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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
Chapter 15: Of Love and Lovers
A/N: Thanks so much for all of the reviews, they make me so happy! cries tears of joy Now, in this chapter there is a treat for all of my loyal readers. Yup, that’s right, there is naughtiness ahead! There is not yet sex, but there will be a lusty endeavor. Please review and let me know what you think.

Oh, the words in quotation marks that look like this "' belong to the Marquis de Sade.

Sparrow's Pearl, you'll like this one. :)

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Sleep drifted away slowly even as she tried desperately to hold on to it with all of the might she could muster. The calm that had laid her body to rest took its leave of her and allowed the cold air of the morning to take its place. Consciousness was cruel. The blissful ignorance of deep slumber no longer let her senses lie passively beneath the warm weight of darkness.

The dull throb in her abdomen escalated as she drew herself upwards. The ache in her head caused her to cradle her face in her hands as the glaring light of day raped her tender eyes. There had to be a tiny, sinister dwarf lodged between her ears banging drums incessantly, laughing cruelly as the reverberations caused every organ in her body to scream in silent agony.

No longer could unconscious passivity keep the pain of self-abuse at bay, it had come for her. Closing her eyes once more, she brought her hand to forehead and massaged the heated skin gently. Her hands carried with them the most awful stench! Pulling her curled fist away from her nose, she turned onto her other side, her stomach shrieking in horror at the sudden jolt that sent it tumbling once more. Any movement was a vicious crime against her protesting insides.

There he was.

Those eyes, those eyes that burned into her soul, creating arousal, terror, and reluctant compassion, were closed. That face that was always contorted into lines of deep bitterness, pain, or passion was relaxed. Peaceful. Quiet. Even with the white porcelain imprisoning half of his face, he looked at peace, as though he were free from all worldly pains.

He had removed his jacket and boots and lay on his back, his shirtsleeves parting naturally at his chest, exposing the golden skin adorned with dark hairs. His chest rose and fell softly with his even breathing, barely a whisper of a sound escaped his slightly parted lips. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, the shadows feathery and soft.

She noticed that he had removed the wig of glossy ebony hair that he always wore. His soft ash brown hair was mussed, wisps of it caressing his smooth forehead.

Once again, she looked at him and did not see the man responsible for so much death and destruction. Who was it she saw?

Did she see an angel?

No, that illusion had long since been destroyed.

Did she see evils hidden within the dark depths of the sleeping man’s heart?

No, she did not.

Did she see a pathetic creature hell bent on spreading the infectious disease that was his misery?

Much to her confusion and disdain, no.

How much had this man suffered before his bitterness and loneliness consumed him so completely? How did he ever survive these past few months? Did he feel guilt or shame when he remembered the fateful night of their parting? Perhaps he was leaving the past behind and forsaking memories of a different life. Yet, could one truly escape the memories that once drove them to madness? He was still mad, for all she knew.

He continued to lay still, his mind and body resting, allowing him a brief yet merciful escape from the prison that was his very existence. She never thought that he could be watched in such a vulnerable state. That strong, dark, powerful man whom controlled the world of the living with the fist of steel and a will of the gods, looked so very defenseless beneath her soft gaze.

This man was not defenseless. Broken? Yes. Wounded? Indeed. Weak? No, not he. He could be in weak in spirit and mind, but never would he submit to the laws that governed mankind, or concede defeat. That was why she was with him now, lying beside him after inviting him to her bed in a moment of physical weakness and mental apathy.

Never could she know why she hated his nature but longed for his presence. She was a woman of intelligence, was she not? She knew that the man who lay before her was dangerous. A threat to her safety, her body, and her mind. Yet, as much as she loathed him for his deviance, she wanted his touch. His hands on her body would be the sweetest torture; she had yearned for his body in her dreams even while her waking mind hated him.

If she did not fear giving he and every man, woman, and child within 20 miles of them all instant heart attacks, she would surely have screamed at the top of her lungs. Not a scream of horror or fear, but of distress at her traitorous and confused mind. How she wanted to release all of the guilt, longing, and pain in one long, deep, tortured, shrill sob of contempt! The war within her was ravaging her deeper than any bullet ever could. The pain of a budding betrayal against the one she loved most, her husband, was like a noose, violently garroting the life from her body.

It seemed so long ago when the voice of her angel made her lonely life worth living. He let her know that as long as she spoke to him each evening, she would never be an orphan. She had always hated the word orphan; the pain of losing a parent at such a young age was too deep, too anguishing to have a name. An orphan was a thing, and never could grief that staggering be objectified.

