Erik knew he shouldn’t be there.
If not for the fact that he was but a few thin layers of plaster and wood away from the ballet rat dormitory, he was alone in a room with Christine with only one entrance and exit. If she awoke, there would be no chance for him to hide from her eager gaze.
All this he knew, and yet he was helpless under the onslaught of impulse that drew him up from the quiet, peaceful haven of his underground home to her side.
That incandescent thread that connected them—their music—inevitably pulled him forward whenever she had need of him. He was at a loss for explanation for it other than the simple fact that she owned his soul, and thus he was bound to follow her every whim and command, even as she slept. This particular burden he had no qualms about bearing. He’d happily lie in her thrall for the rest of his days and consider himself content—or as content as one such as he, who had known the darkest, most repugnant side of humanity and been the object of its cruelty and scorn, could ever hope to be.
He stepped forward, closing the door silently behind him and his keen eyes which could see better than others in the deepest hours of the night alighted on her angel’s face. The sight of her always lanced his heart with a sweet, almost painful love. There was nothing on this earth he would not do for his angel, no depths to which he would not plunge, nor heights he would not climb if it meant a smile would grace her features like the sun rising in the dawn.
She was sleeping fitfully, her adorable brow puckered as if deep in worried thought, the fingers of one hand twitching slightly where they grasped at the edge of her blanket pulled high almost all the way to her chin. The other hand lay next to her face, her eyelashes almost brushing against her thumb. A brief urge to draw her just so seized him, but he shook the impulse from his mind, quickly memorizing the image before him to sketch later.
“Angel,” she mumbled tremulously, and Erik froze in panic for a brief moment before realizing she was still fast asleep, and he felt the noose of his love tighten around his cold, blackened heart. Even asleep she could feel his presence. If Erik thought himself the master of the punjab, he had many lessons to learn from his soul’s mistress in her artless mastery of it when it came to her utter control of him. No vice in Persia he'd wrangled with would ever hold a candle to the struggle of his love for Christine. She single handedly brought him to his knees; the great Phantom of the Opera, her willing servant and supplicant, and she had no idea.
Erik found himself drifting closer to the side of her bed, and a small, rational part of his mind howled at him to stay to the shadows, to not step into the moonlight that bathed her, to just sing to her like always so that she could drift into a more peaceful sleep, but something was different this time, and Erik could only watch himself in slack-jawed wonder as he leaned down, brushing a stray wild brown curl out of her cherubic face, daring to allow himself to admire its silken softness.
Christine shifted, her legs rasping softly against the blankets and Erik's mind assaulted him abruptly with the vision of her naked under the sheets, beckoning him…
Stop! He strangled the explicit, unwelcome thoughts, loathing himself for even entertaining them for a brief instant. He, the unclean monster, murderer, was unworthy of her innocence, the white rose of her love.
She was his goddess, and he the lowly acolyte that would debase himself to raise her up to the heights she deserved! To entertain such fantasies was blasphemy of the blackest kind. He could not, he would not…
Erik’s breath caught in his throat as the soft moan of his moniker left her lips. Iron shackles of her will welded around his neck, bringing him down to lay beside her as she moved restlessly, and he could only look on horrified as he obeyed the unspoken plea in her voice. He was its slave as much as hers, and he could not help but muse at the bittersweet irony. He was the creator of his own destruction! He had melded her voice from its raw beauty into this pure siren’s call, all the while not realizing he was bringing to life something even he was no match for. Ah, fickle fate! He, the unlucky Odysseus who in this tale failed to tie himself securely enough to the mast, fell prey to his siren, his alluring Calypso who ruled the tides of his every breath and beat of his heart.
That very same heart was pounding, and Erik lay as silently as he could, cursing himself all the while basking in his angel’s nearness. After he had settled himself in, she hummed contentedly, then turned to her side and nuzzled against his chest. Erik thought he would die right then. The pleasure his body shamelessly felt at her unconscious affection threatened to close his throat with emotion, and he forced himself to breathe steadily, to not sob in slavish gratitude for the one wish of his life never granted-- touch.
He gritted his teeth, unpleasantly and suddenly finding himself at war with another part of himself, his cursed flesh was inevitably reacting to the pleasure of being near her. Ugh, he thought with a wave of self-loathing washing through him. Was he not the orchestrator of this indecency? Was he not the very reason he tossed about in these dire straits; the making of his own demise all because he had no power to resist her! He was surely going straight to fiery pits of hell for this indiscretion, for this nauseating betrayal of his angel’s trust…
And yet, still he was powerless to move.
Christine sighed, shifting again and Erik almost fainted. She had slid her smooth, supple leg over his, her arm twining around his waist as she pressed against him, her shift rucking far too high than was decent for a lady, and Erik could feel the very blood in his veins singing. His breath shuddered out of him, and through the gluttonous pleasure he could feel a fissure of panic growing in him. Surely, if she awoke now he was doomed! There was no escape, no quick darting into the shadows without awakening her, no saving himself from her heartbreaking doe eyes, which would no doubt turn to look upon him with disgust and hatred upon awakening to him in her bed with no (conscious) invitation!
