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

PART FIVE

There was nothing but Erik.

The faint orange glow of the gas-fire cast him in an uncanny light such that all else blurred into the gloom. She was only standing because he was––the white of his dress shirt glowed like a beacon in the swallowing dark and she clung to it, intoxicated; all else was inscrutable. Without it, she was nothing––without him, she was nothing––

Surely Christine would be lost forever should she release him.

He was an Angel again, a Spectre once more; that unknowable enigma that had beguiled her and lavished upon her the cruelest love and caused her the most sublime pain––

And destroyed her, and created her again more beautiful and perfect than she could ever have imagined. But this creation could exist only in His presence, in the presence of her God––and now He was here, and again only His voice resounded within her––

She was free.

Like a sinner at the altar, Christine raised her arms to the dark halo of His hair and clutched it in her reverent fingers, and groaned in unabashed ecstasy, as His consecrating lips blessed her flesh.

And Erik loved her––he loved her like no mortal man had ever loved a woman; he loved her like a fire that destroyed the wood that fed it, like a comet that crashed from Heaven to perish in a devastating blaze.

Erik loved her; this she knew. So Christine loved him in return.

Firelight glinted off the little golden ring as Erik brushed his lips atop her fingers and slid the hot flat of her hand over his chin.

She pressed her palm to his chest, exciting at the quickening heat of his flesh under hers, and in doing so, realized how long she had craved touching him. She had never thought much about how little she had, in truth. It was such a simple thing, a little thing, to touch another––and Erik had always denied it.

Erik had almost never touched her.

But now the Angel was here––he gripped her to him and dragged his holy palms over her flesh; he wound his fingers in her hair to turn her head and crush her to his lips––

Christine slid her fingers over his shirtfront to tease between the pearl buttons. She felt his heart; felt it beating, powerful beneath her hand.

This was the heart of the Angel.

He studied her face as she unbuttoned his collar. Questioning, hardly daring to trust his eyes, he watched her slip his necktie away; he watched it fall forgotten to their feet. His ragged exhale pleased her as she kissed the hollow of his throat, tracing her tongue between kisses over each pale inch of newly exposed flesh. Her fingers followed her mouth, slipping under his crisp shirt front to brush the bare flesh beneath; against her Erik shuddered, groaned.

With a careful finger guiding her chin his lips found hers again.

The sensation that had so often confused her when the unseen Angel commanded her voice during her lessons in the secrecy of the dressing-room came now upon her now, that same heated, sensitive awareness of her sex. Her tremulous laughter had given way to this––this maddening feeling––her mind was blank as she gasped the Angel's name upon his lips––oh––nothing had ever mattered but this maddening feeling!

This was the touch of the Angel––

Now the blood rushed between her thighs, as his hands dragged over her waist and her breast and she understood––yes––this was the only option, this was the only way! Because from the very start Christine had desired him––she must have! She remembered his fingers flying over the ivory keys of his piano, mad, inhuman music pouring from the frenzy of his touch as she, only mortal, watched and listened from the little stool at his feet, those delusive nights in his Heaven underground. Yes––yes––she must have felt it then too.