So many times she thought that she could never make it through the day without her angel. It was strange really, how that angel became a man who confessed that he could not make it through the day without her, and she could not be with him.

Did Erik feel as though his body would destroy itself upon her leaving? When her father died, the pain was not simply emotional; it was physical as well. Her insides felt as though they would surely wither and die, the pressure in her chest enough to bring her to her knees upon the beige carpeting of the house that they stayed at. The house where he went to die.

Surely, she had to have been dead to him that night when she left him. There must have been a moment where he saw her as a ghost, flitting out of his life with barely a trace, save for memories. Had his grief torn at him from the inside? Had grief been tearing at him all of his life?

Reaching out a reluctant hand and ignoring the sickness within her stomach - part from alcohol, part from confusion at her own thoughts - she tenderly swept his hair from his face. She avoided touching his mask as her fingers let the thin strands slide through them with ease. Upsetting the barricade that was the forbidding white porcelain proved to be an unwise choice in the past. As dramatic as it sounded, terrible things did occur when the notorious Phantom was stripped bare of what he felt he needed most.

As her fingers drifted across the cool skin of his forehead Erik startled violently. Surging upwards in surprise, he roughly clasped her wrist, pulling it away from his face with undisguised alarm.

“Christine!” Placing a hand to his thunderous heartbeat he looked to the woman beside him, her face a white sheet of shock.

“I…” She could find no words. She had not expected him to wake so suddenly by her soft touch, his lightning quick awakening had startled her nearly as much as it had him.

“What were you doing?” He released her wrist and ran a hand through his hair, allowing his heart time to return to a slow and steady pace that did not shake his entire body with its intensity.

“I…I just went to push your hair out of your eyes, is all.” She sat up and pulled her knees against her chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

“Oh, I apologize. I was startled is all, I did not intend to frighten you.” Her declaration of her intention shocked him to the very core. Never had someone shown him affection so simple as to touch him gently while he slept. Not even as a child.

“No need to apologize.” She managed a weak smile before laying her head down once more, the weight of it making it far too difficult to hold it up any longer.

“How are you feeling?”

“Terrible.” It was the truth. Her body felt wretched.

“I have a solution to that, a cure you might say. Take heed my warning though, you will not like it.” He thought of putting on his jacket, but decided that it would be both pointless and silly.

“I will like anything compared to what I feel now.” She rolled onto her side and cradled her face in the crook of her arm in an attempt to drown out the pounding in her skull. That rude, incessant dwarf was out to torture her once more.

“I forgive you your ignorance, you know not what you say.” He joked before leaving the room to bring back the repugnant cure that she craved as much as a woman lost in the desert would crave water.

Within moments he returned with a thick brown liquid in a clear crystal glass. Did he have any dishes of poor quality? She doubted it.

She took the glass from him and brought it to her lips and sipped it tentatively, the brutal taste was worst than she expected.

“Erik! It is bitter, and salty, and warm!” Her face contorted into a look of revulsion as she pulled the offending substance away from her mouth. Those three adjectives could not do justice to the filth that she had ingested.

“Did I not warn you? You must finish.”

“No, not possible!” She tried handing him back the glass, but he rose from the edge of the bed in swift rejection.

“If you wish to feel better you will drink it, I assure you, mere seconds of revulsion are much better than an entire day of it.” He had a mind to pour it down her throat, but felt such an action unwise and unwarranted.

Closing her eyes tightly and taking a deep breath akin to the one taken when one is about to dive into an ocean, she hastily gulped down the revolting liquid. She was certain she heard her throat scream in horror as the liquid coated it. Her poor body had suffered no end of abuse this past night.

“In mere moments you will be feeling much better.” He took the glass from her and watched as she slumped down onto the mattress once more, groaning as she did so.

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She lay perfectly still as the vile liquid began to work its magic on her. The vicious pounding her head seemed to fade to a silent hum and her lurching stomach was one again calm.

Feeling more like herself, she stood up and began to make her way to the marbled bathroom. Never had she craved a bath as much as she did right now. Luckily this door came equipped with a lock. If Erik were to see her bathing she would die of embarrassment, or horror. It would depend on his reaction to her naked and soapy skin. Would he be as shocked and horrified as she? Or would his eyes darken with lust as he closed the door softly behind him and stalked towards her bare and defenseless body, caring nothing for propriety or gentlemanly conduct as his animal lust overwhelmed him?

