La Nuit Porte Conseil | An Erotic Story of the Phantom of the Opera

PART FOUR

Her skin prickled where Erik had touched her. Christine licked the lip; she dragged it between her front teeth. She stamped a childish foot in shamed frustration. "Do not tease me!" she complained, though her resolve was crumbling, "I am not false! Erik––I want you to stay!"

"You do not!" he shouted, his manner electric. Now Christine shrunk; her obstinate shoulders sagged in defeat. Her fingers worked at the silk of her skirts, wringing and twisting the fabric.

With a sigh Erik softened; he arranged his face with a crudely attempted serenity that quickly faded.

"Oh––I love you far too much, Christine––don't blush!––you know it! But I will be your ruin, one way or another. I have done nothing but hurt you, in more ways than you realize. You cannot understand, you are too good! I have never been honest with you, never!

"Please, Christine––I beg it of you––please––spare me your courtesy now! I cannot bear it! If you only understood how false I have been!"

He grasped her wrists, suddenly, wrenching her numb hands upwards as she cried out with the shock of it. Then, just as abruptly, he released her; he strangled an animal groan as he threw her from him. He flexed his empty palms uselessly in the air between them. Then he curled slow fists of the dangerous fingers and returned the rigid arms to his sides, as his breath shuddered from his hammering chest.

"Erik, why?" Christine gasped, stung. Her wrists smarted where he had caromed them; absently she stroked the injured flesh. "Why must you regard yourself so? You are no villain to me, but an Angel––"

"I am no Angel, Christine," he growled.

Her hands moved of their own volition to his shoulders, as they wavered under his thinly-repressed rage. She smoothed the palms over his jacket and grasped his silk lapels to draw him to her. On pointed toes, she brought her face to his, her eyes searching. He would not meet her gaze.

Christine squared her jaw. "Are you so blind?" she challenged, as she hung from the fine fabric. She crushed herself to him fleshly, lacing her legs with his; he stumbled back upon the mantle.

Now his feral eyes met hers, ablaze. He set his jaw, gnashing the teeth together––Christine saw the muscles working in his cheek down to his straining throat, in the corded tendons that danced upon the sharp angles of his face.

She did not notice his shaking palms as they traced the row of little buttons down her back––that they mimed, unwitting, the carnal shedding of her gown.

"I am here, Erik!" she breathed. "I am here! Despite your cruelty and your warnings. Can you not see I have chosen you?"

"Then you have chosen poorly!" he roared. With a convulsive movement he broke from her grasp. Christine stared at him, wide-eyed, but did not retreat.

Like a beast stalking in a cage, Erik shifted rapidly where he stood. His dark eyes darted about, then fixed upon her dangerously––Christine had him pinned to the mantle; he could not free himself without touching her.

Surely he could throw her from him easily, his ferine mind offered.

But if he dared to touch her now––no––no––not again––

His rabid gaze devoured her, fiendish upon her white, pulsating throat, her full, heaving breast, her confused, pouting lips––oh, the stupid child was begging him to stay!––

He tormented himself with sketches of her––unspeakable images––yes––he could lift her, just like that––push her to the wall––

And cover her mouth, he suggested. Hold her arms. Force her to her knees. Open her legs––no––no––no––