pain immense when he tried. Her scornful image faded, until the features shifted into that of his attacker. A second time the man aimed the nozzle of the gun his way.
"She doesn't want you. She never did."
The explosion brought the Phantom wide awake in his bed. He lunged to a sitting position, his entire body soaked in sweat with the return of the vicious dream. Shaken, he extricated himself from the twisted sheet and drew his wrapper around himself, escaping his bedchamber, wishing only to escape the nightmare.
The nightmare that was his reality.
The reality he could never escape.
His heart freshly torn with old pain, his mind riddled with doubt, he approached his pipe organ, hoping this time to drown out the past in his music. But again harsh memories cruelly dominated the clash of chords in their battle for his mind. Indifferent to inflicting self torture, already despising himself and no stranger to anguish, he slumped forward, grabbing the edge, and slammed his head on the wood. The blinding flash of pain seared his brow through his temples but did nothing to jar the recollection that twisted the blade of remembered betrayal through his soul, and he hurled himself from the bench, tearing his hands through his hair.
Four years ago, the vicious words that his attacker had spewed in between shots fired into his flesh had been Christine's exact words – many of them Erik had overheard from her own lips to Berta. Clearly she also had shared those words with her Vicomte. Those words his attacker could not have known otherwise.
This was his reality. This he could not change.
His body shuddering with sobs that he struggled to suppress, he felt his legs tremble and dropped to the cold stones. Weak with despair, he pressed his head against the bench. The soft mask he wore for slumber had adhered to his face, soaked with his sweat and his tears.
She was right to call him a coward. He was afraid to be with her again, afraid to trust her. He wanted her more than music, more than even his opera – God, he ached for her – but he feared she would truly destroy him this time. Betrayal, he had learned, was a lethal poison that warped the soul into madness and drove its victim to horrendous acts. He feared what a second dose might do to him.
He did not believe that she had plotted with the Vicomte to end his pathetic life. Even in the depths of his torn heart that he had firmly sutured with hatred he did not believe her so cruel as to wish him dead, only to have wanted him gone. But it was her disgust for Erik that she shared with the Vicomte that had spurred his servant to action, and for more reasons than one…
He did suspect the Vicomte's involvement in the plan to see him dead. Royals and Nobles often dispatched their servants to execute foul deeds such as murder. He himself had become a slave to the Shah's will, until the one horrifying incident that made The Phantom, the Shah's Angel of Death, see himself for the irredeemable monster he truly was.
But nothing about her continued to make sense. Her words to him these past two weeks – at the mirror, in the garden, in the chapel – made no sense. She wanted him gone. She wanted him there. She kept her distance. She chased after him. She ran away. She begged him to come back. But who did she see? Who did she want? The masquerade or the reality?
And why should she accuse him of destroying what they had, when she had done so much worse? He had brought her back into the light, into the life she craved. She had consigned him to a living hell that by his consequent actions he now deserved.
While she had been trapped in his underworld of darkness he made her suffer many times over for every secret word previously confessed, the desire for vengeance aided by the poison of old betrayal taking over his soul. God - how he had made his Little Angel suffer!
And this past week of chapel lessons brought new torments. He had pushed her hard, merciless, the need vital with her debut so close at hand, the distance he forged brutal. His need to hold her, to touch her and make her his again increased with each night's practice. At times he thought he caught glimpses of that same longing in her eyes, though she stood too far away to tell. But then, to see her fight to stay so strong hours ago, to realize the physical pain she had hidden and endured, fearing to tell him, and witness her break under the cruel strain he imposed – it was too much.
In that moment, he had known; no matter if she cut out his heart, he could never put her through such torment again. He could not bear it. She bled too deep into his soul. She was his breath, his life, his utter existence. Even in his plan of vengeance, she was at the core of all he had done.
"Maestro…?"
Jolene's soft voice reached into his anguished thoughts, slowly pulling him back to the present. Unable to speak, barely to think of all but the past, he looked to where she stood in her bed gown, her long curls flowing to her waist.
"I heard you cry out," she said in concern. "Are you alright?"
His emotions in tatters, he did not have the strength or the will to answer.
