8This is a follow up to my Christmas one-shot The Gift Exchange. You should probably read that first, if you haven't, but if you choose not to (wow rude, yet fair) you probably won't be too lost! The original is for T and up audience, this one, though, is a late Christmas gift for the adults — especially Erik. :)
(Strong M for sex, but not real explicit.)
Say You Want Me (The Gift Aftermath)
Christine wakes suddenly from dreams of dancing at a ball.
She tries to go back to sleep, but the dream replays behind her closed lids: She stands alone, watching as Raoul passes her by to extend his hand to a lovely, laughing lady, plump in all the right places, with curving flesh spilling from expensive silk and lace; he whirls the woman around the dance floor, passing Christine again and again, as she feels herself fade into the background.
Her dreaming mind is decidedly unsubtle, Christine thinks, rubbing at her gritty, stinging eyes.
The longer she is awake, the more of her memory comes flooding back, but there is a sense of unreality to those memories, as if the events had happened to someone else. It was too ridiculous to be true — but, as Erik had said, there is often nothing more ridiculous than the truth.
The shock of it all is still numbing, leaving her feeling curiously empty. In minutes, the future that she had planned had crumbled to dust, the fiancé who she had thought to be good and gentle and true was revealed to be exactly what Erik had warned her that he would be: a man who could not be trusted.
She should have listened to Erik.
It's pointless to try to go back to sleep, Christine decides, despite the fact that it is likely the middle of the night — it can be difficult to tell the time of day when the lights are extinguished, but after enough time down below the opera, she has learned to feel the difference; the air is colder, the black, somehow blacker — although she can see the warm amber flicker under the door which tells her that Erik is still awake. She is in bed, fully clothed, except for her shoes, with no memory of how she'd gotten there. Evidently, she must have cried herself to exhaustion and beyond, and been deposited onto the bed by the careful, unstraying hands of a respectful man.
Another respectful man, she thinks bitterly. She would laugh, but her throat is too dry.
It feels vain and petty and foolish, but somehow, what bothers her most is not the loss of that future with Raoul, or his betrayal of her trust — it wasn't expected, exactly, but there had always been a small voice in her head, whispering doubts. No, what stings most is the confirmation that Raoul was interested in physical intimacy after all...just not with her.
Swallowing back the rising tears, she climbs out of bed and lights the lamp. She casts off her dress, petticoats, and corset, stripping down to the very last layers of her undergarments. She runs her hands down her body, feeling the small, soft swells that pass for breast and hip, comparing their scant flesh to the more pleasing form which haunted her dreams. Her empty stomach churns.
As hard as it is to admit it, it does make sense: never had she seen hunger in Raoul's eyes when he looked at her, never had his kisses been anything but tentative and sweet. She had tried to tell herself that it was because of his chivalrous nature and the anxiety of inexperience, but no; apparently all along he was as hot-blooded as any of the wealthy men who prowled the dressing room corridors, and not just experienced, but debauched enough to give...that thing as a gift to his mistress. She finds it strange, though… Even with such undeniable proof, she can't see him as that sort of man.
But then, maybe she's always seen what she wanted to see.
A shiver runs through her. Christine feels cold, but the coldness comes from within; she decides that she cannot bear any more time alone in this room with her thoughts. She looks down at the pile of her clothing on the floor, at the stiff corset with its difficult laces, and she makes a decision, although it feels less like deciding and more like giving in to an irresistible impulse.
In the wardrobe hangs a high-necked, long-sleeved nightdress; her fingertips brush over the crisp white cotton, instead stopping at the creamy silk of her dressing gown. She slips it on over her chemise. It's improper, but so is a nightdress for that matter, so is everything about this situation in which she finds herself again and again: unchaperoned overnight in the home of an older, unmarried man, albeit one who had been nothing but entirely proper in his behavior. Still... unlike Raoul, it wasn't true that she had never seen hunger in Erik's eyes...
Perhaps...perhaps there is a chance to erase just a bit of the hurt and rejection. She wouldn't take things too far, no, no, of course not — just allow herself the indulgence of a little flattery, if Erik is willing to give it. If nothing else, she simply does not want to be alone.
