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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
- 22
- 23
- 24
Chapter 23: Of Secrets and Lies
A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews thus far, they encourage me like you wouldn’t believe. Here is the next installment, I hope you enjoy it. I will be going to NYC next week and will not be updating again until early September. When I do come back I will be bursting with Phantomy inspiration, as I will be seeing the play on August 24! Oh, there is a bawdy reference to Dario Argento’s not-so-great POTO in here. See if you can find it!

Huge thanks to my beta, Prying Pandora.

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For the past week Raoul had been feeling strange, but he was never one to act upon intuition, as the mind often works in strange ways that are best ignored should one wish to preserve his sanity.

He had plenty to worry about as it was. In fact, it would seem that ever since he came of age and took the world on headfirst, he had done nothing but worry. He feared that he would end up one of those bent, wheezing invalids who cough and choke on their meals and upset young relatives with their crazed ranting about the government. He had known several men and women like that as a youth, and he often humored them with wide, fake smiles and forced chuckles.

Old age seemed to destroy the strongest of souls and leave them withered and confused. The brilliant minds of yesterday simply became the raving madness of tomorrow.

Those whose lives were too difficult or too simple often succumbed to the dementia that left dinner guests with nervous laughs and knitted brows. They eventually became so consumed with their own misery that they could speak of nothing but their outlandish fears and embittered thoughts. Their bodies suffered too.

He feared that he would become the one whose hands shook so badly that the expensive, aged red wine would spill all over the white silk tablecloths of the guests who felt obligated to invite the broken, crazy old Vicomte to dinner.

It was rare for him to think so much, as he used to feel as careless as the breeze, acting upon his desires with childish enthusiasm and pleasant abandon.

Yet in the past year he had known nothing but fear and despair. He dealt with a Phantom, a scandal, hostility from his family and peers, and now he was the victim of blackmail. He had a slowly fading black eye to show for his more recent troubles.

He was 21 years old, and he felt like he had aged ten years in six months.

It seemed to him like he was always being used. Poor, poor Raoul - always caught in the middle of something and never being able to play the hero.

He was used because he was stupid.

He was played as a pawn by a madman who wanted the love of his wife. His life was put at stake as a means of coercion, which fortunately did not work to the benefit of the evil genius who took such pride in his own sordidness that he was not able to identify that the chief weakness in his despicable scheme was himself.

Sometimes Raoul loved irony, but he felt mildly uncomfortable with the smugness that crept into his heart and produced a smirk whenever he thought of his broken opponent weeping like a child from a simple touch.

He hated him too much to care about his pain. If a kiss was his undoing, so be it. He was gone from his life now and he certainly held no love for that creature. It was funny, Raoul thought to himself, as he was not one to mock the misfortunes of others. He had done so as a boy, but only because he needed the camaraderie of other noble children. If one could poke fun at an overweight boy who had a stutter they were granted the acceptance of masses. Well, the masses that truly mattered at least. Or who were supposed to matter.

Nevertheless, his childhood mocking had left him feeling empty and cruel, and so he refrained from hurting the bodies and feelings of those whose insecurity and awkwardness just begged for bullying. He did not like to see the defenseless attacked, it was unjust and wrong.

Perhaps the Phantom may have once been a victimized child, but he became an evil, lecherous, disgusting, dangerous snake of a man. He did not deserve pity. Raoul would not give him any.

He did not have time to worry about old romantic rivals anyhow; he was more concerned with untangling himself from the mess he was entrapped in. He needed to get home. He needed to get home very soon, for something was gnawing at him and unfurling in the pit of his stomach.

Something felt wrong. A change in wind, or so the old adage went. Something about the wind was certainly different, and he would be damned if he could figure out what it was.

Then again, perhaps the stresses of being beaten and blackmailed had made his mind wander down a torrid path. He had conquered his greatest enemy mere months ago; surely he was simply over-reacting due to the trauma of his past battle.

His stomach churned with unease even as he reasoned with himself.

It was raining again, as was the London way. The skies were always gray and dark, the coal-shaded clouds leaving the cobblestone streets drab and cold.

The clouds seemed most content to rest over top of him, crying their icy tears and showering him with their misery. He often felt like joining them in their wretched weeping.

Here he was, a young husband and heroic savior of his fair lady, getting pummeled by a beady-eyed minion in a game room for trying to save his fortune and his peace of mind.

He felt a deep sense of shame as he brought his fingers up to touch the swollen skin on his cheek. He and Philippe looked much better now, but the humiliation and resignation had turned their complexions pale and dulled their eyes.

Scars and bruises that were visible often faded with the passage of time, yet the markings often went much deeper. Memories never disappeared, and neither did shame. He was wounded because he was reckless and naïve. He believed that the word of a family member was a good one, and he hadn’t the strength to follow the instinct that screamed at him to run as far away from Philippe’s carriage as fast as he could the day it appeared outside his comfortable home.