Taking courage in his silence, Jolene walked to where he sat on the stones with his back against the organ. She stopped so close to him he had to tilt his head back to see. "Please, don't be sad any longer. You don't have to always be so alone. I can make you happy. I - I want to make you happy…"
Emboldened when he did not order her to go, she nervously lowered the sleeves from her shoulders, letting the gown slide from her body. "I am no longer a child, and I want to be your woman," she whispered.
Remaining motionless, only his bleary eyes moved as they wearily took in her lush breasts and flat stomach, the roundness of her hips and the triangular shadow of curls, his gaze then lowering down the graceful slope of her legs. His eyes again lifted to hers as she slowly knelt before him. Tentatively she reached out and pressed trembling hands to his jaw.
This was all wrong. The dream should contain Christine, it had always been Christine naked and taunting him before this, and then he realized, it was no dream…
At the brush of the girl's soft lips against his, he clasped her shoulders, gently pushing her back. She stared at him in confusion as he took the sleeves of her voluminous gown in both hands, again drawing it up over her body.
In the past, he had retaliated with others in his grief and anger, because of Christine. He had sought fulfillment but only found the truth of what that meant in his Angel's arms. Jolene had grown into a voluptuous woman, with no childish angles left to her form, and like any other male creature with blood flowing through his veins, his body reacted to the sight of her. But his heart was not affected. And he'd had enough meaningless trysts in the night to last a lifetime. He wanted only his wife.
It was then that he knew, whether it be two weeks or two years, the battle he self-imposed had been lost before it started.
"Go back to bed, Jolene," he said quietly.
Tears wet her blue eyes. "Am I so ugly then? You liked me once before."
"You are quite beautiful. But I can never again be with you, as a man lies with a woman."
She shook her head. "But – I-I don't understand…"
"I am Erik."
At his quiet admission of the name he had shunned for four years, he watched as confusion left and the dawn of understanding entered her eyes.
"You…?" she choked. She blinked hard and fast. "H-h-her Erik …?"
But Jolene did not wait to hear his reply. Awkwardly she clambered to her feet and slowly backed away. She covered her mouth with both hands as she read the clear affirmation in his eyes…and the quiet truth of what that meant.
He had brought Christine to Paris. He had brought her to his home. He had married her –
– and Christine had said, she had said…
Her body trembling with the despair of her discovery, Jolene kept guarded the secret of lost love once told her and whirled away, escaping back to her bedchamber.
Erik closed his eyes while the little maid's sobs echoed distantly through the caverns.
xXx
Christine's eyes flew open and she sat up with a start.
She had experienced the dream again, only this time her masked lover had not remained. He had kissed her but never once touched her; instead he retreated, his image fading. And though she reached out for him, begging him to stay, he had disappeared back into the dark, misty shadows.
She scolded herself that it was only a dream, hardly important, not like the vivid reality that scorched into her mind: the night of the opera had arrived. Heaven help her and may all the angels be merciful…
Especially one Angel who was not truly an angel.
She shook away her unease and dressed with haste for the rehearsal, grateful that the terrible ache in her head had vanished so she did not have to bear that burden too. Reminded of the night's events, she noticed the rose, its petals sadly crushed from where she had unknowingly lain against it in slumber, and she placed the fragrant blossom beneath her pillow, as had become habit with precious mementos.
An hour later, she stood in the wings beside Meg, awaiting her cue. A man walked close from behind, brushing the back of her shoulder. Christine jumped at the contact, clutching the curtain that covered the back wall, her heart beating like a trapped bird.
"Pardon, mademoiselle." The stagehand from last night in the empty corridor grinned as he continued toward his post, but with the cold way he looked at her, she felt his apology without merit.
"Don't mind Buquet," Meg whispered. "He's like that with all the cast."
"That doesn't exactly reassure me. Why does anyone put up with him?"
"Oh, some have done more than that! I heard he once had a tawdry liaison going on with La Carlotta many years ago, when she was in the chorus. But she dropped him to become mistress to one of the managers working here at the time. That woman has always been a flagrant hussy. It was said that's how she got her rise to stardom, since it certainly couldn't have been her voice."
The information came as no real surprise, especially having recently also learned from Meg that Carlotta was Piangi's mistress. Christine wondered if the brassy redhead truly had destroyed marriages and families as Erik once told her.