In stocking feet, Christine opens her door just enough to slip through and makes her way down the short hallway, the cold stone like pinpricks on her toes.
As she'd expected, Erik sits in his chair before the fire, book in hand, his spine straight, the lines of his body hard and imposing, even at rest. In only his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, he still looks impeccably formal, yet the lack of the barrier of a jacket feels almost indecent, especially being hardly dressed herself.
His eyes are on her the moment she steps into the firelight. She tightens her dressing gown around herself and awaits his reaction, scarcely breathing.
But those strange golden eyes betray no emotion, no flicker of anything other than the reflection of flames, and Christine can't help but feel a twinge of shameful disappointment.
She burns beneath his steady gaze, feeling as though her neediness is written plainly on her face.
"I had a bad dream," she says stupidly.
Erik drops the book onto his lap. "Oh, my poor girl," he replies, and his voice is like the spoonful of honey her father would give her for a sore throat, syrupy and soothing. "I'm not surprised, after such a shock. Would you like me to make some tea?"
"Thank you, Erik, I'd like that very much. But..." Her thumbnail is between her teeth as she considers her words; she notices him watching her with narrowed eyes and drops her hand quickly. "Do you think I could maybe have a little brandy in it?" she asks, glancing away. "To help me sleep."
When she looks back at him, he is smiling indulgently at her, and gives a single nod before sweeping out of the room.
The brandy will help her sleep, that is true. But more importantly, it will help her forget. It will take her tormented thoughts and soften the sharp edges with the syrupy sweetness of intoxication.
It will also steady her nerves so she can follow through with what she feels compelled to do.
Before long, Erik is back, a teacup in each hand. She watches him, noticing his long, graceful limbs, the dexterity of his fine-boned hands, the elegant control that shapes each movement he makes — all the things which Christine had purposefully endeavored not to notice in the past. She takes her cup and settles onto the sofa, tasting the sharp tang of the alcohol in the back of her throat as she inhales the curling steam. She sips at the burning liquid, uncertain of how to proceed.
From his armchair, Erik considers her over the edge of his cup, then speaks softly.
"Would you like me to read to you, Christine? Or play, perhaps? Or sing something, to help you sleep?"
She shakes her head — no, not that, not now, when her feelings are so muddled. Even at times of level-headed clarity, that voice, that music, it clouds her head, fills her body with conflicting sensations. What she wants now is much simpler.
"Then would you like to talk about it?" Erik asks gently. "I can listen."
And yes, this is exactly what Christine needs. She takes a quick, deep sip of her tea, and then forces her brandy-numbed lips to ask the question which has been eating away at her.
"Erik, am I— Do you think that men might think me...attractive?"
There is a sputtering cough as Erik chokes on his tea.
"Christine," he says, once he has recovered, "is this an honest question?"
She cannot bring herself to speak another word. She nods silently.
He sets his cup on its saucer with a clink. With the mask, Erik's expression is not always easy to discern, but his eyes burn so brightly that Christine feels no doubt as to his sincerity when he says, "Sweet girl, I believe that you are the most exquisite creation that God has ever set his hand to."
Warmth flows into her face, and she takes a sip of tea so she can hide her blush behind the cup. These were the words she wanted to hear, and they do feel nice. And yet, she doesn't feel any better. As she drinks her tea in silence, it occurs to her...beauty and desirability are not always the same, are they? There are many things that are considered beautiful but which do not inspire feelings of desire. Beautiful things are placed on pedestals, to be admired, not touched and loved and consumed. She doesn't want to be simply admired.
"Raoul told me quite often that I am beautiful, but—" She pauses, glancing up to see Erik's white-knuckled fist resting on his thigh and her pulse quickens. "But I suppose beauty wasn't enough. He never…" Her heart begins to twist, and the words begin flowing as quickly as her rising tears. "I thought— I thought he was being a gentleman, but then...the things that were in that box. It was completely the opposite! But not with me...he never even tried—"
"What, did you want him to?" Erik snaps, cutting her off abruptly, and he sits back with arms crossed, his mouth settling into a sullen line.