The perversity of her thoughts made her gasp in disgust as her face reddened. Did she want to be ravished in a bathtub? No, God no! Such a thing would be humiliating, debasing, and sinful!

She noticed with annoyance that the toilet tissue was once again on the counter-top. Did he know nothing of modesty? She moved it again from sight as she looked through her soaps and creams.

Finding the lavender scent that she favored, she stepped into the hot water, sighing deeply as she submerged herself in the steamy depths. A working bathroom was a luxury beyond imagination. Had he built it himself? He certainly had the craftsmanship and knowledge to do so.

Massaging the scented soaps into her hair, she closed her eyes in contentment. Her and Raoul’s house was in the midst of having a full bathroom constructed. As it stood, the silent servants still needed to carry up heated bathwater in buckets, something that always brought Christine no end of guilt.

Closing her eyes, she felt her exposed skin begin to perspire lightly as the steam caressed it. Droplets from her face lingered upon her lips before moving in slow, languorous descent down her neck and chest. Sighing once more, she marveled at the size of the tub. It could fit two people comfortably.

Perhaps her and Raoul would enjoy one another’s company in a large porcelain bath. Perhaps she and another…

Erasing the sinful thoughts from her mind she forced herself to entertain thoughts of a more conventional nature. She needed to see Madame Giry soon; surely the old ballet mistress was concerned for her. Perhaps a letter from Raoul would be in her possession, although she doubted he would have time to write her, or that a letter would reach her in time before his return.

As she drifted into that strange relaxation that is not yet sleep but not quite wakefulness, she saw fleeting images in her restless mind of a large, dark man pulling her from the water beneath her arms. She stood before him, his hands clasped to her upper arms, his eyes probing her flesh as she dripped water onto the slick tiles. The cold air kissed her skin, making it pucker beneath its touch as the large hands ran over her body, pressing her to the clothed body of a man. He spoke, but she could not hear him as she struggled pitifully against him even as her thighs grew damp.

Forcing open her eyes, she glanced around her, the vision slowly swimming away, fading as quickly as it had materialized.

Standing up from the tub, Christine began to dry herself frantically, hoping the soft material would wash the feeling of those invisible hands from her skin. Yet, they did not disappear. Still they touched her, possessively, forcefully. Powerless against their assault, she stepped out of the bathroom only to be met by a dark haired woman who looked at her with equal shock and surprise.

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Sofia stared at the wide-eyed woman before her, wrapped in a light blue towel that was wound tightly under her arms and fell nearly past her knees.

She made no move to speak or move, but rather stood there, her mouth agape and her eyes pools of confusion.

“Oh, hello! I am so sorry to have startled you.” Christine stared at the attractive woman in front of her, her smile was wide and her dark eyes friendly, even as her words seemed muddled and unsure. It would seem that many people were being startled today.

“Oh, I…it’s fine.” Christine would have extended her hand had she not feared that the towel would unravel and fall to the floor, increasing the awkwardness of the unexpected greeting even more.

“I am Sofia Renault, I live in the mansion two miles from here…”

“You own this property?” Christine inquired civilly.

“Why, yes. My husband, he passed a few years ago. I’ve stayed in the house, and I offer this one to patrons for as long as they need it. Erik has been here for some months now.”

Erik had spoken to someone else? Of course he had! He could not simply take up residence in this house and not have had dealings with someone, but he seemed so mystical, so separate from the laws of society that she envisioned him coming to the home as a spirit, not a boarder. Still, the conversational tone with which Madame Renault spoke of him seemed strange to Christine. Never had she even heard Madame Giry refer to him as Erik, although she did not doubt that she knew him by name.

“Oh, I am sorry about your husband.” Christine then noticed the elderly blonde woman standing near the window, her countenance blank and body unmoving.

“Thank you.” Looking wistful, Sofia waved forward the woman by the window. As she walked forward, the glare of the sun no longer obscured her features and the hard lines of her face came into view. She had a face carved in stone, the granite features showing no softness. Her walk was like that of a furious horse, clipped, thunderous, and purposeful. Her strides were long, her steps swift, and the speed alarming for a woman her age.

“I came by this morning,” Sofia continued, “to ask Erik if you were needing anything. I asked if perhaps, you would like the services of a lady’s maid in the mornings, he said to talk to you, as he was not sure of your preferences. Is that all right Mademoiselle…?”