Meg cocked her head and smiled. "It's all part of working in the theatre – their kind. You'll get used to it. Though with Maman nearby, usually Buquet and others like him aren't so bold and keep their distance. Are you nervous?"
"Why do you ask?"
"If you pull on that curtain any harder it may come tumbling down on our heads."
The dancer's smile turned sympathetic as Christine quickly let go of the curtain.
From the front of the stage, Madame Giry gave her daughter a frosty stare that would silence the most rebellious dancer of the chorus. Meg had kept her voice to a volume only Christine could hear, but apparently her mother discerned the hushed sound over the music coming from the orchestra pit.
Taking a breath for calm, Christine clenched her hands at her sides. She must order her thoughts, must seek control and forget about all but her role. She could do this…
However, once rehearsals were finished, and the hour of her probable doom arrived, Christine stood frozen in the wings. Every vessel in her body had tightened to the point of snapping, her stomach a series of knots tied to her heart that felt it might explode. It drummed in her breast like a death sentence, slowly picking up speed as her cue came nearer.
She looked through the chink in the curtains at the audience – hundreds of dim silhouettes, all of them waiting to hear the mysterious new diva who had come to them from nowhere …
And nowhere was where she felt she belonged.
"Christine," Meg whispered, nudging her, and she realized the fate of her future as a singer was about to descend.
She walked onstage, awkward, clasping damp hands, her first scene Aminta's entrance into the village. The chorus gaily sang of the daughter of the king of gypsies while weaving and dancing around her, at the same time Christine strode along, in slow choreographed movements – picking a flower, placing it in her hair – as if she did not hear them. Only recitatives were required of her after that, simple dialogue of song and certainly nothing too difficult, but she exhaled a breath of relief when she exited stage right as the portly Don Juan entered from the opposite wing.
The next scene went a trifle better, and she felt less like her wooden limbs had petrified to stone. She managed the first two acts relatively well, her tension further relieved when the outgoing Meg winked at her in encouragement, as the ballerina gracefully danced close in a series of spins. But all her hard won ease disintegrated in the third act, as the time came for her first solo performance. This, the moment she was to shine, when recitatives of the cast ended, and her voice was all that would carry upon the stage – all that would be noticed within this vast theatre with its hundreds upon hundreds of curious, ogling guests, some important nobles, all of them ready to pass judgment as they waited to hear the most closely guarded secret of Paris….
Christine suddenly forgot everything. Forgot how to breathe, forgot how to control her breathing, forgot how to sing…
Panicked, she stood paralyzed in the wash of glaring white light and stared into an ocean of thick darkness. From the orchestra box, Monsieur Reyer lifted his baton, and she heard the opening chords, felt her stomach tumble like she would be sick, right there, in front of the crème de la crème of Paris society. Weakly, her eyes fluttered shut as she wished for the floor to drop out from under her.
Move through the mirror and capture the essence of the music, my Angel. Let its power not only fulfill you and control you, become the splendor of the notes - become the music. YOU are the music, Christine…
Her eyes opened wide in shock as she heard his voice so clearly speak into her mind, as if her Angel of Music had sensed her trepidation and whispered encouragement in her ear. And with a little shiver of understanding of their last chapel meeting, when he whispered her name to soothe her, she knew he had. With his faith in her to guide her voice along with the knowledge that he was there, the shackles of fear that held her bound at once fell away. Her heart became freed to the musical light, her soul soaring with the haunting notes of his composition, and looking to the rafters high above where she sensed he stood, she began to sing.
His music possessed her soul, and she gave it voice, shaping the notes into words of lament that soon blossomed into pleas of bittersweet hope. She was no longer Christine, she was Aminta, the gypsy princess of music, singing of the love once denied her and the hope to love again. She smiled wide, forgetting all else, and let the music free her.
Once the aria neared its close, the cadenza now upon her, she nurtured each note in her heart before letting it burst forth and take wing in a series of fluid, bell-like runs she controlled. She gave each note the breath of life as she saw fit. A little flourish of a birdlike trill here. A gentle surge of song there. Then she embraced the last high note with a crystalline clarity and power that made those watching gasp and stare until, bestowing it as a gift, she let it soar away, back to the heart of its master.