Christine falls quiet, and the room is quiet, though the sound of her heartbeat is pounding in her ears. The question is not proper, let alone fair. Under other circumstances, she would feel upset, defensive, but at the moment, it merely spurs her on.
Her cup is empty and she places it on the table between them, keeping her eyes on the tiny roses painted on the porcelain; she can't look at him, as much as she wants to see his reaction. "I only want to understand why he would...want that from another woman, and not from me? Is there...something wrong with me?" The words come out thickened partly from the strain of holding back tears, and partly from nerves.
He is beside her on the sofa before the first tear can even fall, catching it on the pad of his thumb as it slides down her cheek. The touch of his skin to hers is so brief it's like it had not even happened, just like every touch between them. Restrained. Respectful.
Christine has had quite enough of respectful.
"Oh Christine, sweet girl, darling girl," he is murmuring, and his voice is more intoxicating than any brandy. She lets herself soak it up, become drunk on it. "Of course there's not a single thing wrong with you. It's that boy who has something wrong with him. He's sick, Christine. But you never could have known, no — don't blame yourself. You know now, though, and it's not too late. And you can stay here as long as you need, and Erik will look after you, would you like that?"
Yes, she thinks, she would like that. She would like to be cared for and doted upon — but not like a child. The last thing she wants is to be seen as a pathetic, pitiful thing who needs to be treated gently and kissed on the forehead and tucked into bed. That is not what she wants to be to him, not now.
But she cannot tell what he wants.
Erik had complimented Christine's beauty on many occasions, had even declared his love for her; but that was many months ago now, before Raoul had come back into her life. Once that had happened, he'd stepped aside graciously, and if he'd harbored any feelings for her, he'd given no indication. At the time, it had felt like a relief — made it so there was no choice to make, and no reason to examine any of the confusing, conflicted feelings she might have had for Erik, allowed them to stay safely submerged. But maybe, Christine can't help but think, his apparent lack of interest is not because he put his feelings aside. Maybe it's because, like Raoul, he was simply not attracted to her. It's not as if he'd ever said he was, he'd only said that he loved her. And she knows now that declarations of love mean very little.
But still...there had been times… Times when she thought she'd seen a flicker of hunger in Erik's strangely beautiful golden eyes. It was always fleeting, and he was always quick to smother it, to replace it with adoration or obviously false indifference. She pretended not to notice. She was a good girl, with a fiancé. The easy thing was to pretend she didn't notice, didn't know what he wanted from her. Only now, she realizes that she really doesn't know.
But she wants to.
He is very close to her now, close enough that if he wanted her, he could have her. And perhaps she should just ask him, but some questions are best asked and answered without words; and so with a tiny, hopefully imperceptible shrug, she lets her robe slip off one shoulder, leaving a swath of bare skin between them.
Erik's sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room besides the crackle of the fire, and neither can pretend she did not hear. The air between them changes, grows heavy with understanding. She smiles to herself; she has the answer she wanted and it feels good, and that's all she wanted, wasn't it? She covers herself quickly. But when she looks back up, Erik's eyes are on her, burning with hunger no longer suppressed. She can't help the shudder that runs through her, though it does not feel like fear.
Oh, he often scares her, and it's not just because of the horror of his face. Beneath the cool, collected surface lie unplumbed depths, the feeling that there is no telling what he is capable of. But right now, with the dull, thudding pain in her empty chest, that danger feels enticing. And though she had planned only to see if the desire was there, to let it be a balm to her wounded pride, she sees the hunger and she wants more. And so before she lets herself change her mind, she covers his long, cool hand with hers and wraps her fingers around it, silently asking him to lead her down a path from which there is no coming back.
He flinches at the contact, breathes her name. They do not look at each other. But slowly, the hand beneath hers turns until they are palm to palm, and there is an intimacy in it which she did not expect, in this pressing of flesh to flesh. Slowly, he slides his hand until his fingers can stroke the sensitive skin in the hollow of her palm. She can feel her lips parting — yet he makes no move to claim them. And it's then that she sees that beneath the hunger, there is a flash of fear, and he will need more permission than the holding of a hand to unleash the current of desire which she wants nothing more than to drown in.