While his mind was screaming at him to remove himself at once and go back to his prison below the Opera House where his kind belonged, Christine moved, and Erik knew he was doomed.
He barely suppressed the gasp that strangled in his throat as Christine shifted her hips against his thigh, the sweet, forbidden heat between her legs branding his skin as she shifted, a soft sigh leaving her lips. His heart was like a bird fluttering madly, beating itself against the walls of its cage in a desperate bid for freedom. The resulting tumescence left his head dizzy with the rush of blood away from his brain, and consequently Erik could barely form a coherent thought, he who boasted of such mental faculties as to rival any of the greatest scholars of the time, he who was cunning enough to escape the Shah and Khanum of Persia who would have strung him up to die, was reduced to a quivering mess of emotions and wild lust at the touch of a slip of a girl. He had to get away! But how!
Suddenly Erik froze, as Christine shifted again, grinding her hips against his thigh with a slow, rhythmic gyration as if in her sleep she could feel the pleasure of the movement, and searched for more as any human would with such easy pleasure, that at times in dreams could be even more gratifying...
There was nothing for him to do but endure in her thrall, shamelessly basking in the ecstasy that her movements brought him in equal turn as she sought out her own pleasure against his hard thigh. Every forward thrust of her hips made his senses reel, glutted on his sweet Christine’s unknowing pleasure. Her cheeks were flushed a gorgeous pink, her rose petal lips parted as she dreamed.
“Angel!” she gasped, her hips jerking slightly harder as her pleasure mounted, and the last tethers to Erik’s sanity unraveled. The ecstasy suffusing her voice drove him mad, a red haze of lust descending thickly over his mind as he lost himself to this one sin, this one transgression he was now powerless to stop. Unbidden, his hands swept down over her petit back to cup her bottom, devastatingly lush and pert from her ballet exercises. Every inch of her was his undoing, and he was her willing victim, drowning in her sensual pleasure.
A small, logical piece of his brain kept his hold light as he helped her rocking movements, not wanting to wake her. He could feel a hint of wetness seep into the fabric of his trousers and he bit back a fevered moan, unbearably hard and aching for her to the point of pain. Christine’s hips were grinding harder of their own accord as she chased her pleasure, her breath coming in soft pants against his chest, and Erik prayed… and prayed...
With a few more harsh, jerky movements Christine stiffened, a high, sharp cry as beautiful as the sunrise leaving her lips as ecstasy washed through her, and Erik felt himself tipping over a knife’s edge. While she was still rocked with the throes of her completion he tore himself away from her with Herculean effort, practically sprinting out of the room and shutting the door just as silently as he did when he first entered. His heart beat wildly, as he pressed up against the wall, his breath coming in large, shuddering gulps as he tried to think through the blissful, drugged state Christine’s pleasure had dosed him with. Morphine, hashish, opium, none of these had the power of his angel. Damned! He was damned for ever more, if he had not earned his place in the depths of hell already then surely now that is where he was destined to lie for eternity for… for…
The hot, painful ache made itself known between his legs and Erik stifled a groan, ripping off his half mask and passing a shaking hand over his ravaged face which had was dusted with a light film of perspiration, self-loathing and longing warring equally in his wretched heart.
Christine… what have I done?
A sudden feeling of loss… Christine couldn’t form words as to what kind of loss it could be that woke her so suddenly, and she sat bolt upright in her bed, sweet fissures of… holy ghost, what was that… that… feeling coursing through her, heating between her legs? Everything inside of her tingled, a sweet feeling of completion pervaded through her heavy limbs, and she tried vainly to sift through her sleep-addled thoughts for the wispy tendrils of memory, running away from her like mist evaporating in the first rays of the morning sun…
She had been dreaming, yes… she remembered the sweet, silky darkness in her dream, so unlike the naked, yawning chasm of fear she was used to dreading. This darkness was something like a cocoon, so soft and warm, she had wanted to crawl into it and bask in it forever...
But then, something had changed… a deep, primal heat and desire, too wild for her to put a name to it! And she had yearned… god, she had yearned... searching for more of that… that feeling that felt so good she could barely breathe… crying out for…
Oh God! She had cried out for him!
Her face burned as she realized what had transpired in her dream, the tell-tale wetness between her thighs betraying her deepest, secret sin. For months now she had felt a shift in her feelings towards her Angel, his voice had crept slowly, deftly into her dreams in a dark, possessive whisper that threatened to swallow her whole…
Oh, her human vice! How could she face him next, knowing she had placed him, her angel in a mortal role in her dreams to suit her sinful desires… to bring her to… God, was there even a name for that… that…?
Christine curled back under the covers, taking a deep breath and saying a Hail Mary under her breath as quiet, private penance. Her mind skittered away from the knowledge of her lesson with her Angel on the morrow, determined to shove this dark secret to the very depths of her being, so that not even he would know!