She could feel him watching from above though she could not see him. Could feel his pleasure and his pride…
And then the theatre erupted into new music, the music of mass approval, as all around the building, along the floor of the auditorium and in every balcony, men and women rose quickly from their seats, like great undulating waves, and clapped long and loud, cheering for the new diva. Christine could barely take it all in as with a brilliant smile and misty eyes, she watched while numerous roses were tossed at her feet.
We did it, Erik…our dream at last.
"Brava, Brava!"
Her attention went to Box Five where Raoul and Arabella stood and leaned forward with applause, and she sent them a little nod and smile, barely pinching her filmy white evening gown and giving the slightest curtsy. Turning again to the audience, she made a deeper, more graceful curtsy, as they continued to shower her with flowers.
x
"Oh, Christine, you were magnifique!" Meg grabbed her arm before she could escape to her dressing room. "But where are you going? Everyone is talking about you and your angel's voice – you are a star!"
Christine smiled. All of the tension created these past three months building up to this night had blissfully vanished, leaving her oddly both lethargic and buoyant.
She loved the music, loved being a part of something so wondrous, with her dark Angel the counterpart of that dream. But she knew she must avoid the public as much as possible for her own safety. Madame Giry, who Raoul informed her now knew the true reason of Christine's arrival to Paris and need to hide, had responded with her usual taciturn gravity, surprisingly having little to say on the subject. She had told Christine that she would make excuses for her tonight, but tomorrow she would need to speak to the media just this once. After that, Madame would concoct a story of fragile nerves and the preference of the new diva's to spend time in solitude. Soon she might be labeled a taciturn eccentric, but that was the least of her fears.
"You danced divinely, Meg. I only wish I was as graceful as you." The sole thorn in her garden, Christine had made one awkward blunder in the final act and should probably apologize to Piangi for knocking into him when she'd turned too swiftly on the stair. Thankfully the audience had not laughed, thinking it all part of the story.
The ballerina gave her a smile that seemed almost bashful, then immediately burst into giggles and grabbed her hand. "Come. We must celebrate!"
"I was to meet someone – "
"The Vicomte and Lady Arabella? I'm sure we'll find them at the cast party."
"But the reporters – "
"You needn't fear them. They can be vultures, but for you I should think they will write nothing but glowing accolades." She studied Christine curiously when her words had little affect to soothe. "Not to worry. They aren't let backstage. The only public allowed is anyone of importance to the theatre, like our patron. Interviews are conducted elsewhere, with everyone looking and behaving their best." Meg giggled. "It sometimes gets scandalous back here on a successful opening night, and the managers wouldn't wish the public to read of that!"
"I, I suppose…" Reminded of her attire, Christine looked at her bare feet. "Should I not change out of costume first? At least put some shoes on?"
She glanced toward her dressing room, hoping that he would come tonight. He had sent her the note and the potion and the rose, and he had encouraged her before her performance. Surely that was a good sign.
Christine frowned, not really knowing what he would do, knowing also, a lot depended on his current mood. He could be as mercurial as a sudden gale that blew hot then cold.
"You can change if you wish to," Meg looked down as well. "You wouldn't want your toes trodden on. Let's hurry."
To her surprise, Meg followed her. Christine said nothing, not wishing to be rude and tell her to go when she'd always been so kind. She took the time only to put on slippers, casting glances to the tall mirror often. Meg grabbed her wrist, pulling her to the door, eager to become part of the gala.
Christine hesitated. "Meg, I'm not sure this is wise."
"What do you mean?" The dancer's expression hovered between amused and baffled. "You're the star, Christine! You have to be there. Now, come along. No one would dare snub you if that's what has you concerned."
Unable to curb a grin at Meg's tenacity, Christine allowed her new friend to pull her through the door.
Once in the thick of the revelry, with performers and crew packing the narrow corridors, to Christine's astonishment, a glass of red wine was suddenly thrust into her hand.
"The managers bring out the best on opening night," Meg said, grinning like a simpleton, "but don't tell Maman I know. Sometimes she treats me as twelve, not sixteen."
"I thought you only drank wine with meals."