And so she lunges forward to press her lips to his, squeezing her eyes shut at the last moment.
At first, he is still, his misshapen lips slack and unmoving beneath hers, and she is not surprised that he is shocked — she has shocked herself. But then she snakes her hands around his neck and whimpers into his mouth and he comes alive, lips and teeth crushing against hers like he means to devour her, and the memory of Raoul's sweet, chaste kisses are eaten away bite by bite.
There is no thought, only want: her own, flaring hot all over her skin — along with her desperate want to be wanted, which she has only just begun to quench — and his, which she can feel in the way his long fingers clutch at her upper arms, in the quick, panting breaths he takes between those devouring kisses. But she needs to see, too, wants to see his desire for her body blazing in his eyes, wants to drink up his gasps and groans and get drunk on his desire for her. And so while it feels strange, this sudden breaching of the boundaries which had stood between them for so long, her untouchable teacher now touching closer and closer to the forbidden parts of her body which even her fiancé had not touched, it feels only right that she should climb onto his lap.
Her knees part to settle over his thighs, dressing gown and chemise bunched up around her hips, and already this feels entirely wicked and wanton. His hands are everywhere on her then, stroking and grasping, her shoulders, neck, back, hips — but not the places she wants most. She places his hand on the tie of her robe, an invitation to unwrap her, like a gift. He hesitates, but only for a moment, and then he is pulling the tie, pushing the dressing gown off of her shoulders, exposing the bare skin of her arms and shoulders which he covers with gliding fingertips, leaving goose flesh in their wake. His mouth is on her neck, the hard shell of his mask digging into her jaw, but she will not suggest he remove it. Not for her sake, but for his.
His touch grows bolder, and he skims a hand up her ribs, until the thumb and forefinger rest just below her breast. This is all happening so quickly, but that's just as she'd wanted it — no tentative touches, no chance of a kiss being broken off too soon — so she leans into his touch and at that wordless permission, his broad palm slides up to cup her breast. His shuddering breath is more gratifying than any compliment could ever be, and all comparisons, all feelings of inadequacy are wiped from her mind. This is exactly what she needs, this desperate crush of bodies and searching hands, unchecked desire; there is no room now in her head for hurt and grief, only a swirling haze of delicious feeling, of his hot lips on her throat, of the thumb teasing at a hardened nipple, and while she never planned to let things go this far, all she can think now is that she doesn't want the feeling to end.
She knows it should frighten her to think of how far things could go if she doesn't end it here, and it does frighten her...but not enough. She wants more.
And so, suddenly reckless, she reaches down between them, presses her hand to the front of his trousers and finds him exactly as she'd hoped: hard, thick, and throbbing with want for her. A groan escapes him at the contact, causing a lick of pleasure to ripple through her. Emboldened, she grips him through the fine wool fabric, the heat of him like a kiss on her palm, so different from the cold, lifeless ivory she'd held only hours earlier. Her only thought is that she wants nothing more than to feel that skin against her own, and she begins plucking frantically at the fastenings of his trousers. Immediately, his hand joins hers, fingers fumbling together in a frenzy.
The clasps are released and without pause, without thought, she plunges her hand into that thrillingly unknown place.
He is always so cold, but now her hand is bathed in warmth. Her fingers close around his sex, that part of him which she had so often in the past tried to pretend did not exist; now it burns hot against her palm, evidence of his desire, no longer denied.
She doesn't really know what she's doing, but instinctively, her fingers slip up and down the length of him, the velvet skin there sinfully satisfying under her fingertips, and he moans her name against her throat, his hips bucking against her hand in a way very unlike his usual rigid control. The knowledge that she can break down that control until he is writhing beneath her hands is a heady, powerful feeling. She works slowly, finding the ways he likes to be touched, listening for the gasps and hisses and groans which sound so primal, so unlike anything she could imagine coming from her prim and proper aristocrat, and she captures those sounds in her mouth, with a crush of lips, letting the reverberation of his groans drive away the thought of that other man.
