Guardian Angel

Chapter 7: A Husband's Right

He had kissed Christine–him! The child of the devil, death incarnate, blessed with a touch of Heaven if such a place existed. And, by God, it was marvelous; her lips warm and supple, softer than in his dreams, and though it was very modest, the single best thing to ever occur to a man like him. What he would do for another taste, to be selfish and fall to her feet and beseech her for just one more kiss.

But it was not meant to be since she excused herself to bed right when they walked through the door. Perhaps in the morning, before making her breakfast, he would sweep her into his arms, caress her face and–and–

No, he couldn't, not when she surely hadn't even meant to allow him to kiss her. It was an accident, no woman, living or dead, would willfully sanction any sort of intimacy from a walking corpse. And Christine, his sweet beautiful wife, was no different; she merely thought he was going to claim her lips and moved so he would kiss her cheek instead.

How dare he? How dare he lay his foul mouth on hers without her permission? It was deplorable, him even perceiving joy from a situation that made her so uncomfortable that she fled from him as soon as they were home. No doubt she was already in her room, cowering beneath her covers in fear of him acting like the madman he was and claiming her virtue.

Christ, was she up there waiting for him? Was she expecting him to come to her? Was she prepared for their inevitable consummation? Images flitted through his mind; of her sprawled out on the bed, ready to receive him; of her bare thighs wrapping around his waist as he buried himself in her heat, into the slick wetness he had only ever read about. Her breasts, silk in his palms, and finally unwrapping them from that damned dress she wore. Holding her in his arms after she finds her pleasure and lulling her to sleep...

Merciful Heaven, he couldn't take it anymore! She said it herself, unless he was sorely misunderstanding her words: if you should need me. It was a glaringly obvious invitation to join her in their marital bed, was it not? Who was he to deny what she desired and leave her waiting for him?

An inferno ripped through Erik's lower belly and he was forced to rise from the armchair to loosen some of the strain within his trousers. If you should need me. It was vulgar, his thoughts were impure and he couldn't have another one. Christine was a woman of God and he was to protect her, not pilfer her chastity. Gustave did not entrust him with his one and only child so that he could use her like some sort of savage, not now, not ever.

Erik pivoted on his heel and marched straight to his music room, not bothering to light his way, only intent on drinking down his bottle of brandy. Anything to combat the temptation surging through his loins which was bordering uncontrollable. The bottle sat atop his workstation, half empty from the previous day, and he quickly snatched it up, tossing the cork across the room and emptying the contents past his lips.

His stomach lurched once the alcohol settled and he fought hard not to lose its contents, until finally he was able to breathe. The bottle fell from his hand, clattering onto its side and rolling against a stack of books, and he clutched the edge of the desk for support as the familiar sense of dizziness overcame him. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on anything but Christine; the beach in Calais when the tide was low enough to find shells from the sea, the Opera Populaire and their new production of Hannibal...brushing his fingers through auburn curls–

Dammit all to Hell!

It was his right! He was her husband, was he not privileged to the flesh of his bride? Was a wife not required to do exactly as they are told? Nothing was stopping him from the simplicity of walking up the stairs and knocking on her door, nor from climbing into her bed and taking up residence there for many nights to come.