"But this is a celebration!" Meg defended in mock horror that Christine should speak so. "Vive la France and vive le Don Juan…" She giggled, tilting her glass to Christine's – "Let us make merry, for tomorrow we pay the piper, with all the grueling changes of Maman and Monsieur Reyer!"
Christine grinned, shaking her head at Meg's silliness.
Catching sight of Raoul and Arabella, she excused herself from Meg and met them halfway, basking in their praises. Piangi came up beside her, adding his sincere words of admiration, and the four spoke animatedly of the production. All around, groups of people talked, drank, and laughed, while some of the male chorus members began to sing a risqué little ditty.
Christine soon learned that a diva's life on opening night of a major production was not her own. She was praised and congratulated, cheered and toasted, as the wines continued to flow and the merriment did not wane. A few ballerinas sent her envious glances, but for the most part, others who had not done so before now accepted her into their circle of camaraderie. Her hesitance to mingle evaporated more with each taste of wine, and she even tried a sip of the pale champagne Raoul brought her. It tickled her nose and bubbled all the way down her throat, and she decided immediately that she liked the sweet red claret much better.
When living with the de Chagnys, Christine had sampled wines with her meals, of course, but never tippled freely, though the thought had crossed her mind after she'd come out of her catatonic state. To drown her sorrows under the dulling weight of the vine seemed an appealing escape, but her hesitance to cause Raoul and Arabella any more of a scandal than to have a madwoman stay in their home prevented her from turning to a lifestyle of daily inebriation. They certainly didn't need the added embarrassment of a tipsy madwoman as their guest.
As she closed and locked the doors to her dressing room no more than an hour later, Christine wondered if this warm, dizzy feeling was being tipsy. She giggled to realize she still held her wine glass, drained what was left, then set it on the edge of the table, misjudging distance. The glass fell to the carpet but did not break and she ignored it. In the muted glow of two candelabras on her dresser, she called over to the mirror as she staggered further into the room.
"Are you there, my fiendish Phantom?"
When no answer came, she shrugged. "Suppose not."
She missed being with him, missed sharing this night of their musical triumph. After all, it was his as much as it was hers. Bouquets of congratulatory flowers that appeared before the production and during her absence filled her dressing room, their mingled scents overpowering, and she still felt a giddy, happy kind of warmth.
Too much warmth really…
She should ready herself for bed. It was late and there would be an early rehearsal tomorrow.
"For tomorrow we must pay the piper – Madame, and Monsieur Reyer."
She giggled at the absurd little rhyme and worked to untie her red sash, letting it fall to the floor. She then unfastened her glittering gypsy skirt, letting the filmy material float to her bare ankles. Stepping out of it, she stumbled a little and caught herself with one hand to her dressing table. Her black ruffled gypsy corset felt much too tight and after a great deal of working the knot of laces in front she at last had most untied, enough to shrug out of the horrid binding contraption. That left nothing but her chemise that billowed past her hips, and she stared at her reflection in the mirror while pulling off her slippers.
"I am not graceless. Papa said I have the grace of a dancer – and I do!"
Madame had also told her she needed work on her entrances. She frowned. How was she supposed to feel seductive when looking at her lead?
Another face, hidden by a mask, materialized in her mind, and with that for incentive, she swayed her hips as she practiced her walk. Ugh. That really was horrid. She giggled then tugged her sleeve down one shoulder and looked into the mirror brazenly. Was this seductive enough?
"No, that won't do either," she sighed, then pulled both sleeves down, baring both shoulders and again sauntered slowly, only wobbling a little this time.
"Oh, Don Juan…" she softly sang in a bit of improvisational narrative. "Come and find me…"
Madame and Reyer would both have apoplexy if she made up her own lyrics, and her Phantom wouldn't be at all happy either. But she hated the way Aminta behaved. He had such a misconception of love, believing it something to avoid at all costs, and especially he was wrong about women, thinking them all ice cold and cruel…
…of course he had wedded her and bedded her so he must feel something more for her.
The effects of the claret were clouding her mind. She could not recall why they were apart, not exactly…lies, yes, he had lied. And she had been angry, as was her right. But he hadn't seemed that angry when she pulled his mask away that night – more sad and reconciled…
So why did he not want her?