When she pulls away, she revels in the sight of him: breath coming in hot, quick pants, mask slightly askew, eyes wild and glowing.
"Do you want me, Erik?" she asks, and it's a silly question, with the answer throbbing and burning in her hand, but she wants to hear it all the same.
"More than you will ever know," he breathes.
She really should stop, she thinks, but... why should she? It had been made abundantly clear that men can indulge in their passions without marriage, why should it be different for her? And if she needn't wait for marriage, why not give in to this breathless rush of want and need and mad desire and plumb those unknown depths and find out exactly what the man who she holds in her greedy, grasping hand is capable of.
And so her voice is steady when she says:
"Then have me."
Erik's arms slip around her and she realizes he is about to pick her up, to carry her off like a bride to the bedroom where he will lay her down on linen sheets and make love to her. But no, no, this is not love. Maybe one day it will be, but right now her feelings are too confused, the hurt too raw, and she cannot bear to experience a parody of what she'd up until yesterday spent years of her life dreaming would take place between her and the man she thought she loved.
"No, Erik — here," she says urgently, pressing her lips against his ear. "Now."
There is a moment's hesitation, then with a low growl in his throat, he flips her back onto the sofa and covers her body with his own.
All reason is gone, and that's probably a good thing, she thinks vaguely. She can be reasonable in the morning — for now, she wants to feel. And what she feels are Erik's fingers, long and probing, slipping through the opening of her cotton drawers. Unbidden, she thinks of the pair made of snow white silk, crumpled in a box, and her heart starts to hurt, but then those fingers slide along the slick heat between her legs, and she can't think of anything else.
It's all happening so fast, though maybe, Christine thinks, maybe that's for the best. Suddenly, Erik stops and lifts himself up enough to reach beneath her chemise and pull off her drawers, letting his fingers linger on the curve of her hips as he slides them down, breathing fawning words of awestruck adoration which bring a flush to her face. Then, as Christine pushes away the shameful urge to ask for more of his touch, for more of his deft musician's fingers working between her legs, setting her nerves on fire before they move on to this, the nerve-wracking part, he pushes the trousers down his hips and settles himself between her thighs.
For a moment, he pauses, and there is an uncertain, vulnerable look in his eyes, and it seems as if he will tell her something, or ask her if she's sure. But she shifts her hips beneath him, dropping her thighs open, and maybe that was all the answer he needed or maybe he was looking for any reason to avoid an answer he did not want to hear, but either way, the moment has passed and she feels an odd sense of relief at not having to make the choice to keep going.
Then there is pressure between her legs, and pain, as he begins the claiming of her body. He hisses as he inhales sharply through his teeth, and she shudders from overwhelming sensation and the need for more of it, in equal parts. The pain is acute, but it is real, a physical point of hurt to focus on — one created by desire, much better than the empty throbbing of a broken heart inside her chest. Tears leak from her eyes and slide down to collect in her hair.
Her name falls from his lips again and again. He is slow and gentle but insistent, and she opens to him, letting him fill her body, letting him fill the empty places inside. She does not fight the pain but relishes it. Tears continue to leak steadily from her eyes as she tries not to think of the tenderness of a wedding night, and she wants that thought not just gone, but obliterated. She cannot handle gentle now, and so she wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him to her, whispering Please, please, please.
She wants him to stop holding back, to consume her — and he does. He takes her with a thrust of his hips so deep she must press her face to his chest to stifle her cry. And it hurts, but at least the thing is done. There is no going back now, not to Raoul, not to who she was, and it's better this way, to torch the bridge so thoroughly that there is nothing left but ash, so that there could be no temptation to try to cross it, to go back to what she once had. There will be no Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny, just as there never should have been. She doesn't belong up there. She belongs down here. It's better this way.
Erik is whispering to her now, asking if she is alright, if he should continue, and she hears the uncertainty in his voice, feels the way he holds himself so still as he waits for an answer, and she could cry at the tenderness of it, the way it makes her feel like a cherished, breakable thing. And when she nods and he begins to move his hips tentatively, experimentally, she becomes more and more certain that he is just as inexperienced at this as she is — the thought is both thrilling and distressing. But, she thinks, it is nice to be the only one, isn't it?
