The Treasure *Phantom of the Opera* (sequel to The Quest)

Chapter 44

Floating ... Falling ...
Chapter XLIV

Music is an outburst of the soul.
~Frederick Delius

The mandrakes send out their fragrance,
and at our door is every delicacy,
both new and old,
that I have stored up for you, my lover.
~Song of Solomon

xXx

.

Erik took in the vision before him, powerless to move, barely able to breathe.

Enchanting was too weak a word to describe such superlative beauty. Like a portrait of Venus, Christine reminded him of the goddess, barely clothed. Her pearlescent skin glistened with beads of water. Her hair, wild and abundant, cascaded in disarray almost to her hips, and her huge, dark eyes reflected to him deep wells of longing. The light from a lone candle served only to enhance her splendor.

"Erik, say something," she whispered. She remained motionless, powerless to do more than stare at her husband, who stared so intensely at her.

Her quiet words broke him from whatever trance held him bound. His approach now purposeful, he walked toward her with all the fluid grace of a wildcat on the prowl. She looked up in question, her heart skipping madly at the rapt expression in his smoky green eyes.

"The ... the Drabarni told you?" she managed to ask.

His fingers circled her wrist and her pulse jumped in response. Slowly he brought one arm still crossed over her chest downward, his heated gaze following the liquid motion. He slid his grasp to her fingers, taking the damp sponge from her limp hand. Leaning in toward her, he placed his lips near her ear.

"Welcome to a new day, Mon Ange," he whispered and brought the sponge to her nape, sliding it down her back slowly, his fingertips feather light against her skin.

His husky words and intimate act washed her in a rush of heat. His lips grazed her neck, and she groaned softly in need, but to her dismay he drew back.

"I-it's morning so soon?" she rasped, feeling almost like a new bride again, nervous and trembling with excitement.

He pulled her other arm down. "After midnight." Drawing the damp sponge over her shoulder, he trailed it to her breast, lightly tracing over the pink bud that hardened further at his touch. "It is sufficient."

His gaze flicked up to meet hers, and her heart pounded at the hungered determination in his eyes.

She expected him to pull her into his embrace, kiss her, swing her up into his arms and carry her to their bed. But he only wet the sponge and without wringing it drew his device of pleasurable torment down the valley between her breasts, down to her quivering stomach, all with excruciating leisure, his fingertips tracing the steady path he took. The tepid water poured down her shift and soaked the floor. She didn't care. Nor did she feel the chill of the air any longer, her skin set afire by her lover's faint touch. Again he doused the sponge, bringing the soft foam dripping to rest against her eager flesh, forging a slow path downward and inflaming her senses.

She gasped when he leaned in a second time and his warm lips touched her taut nipple in a light kiss, no more than that. Dampness trickled between her thighs.

"Erik," she begged him.

He dropped to his knees and pressed the sponge to her waist. With a twist of his other hand, the shift that rested loosely at her hips slid away. The material whispered the rest of the path down to her ankles. She heard his breath catch softly in longing, but again he only drenched the sponge, to draw it slowly down the outside of each of her legs then inside one and upward. He pressed a kiss to her wet thigh. The sponge met her curls and his mouth wandered a little higher.