With a swift decision, she pulled the chemise up and over her head then stared into the mirror, blushing profusely, her entire body now aglow. She had never really looked at herself naked, no more than was necessary to bathe and dress, but now she made a full inspection of her form.
"So, what's wrong with me?" she muttered, tilting her head to one side.
Her skin was mostly flawless, save for the four-inch scar on her upper arm from the beast that once sunk its teeth into her, added to that a few faint and small scars from her childhood romps on the moors. Nothing really obvious. Her breasts were high, round and firm, her waist long and slim, but her hips seemed too narrow. Narrower than those of the ballerinas and those he once favored, surely…no, she refused to think about them.
Running her hands slowly from her waist over her hips, she wished they flared a bit more. She really had lost too much weight in the last four years. She halfway turned, to look at her derriere, pulling her long mane of curly hair over one shoulder. At least that part of her anatomy was firm and round, and her legs were slender and long…
Oh, this was silly.
x
From the other side of the mirror, the Phantom stood spellbound in utter shock.
Elated with her performance and wishing to extend his approval once she left the gala, he had arrived in time to see Christine slip the sleeves down her shoulders and take slow unsteady steps, muttering to herself then singing something impossible to make out. He had wondered what in the hell she was doing, when suddenly she pulled her chemise away and stood naked before him, causing the beribboned rose he had brought to fall from his hand.
The maid's hopeful seduction in the early morning hours was nothing compared to the sight of his wife's perfect body unclothed and the instant effect it had on him.
Fire raged through his loins as she made her careful inspection while he followed every studied movement with wide eyes. He clutched the mirror's edge, the need to have her growing fierce, but held back, intrigued to see what she would do next. That she had no idea he was there made her innocent and unknown seduction all the more erotic, and when he saw her slide her hands down her hips, he softly groaned, burning even hotter.
The Phantom curled his fingers around the lever, ready to enter her domain, when she whirled away and reached for a wrapper on the chair. Slipping it over her shoulders, she let the sash hang free. Slowly she began to dance and spin as the ivory silk caressed her snowy white flesh.
Slightly unnerved by the similarities to his dream, he could not cease watching, his desire for her more powerful than his reservations. Suddenly she twirled in a circle and crumpled to the thick pile rug.
"Christine!"
He threw back the mirror door on its track and rushed to kneel at her side. Cupping his hand behind her neck, he gently lifted her head. Her eyes barely fluttered open and she smiled, her expression one of such delight it made his heart pound in amazement.
"You're here - at last!"
She grabbed him around the neck, pulling him down.
Thrown off balance, he fell beside her.
x
Christine had just decided after her dizzy fall that the carpet didn't feel so horrid, in fact it was rather nice, and she would just lie there and take a little nap, when she felt a large hand at her nape and the beautiful voice of her Angel calling her name.
Opening her eyes she saw the room had grown almost completely dark, as if some of the candles had blown out, but the sight of golden eyes burning intently at her from within a black mask made her heart sing.
Without thought she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, reveling in the desired feel of his hard body pressed to hers as she lay on her side, facing him. The fine silk of his waistcoat and trousers against her bare flesh made her realize that she was naked and he was fully clothed and this was only the dream. Groaning with the need to experience his touch before he could fade away into mist, she wove her fingers through his hair and brought her lips to his.
He held still a moment in astonishment, which quickly faded, along with the realization that she wasn't ill or hurt. His hunger for his provocative siren eclipsing all else, the Phantom kissed her back with the same urgency. He cradled her face with his hands, wishing to feel the warmth of her silken skin, and cursed his gloves that let him feel nothing.
Feeling him draw away, Christine made a little cry of disappointment in the back of her throat.
"I know this is only a dream," she whispered, "but don't go yet."
A dream…
He had tasted the sweet red wine on her lips and soon understood the reason for her wanton behavior, but was she aware of anything she did or said?
"Who is with you in your dream?" he asked, keeping his voice low and soft.
"You are," she said, her mind scattered in a haze of confusion.
"And who am I?"
"My masked lover," she whispered blissfully, her eyes closing.
"What is my name, Christine?" he insisted, as if searching for some mysterious answer unknown to her.