However, worry whispers in her ear: Is it wrong of her to use him in this way, wrong for her to take what should be a special moment and use it to drive away thoughts of another man, to make herself feel better? But she thinks of the way he uses her voice, of shaping her breath and tone and phrasing until what pours out of her mouth when she sings is more him than her. Maybe they can both use each other. And as he pushes into her, again and again, with moans which sound increasingly delirious, she doesn't think he minds too much either way.
The stinging pain between her legs finally begins to recede, and now with each push and drag of him within her, she can feel a swelling sort of sweetness rushing into her center, and she wants more and more and more. She tilts her hips upward and impossibly, he slides in deeper; she groans his name and she realizes that she means it, she wants him. That other man, the one of genteel kisses placed on the back of the hand, while saving his lust for a mistress, could never make her feel like this, could never make her feel as if she is being consumed, devoured, never make her want to cry out for more, more, more.
She repeats Erik's name again and again, until it's the only name she can remember, his movements growing more frantic and less controlled with each repetition. She can feel a tension building in him, and distantly, she thinks of just what this means, and every warning about what can happen if a girl lets a man have his way with her comes rushing into her head, and yet she circles her arms around his back and clutches herself to him, hooks a leg around his quickening hips and all but begs him to fill her up, to lay his claim to her body, to mark her as his. His breath is ragged, almost sobbing, his lips pressed close to her ear, and the wrongness of it all — of being pressed into the silk damask of a sofa by her maestro, her mentor, still fully clothed and masked, whom she'd never more than touched the hand of until mere minutes ago, his flesh buried deep in hers, her innocence gone after such little thought — is nothing compared to the jolt of pleasure she gets each time he slams into her just right, and she knows that this will not be enough, she will want more and more and more. Little gasps of pleasure leave her with each impossibly deep, slowing thrust and when he releases into her with a cry, no...it isn't enough, but it's a start.
After it's done, he holds her, bodies still joined, whispering Mine, mine, mine, as the proof of it trickles down her thighs, and something about it makes it sound more like a warning than an endearment, but still, Christine thinks, it does feel good to feel wanted.
...
Days later, they have hardly left the bed.
If this is sin, it's far too sweet for Christine to care. She has found pleasure and belonging in the merging of their bodies, just as she had in the merging of their souls as they sang. She feels complete.
Maybe she should feel shame or guilt, but she doesn't. The harm is already done, and Erik says they will be married shortly. And already, she can see love growing. There have been moments of tenderness, of connection. He even stopped wearing the mask, after he found it an impediment to the work he was trying to do between her thighs.
But it's not only pleasures of the flesh — they also sing, and Erik tells stories of his past travels while they drink overfilled glasses of wine, and he reads to her each night until they fall asleep, sated bodies wrapped around each other. No, it's not what she ever imagined, but it feels good.
Erik really was right after all, Raoul was not the man for her.
One night, as they lie together in the darkness, Christine trails her fingers over the velvety skin of that wonderfully addictive part of him, feeling it harden and thicken under her touch, and she can't help but say, "You know, Erik, if not for that horrible false thing, we might never have ended up together."
"That's true," he laughs. "And isn't this so much better than ivory?" he asks, as he begins to roll on top of her.
Christine stills, her heart missing a beat. "Did I tell you it was made of ivory?"
Erik pauses, thoughtful. "No," he says smoothly, "I don't think you did." His fingers dip between her legs, just the way she likes. "But in Persia, they had them all over the palace, and they were all made of ivory. I suppose that's what I must be thinking of." His thumb finds the place Christine likes best, and his words become a distracting droning. "Did I ever tell you about the the time when that damned Daroga and—"
Christine silences him with a kiss. "No more stories, Erik — just more of that."
And he seems happy to comply.
Alright! So I've officially written Erik and Christine having sex, I hope you're happy now. I don't want to hear another word about Raoul getting any over on The Better Man, because looks like Erik's got himself a pretty sweet deal happening here. :D
Thanks for reading! I appreciate every last one of you!