“Giry.” Christine continued quickly. To say De Chagny would be unwise. If this woman had a title, she would most certainly be acquainted with Raoul’s family, or at least recognize the name. The surname Daae was also too popular in social circles, too often associated with gossip and dramatic embellishments concerning the opera ghost.

“Christine Giry.” She finished, smiling as she did so. “Yes, I would like the service from time to time, if that is fine by you.”

“Oh, of course! This is Marie Rouselle, my lady’s maid who will no doubt be of great service to you whenever you shall need her.”

“I appreciate this, thank you.” Christine felt as though she should, in good conscience, refuse the help, but dressing would be made much easier with the help of another. She dared not ask Erik, allowing him to touch her so intimately, or at all, would be most unwise.

Thinking of her new name, she was frightened to hear the lie slide so easily off of her tongue. So many people had been lied to. Her husband, his family, this woman, herself.

Smiling widely before turning away in a flurry of violet skirts, Sofia bid the two women farewell. She did not know what to say to Erik’s mysterious young lover. The girl looked solemn to her; perhaps her circumstances were as dark as the man with whom she was keeping close company.

Perhaps Sofia feared that if she and Christine spoke too much, Christine would find out that she was Erik’s former lover, even it was only temporary and existed purely out of the need of two people to seek comfort in each other’s bodies. Jealously ruined more unions than any other emotion, she did not want to create tension in the fragile lover’s tryst that seemed so bizarre, yet so very intense.

When she asked Erik about his lover, his eyes seemed to become dark, passionate, and deeply melancholic all at once. Yet, there was a glimmer of hope that brightened his dark features, a hope that briefly kept the sadness at bay.

She was sure that the young woman was here of her own volition. Erik, although a mysterious man, did not strike her as one to hurt a woman. He was a kind and considerate lover concerned with his partner’s pleasure, surely no man so in tune with a woman’s body would ever bring harm to one. Besides, the girl did not look distressed or weary. Maurice had told her that had met her yesterday and had gone to purchase something for her at the bookstore at her request. She did not run up to her son and beg for knowledge as to how to escape the property unnoticed.

Surely, Sofia thought to herself confidently, everything with this strange couple was right as rain.

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Marie Rouselle was an unpleasant woman. No, unpleasant was a polite term, one of refinement that masked the true meaning behind the inoffensive word. She was colder than ice and as a stern as a stone statue.

She tended to grumble and frown. Whenever Christine and Raoul would make silly faces at one another when they were children, her father would always ominously warn them that their faces would forever stay like that. She now realized that there had been truth in his empty threat, for Marie’s face had frozen in lines of anger after so many years of frowning.

Why someone as seemingly good-natured as Sofia Renault would employ such a haggard old woman with so unkind a disposition was a mystery to her.

Marie had gasped in horror when Christine informed her that her services would not be necessary for today as she did not wish to wear a corset. She tried to explain that her stomach was in no way well enough to be confined by one, but the woman had gave her a look that made her feel as though she had been caught stealing diamonds from a sultan. That impudent hag had mumbled that the pain in her upper body was probably higher than her stomach and lower than her shoulders. When Christine inquired as to what the implication was, the woman muttered something about allowing a man to take liberties. At that, Christine had dismissed her immediately and said she would call for her again only when absolutely necessary. She was sure the woman would never dare to speak to Madame Renault in such a way, and she did not want to feel the accusing eyes upon her anymore, not when she had done nothing to deserve them.

Putting on a yellow silk dress, Christine wandered down to the library. Looking outside, she noticed dusk beginning to settle, the sky a glorious hue of pink as the illuminated clouds drifted across the coral abyss. She had slept later than she had first thought; the day had passed her by quickly.

The book collection was as impressive as when she first laid eyes on it. Still, no Shakespeare to be seen. She would need to ask Erik about that later on, no library was complete without Shakespeare!

Where had Erik gone? She had not seen him since he forced that horrible, yet effective concoction down her throat.

Touching the spines of the leather bound books gently, she felt her gaze wander to that black Marquis de Sade book. She should have been horrified that Erik would even own such a thing. Marquis de Sade was a man known for his debauchery and his perversions. A man who had spent nearly a quarter of his life in prison for his tastes!

Yet, the forbidden fruit always had the sweetest taste, and even if it was sour, it at least satiated the wandering mind, did it not? Surely Les Crimes de L’amour had been read by many, even though it was dismissed as vile, it was still read. How could it be judged lest it was read?