"You have many…"
This was such an odd dream, but she did not refrain from answering him. She shivered to feel the touch of his warm fingers slowly sweep her neck and trace her collarbone to a point between her breasts.
"Phantom… Angel… Teacher… Tyrant." She suppressed a giddy giggle.
He sighed, and all the sadness of the world rested in that weary exhalation of breath, making her instantly sorry for her foolish bit of humor, even if the last moniker was at times also true.
"That is all I am to you then."
Her eyelids opened and she looked directly into his eyes, drowning in their golden fire.
"You are the mate of my soul. My husband…"
She took in a soft little breath of wonder as she touched her fingertips to his jaw.
"You are Erik."
With a hoarse sob he could not contain, he crushed her lips with his, stealing away her breath.
Relieved to feel him so possessively ravage her mouth, she responded with the same fervent need.
His hands blazed a trail of tingling fire against her skin beneath the wrapper, wanting to touch everywhere at once, along the curve of her shoulders, down the span of her smooth back, her slim legs and slender hips, clutching her to him desperately. His large hand warm against her bottom, he pushed her against the strong evidence of his want, and she gasped against his mouth, arching her body into his. In one fluid move, he brought her to lie on her back…
…and the world tilted in a sudden crazy plunge.
"Oh." Digging her fingers hard into his shoulders, Christine felt the drugging, heated sensations overwhelm as he pressed kisses to her throat and collarbone, moving lower.
Feeling herself sink deeper into unfocused warmth, everything going hazy, she clung to him as the mist threatened to approach.
"Don't go…"
"I'm not going anywhere."
His promise came dark and heady in the moment before his lips closed around her nipple. Flame shot through her, a surge that lifted her in its swell, but all too soon she crashed, feeling dizzy in the heat he created.
"Make it stop," she whispered.
Her desperate plea reached through the passion thickening his mind and he lifted his head to look at her. Her face was damp and flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with desire and fear.
"The room…won't stop spinning."
At her anxious words, he recalled the state of her sobriety, which was nil. Recalled also the one occasion he had been likewise intoxicated and greedily took all that at the time he thought he wanted – from Jolene, from Winnie – confusing those lustful moments in his mind with being with Christine. He had awakened from his drunk stupor bathed in sickened remorse and harsh regrets that to this day still haunted him.
She might not remember this evening; much of his own experience remained in darkness. But now that he had damned all the consequences and returned to his Little Angel, it might deal the final killing blow to his heart should their passionate interlude continue to its imminent conclusion and she was to awaken and regret this night.
With a strength of will he could not fully appreciate or depend on, he moved away from her soft warmth. She reached for him, clutching his waistcoat then his arms as he retreated further.
"No - don't go," she mournfully cried.
"Hush…"
Trembling from the depth of his desire, the Phantom lifted her in his arms and stood with her. Christine nestled her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arm about his neck. He remained motionless staring down at her for some time before moving with her to the chaise longue and laying her on the long cushion.
Again, he tried to retreat. Again, she grabbed him, her mouth finding his in a desperate kiss. The temptation burned strong to forget all resolve and make her his once more – but he managed to resist and pull away. When he again claimed her, he wanted her fully aware of every stroke of his hand, every caress of his lips on her skin. He wanted to look into her eyes in the moment he took her and see that knowledge burn deep, see the desire and pleasure intensify with each stroke into her body, emblazoning himself on her soul so that she could never forget.
His jaw set with determination, he gently drew her wrapper over her aroused flesh that rivaled the softness of the material. Her eyes opened and sadly she looked up at him.
"You're leaving me, aren't you?"
"Close your eyes," he whispered.
"You always do," her words came faint, soft in their accusation, as the dark crescents of her lashes brushed low over flushed cheeks.
His heart twisted at her sadness, no longer sure if she spoke from the haze of her dream or the confusion of her reality. He pulled the coverlet over her shoulders and only then did he stretch out fully dressed beside her atop the velvet sheeting. Instantly she rolled to face him, tightly wrapping her arm around his chest and pressing her body close.
A thousand torments he had suffered, but this, to hold her in his arms as he physically ached to possess her, was sweet torture to bear.
xXx