Picking up the heavy anthology, Christine moved to sit on the cream-coloured chaise and lit the candelabra on the table beside her. It was always most calming to read by candlelight, she found.

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Erik shut the door softly behind him and removed his boots. The house was dark, which was to his preference. He did not want to be assaulted by bright light when the hour grew dark. The darkness gave way to reflection, not always content reflection, but reflection nonetheless.

He had hoped that Christine would be pleased with Sofia’s offer. Surprisingly he had no qualms about his past and future lovers meeting. In fact, he had been filled with a smug sense of pride at the fact that Christine might infer that Sofia was at one point his paramour. It was not a long-standing or emotional affair, but it was a liaison, and a fulfilling one at that.

He walked past the library and was most surprised to see Christine sitting on the chaise, a vision of innocent splendor in her pale yellow gown with her hair in loose ringlets surrounding her face and falling down her back.

What intrigued him more was the book laid reverently across her lap. More so, the look of wonder on her face as she turned one page after another, her eyes widening with each and every movement of her graceful fingers. He watched for a moment as the candles cast shadows over her face, the yellow light making her eyes brighter, the chocolate depths more vivid.

Being careful not to disturb her, he stepped into the library, keeping in the shadows and moving as quietly and quickly as a cat. She was far too immersed in her reading to notice as he stepped gracefully towards her, his movements silent, his eyes dark.

Nothing alerted Christine to the presence of another until a shadow darkened the pages before her. Looking upwards, she muffled a small cry of surprise as a large body settled itself in the chaise behind her.

The shadow had his legs spread, each dangling over the sides of the chaise, barely grazing her hips. She could feel his soft breath on her neck, but his chest did not touch her back, he remained mere inches away. No part of him touched her, but he was so close, so warm and hot against her body.

“Do not stop reading on my account, my dear.” The deep baritone rang in her ears like the seductive feel of velvet against cool skin.

“I was simply curious, is all!” Slamming the cover shut, she tried to stand, but a hand rested itself upon her shoulder, drawing her back down and then removing itself from her almost immediately.

“No need for embarrassment or modesty. It is my book, if anyone should be embarrassed, it should be me.” That slick velvet sound never faltered. He spoke close to her ear now; if he were to slide out his tongue even a fraction of an inch it would caress the tender skin of her earlobe.

“Go back to page you were reading before I so rudely interrupted you.” Velvet tones commanded, she obeyed. Even as her heart pounded mercilessly and her skin heated beneath his gaze, her hands obeyed.

He looked over her shoulder at the page that she read. Leaning in closer to her, closer than before, he let his hot breath tickle her ear before speaking.

“'Do with me what you will, your Lordship, I am in your power…'” He said softly, his gaze falling to the smooth flesh of her neck. He wanted to take the soft skin into his mouth and suckle it until she screamed with need. She let out a harsh breath and attempted to pull away once more, but he gripped her thin shoulder, applying gentle pressure to the fragile bones.

“'Use me as you will, I say, I shall not attempt to defend myself…'” The words in the text rang true for the present. The struggling body was stilled by the voice that read the passages, playing the part of the fearful maiden about to be ravished, a prelude for the woman sitting between his thighs to consider.

“Do not put your hands on me.” Christine breathed out even as her eyelids fluttered shut and she inhaled the masculine scent of the man behind her.

“No, no love. I will not, but you will still enjoy this. We both will.” With that he let his tongue dart out to lave at her ear. He felt her gasp and whirl around to face him, but he bit down gently upon the flesh to still her movements.

“I said do not touch me, Erik!”

“No, no love.” He continued suckling her ear. “You asked me not to put my hands on you.”

Pulling away, he looked down at the page and noticed her hands were trembling as they gripped the bindings of the book.

“Erik, you cannot do this.” Her voice was broken, broken by passion and fear both.

“'But Mademoiselle.” Erik read, “have you forgotten that you are in my power?'”

“Erik! I am not!” His mouth lowered itself to her neck, his lips pressing soft, wet kisses to the pale skin.

Raising his head again, he gazed at the page.

“'Proud creature! Will I ever succeed in taming you?'”

“Good God, Erik, stop this.” Even as she spoke, her voice wavered and became breathy. With each breath she took her protests turned to soft, whispery moans. His lips returned to her neck and he nibbled gently on the skin, leaving small pink marks with his teeth then soothing them by sucking the skin between his full lips.

“Let us find another story love, this one ends badly for the dueling lovers.” He did not wish to add that it ended with the woman in question marrying her true love after the scorned lover goes to great lengths to bind her to him with threats, lies, and force. Sometimes truth was indeed stranger than fiction, and he did not wish to evoke memories.

Slowly, he let his fingers drift to the buttons at the back of her dress. The tiny, silk covered yellow beads fell open swiftly beneath his fingers.

Gasping in shock, Christine turned swiftly and gripped his wrist. Her face was flushed from the arousal building inside of her, but her eyes were still fearful. Fearful of him; or the feelings he was igniting within her, he could not tell.

“Relax Angel, I shall not do anything to you.”

She thought of Raoul. This was wrong. The ache between her thighs was wrong. The sweat upon her forehead was wrong. The urge to lean against his chest and press into him was wrong.

Opening up to another story, he lowered the dress down one shoulder as far as the undone buttons would allow and began to kiss her there, his tongue leaving hot, glistening tracks across her skin.

“'She stood out from her companions as the rose catches the eye among ordinary flowers.'”

His breathy whisper touched her neck as his lips moved down her shoulder. She fought against the urge to reach behind her and touch the left side of his face lovingly. How she wanted to feel that rough skin beneath her fingers as his lips consumed her body.

The kisses continued and increased in their intensity. Erik gently pulled aside her thick chestnut locks and sucked more tender skin into his mouth. Her lower abdomen began to burn with longing; her breath was short, the moans becoming more pronounced.

“Who worships this divine creature?” His dark eyes met the page once more as she let the paper fall from her fingers.

“'I am undone, I am in the power of my worst enemy, I cannot escape the fate that awaits me.'” The suckling continued, the soft sounds floating around the room.

“Say it Christine, say that you are powerless, and I shall let you go.”

“Erik, stop.” His hand pressed against her stomach, lightly, so very lightly.

“Say that you are powerless.”

“Erik, please.” Her plea was muffled by her low moan as he hand continued its downward descent until it rested upon her thigh.

“Say it, say you are succumbing to me, that you want me, that you need to feel me inside of you. Say the words, and you shall be free.” He was torturing her with his manipulative words even as he worshipped her neck and shoulder with his mouth.

“Erik, no.” She put her hand atop his and moved it off of her thigh. He let his hand fall away, but he leaned further over her to suck tenderly on her exposed collar bone, pulling the silk down to reveal more skin for his seeking mouth.

“Tell me, Christine. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Please.” Her moans were louder, more desperate even as her mind fought his delicious assault.

“Please what?”

“Stop touching me, stop it, please.” Raoul, oh poor, innocent, naïve Raoul!

“Say that you want me to bury myself in you, to possess you and make your body my instrument.”

“I will not say it!” Her resistance grew more futile as he brought forth his hand once more and rested it on the inside of her thigh, the fingers moving upwards towards her center.

Without warning he pressed his hand to her womanhood and immediately felt her wetness through the thin yellow silk. Despite her empty pleas, she was hot and wet for him. He grew harder, but dared not let himself rub against her. He would not be able to stop himself if he did.

“Erik!”

“Say it, Christine!” His fingers continued to caress her gently.

“I want you, I want you inside of me, I have dreamed of it so many nights! Erik!” With all of the force in her tiny body, she surged upwards and out of the chaise. Without a thought to the painful, unfulfilled throbbing between her thighs and her body’s desperate plea for release, she bounded out of the library and into her room.

This Phantom, this man, this sensual spirit; would not make her betray her husband. No, she would not, she would not, she would not!

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Reclining on the chaise with the smell of arousal still permeating the air, Erik sat in silence. He should have been enraged; he should simply tear into her room right now and finish what they had started. She would go from protesting to weeping in ecstasy, this he knew for certain. Yet, how she could pull away from him when she must have been so close to releasing, he could not help but admire it. Yet the loyalty that made her spring from his arms like a frightened kitten, the loyalty to her husband, made him clench his first in furious hatred. It also made his soul weep with defeat.

The seduction of the angel had begun, but it would never be easy. Yet, he had read once that in this life, there is nothing but possibility, and if he gave up that hope, he would surely die.

A/N: The de Sade lines come from the anthology "The Crimes of Love." The stories used were "Miss Henrietta Stralson," "The Enchanted Tower," and "Ernestine, a Swedish Tale."
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