He heard footsteps coming towards him, the rise and fall of the feet heavy and tired. The floor creaked ominously, but he did not turn to face the figure in the doorway.

“Drink?” Philippe asked. He swished the liquid in his glass and brought it to his lips, swallowing deeply and closing his eyes as the fluid burned his throat. Even the smell of whisky made him feel lightheaded, but he was not drinking for pleasure. He was drinking to get drunk, and he didn’t care.

Raoul turned and shook his head.

“It will make you feel better.” Philippe walked up to him and set his glass down on the table. The room was almost too dark to navigate in his mild state of inebriation.

“Doubtful.” Raoul hated whisky. He hated most liquor, actually. It was a serious faux pas and unforgivable sin against his class, but he had little time to care. The deeper he plunged into the darkness of his troubled mind, the less he cared for the trivialities of society.

When he was strung up with the Phantom’s noose he wondered to himself why he ever cared whether or not his jacket matched his cravat or if his swords were polished to perfection. When one is faced with danger in its truest form, they often look back upon their petty concerns and wonder how such small things could ever bother them so.

He used to be thrown into humiliated shame when he would spill something on his waistcoat. Now he could not help but berate himself for the silliness of his thoughts.

After all, a stain on the clothing was nothing compared to being on the brink of death or personal ruin.

And why was his heart hammering so fiercely in his chest whenever he thought of Christine?

Surely she was all right, the good Madame would throw herself in front of a galloping Clydesdale before she would allow his wife to come to harm.

The threat to his wife’s safety was gone. It had been swiftly and easily taken care of months ago. Her freedom had been granted and sealed with a kiss, one might say.

He would have laughed at his own pun if he were not in such a foul mood.

“I am going to get you a drink anyways. You need one.”

“I won’t drink it, it tastes awful.”

“Of course it does. You’ll feel fine after a few sips, though. A means to an end, dear boy. I know best.” Philippe sauntered out of the room and whistled as he walked into the hallway and disappeared around a corner.

“You know best, do you?” Raoul muttered under his breath and sighed. If he could recall correctly, and he most certainly could, Philippe had brought him here. He had said it was the right and dutiful thing to do. In fact, he had insisted that rejecting their kind uncle’s offer would be an affront to loyalty.

Raoul had listened blindly. After all, he was young and recovering from a perilous event, what did he know about the politics of business and duty?

Poor, poor Raoul, he thought to himself once more, always willing to do the right thing and never succeeding once he gets there.

He sighed when he heard Philippe’s elephant steps thundering up the stairs. He walked heavily when he was drunk; you would think he weighed as much as a horse.

“For you.” Philippe passed him the drink and Raoul sniffed it distastefully.

“You realize that this will end up on the floor in the water closet by morning, do you not?” Raoul swished the liquid around with a grimace of disgust painted on his features.

“Oh!” Philippe swatted his shoulder absently. “Be a man and stop your incessant whining!”

Raoul grunted and downed the glass swiftly. Had he been free to act upon his first impulse, he would have gagged and contorted his face dramatically. It tasted awful, like a strange, pungent chemical of sorts. He was not a man of science, so he could not identify what he was envisioning, but he knew it was unpleasant.

“This shit is terrible!” Raoul slammed his glass upon the wooden table.

“You say that now, let me get you another.”

Before Raoul could protest Philippe had thundered out of the room. It truly sounded like he was an enraged animal about to track someone down and beat them, what with the urgency in his gait.

Philippe returned with another glass, to which Raoul took and downed just as swiftly as the first. He also grimaced and swore again.

The drink was truly awful, but his legs had begun to feel pleasantly warm. He also felt less constrained and more honest.

“I wish Jean were dead.” He looked to the window and watched the brown water form puddles between the stones on the pavement. A slim man dressed in a brown coat ran through the street towards the nearest pub with a newspaper perched atop his head, the yellow light illuminating his body as he ran to grasp the heavy door and escaped the punishing English weather.

Philippe’s eyes narrowed in thought.

“That’s just the drink talking, Raoul.” He patted his brother on the shoulder and sat upon the sofa. The room was still so dark; he could barely make out the shape of the furniture.

“Does the drink bring out the truth?”

Philippe thought for a moment, his hand coming to rest under his chin.

“No,” he paused, “the drink makes us say things that may or may not be true, but are simply declarations of our desires at that point in time.”

“I see.” He didn’t, not really anyways.

“Well, think of it this way,” Philippe sat up and clasped his hands on his knees, “when a man is drunk he will try to charm the ugliest beast in the room. It is not because he wants her necessarily; he simply wants a female body and figures that hers would be most willing. You may say you want Uncle Jean to be dead, but what you really want is to be free of him. Alcohol makes us exaggerate and misunderstand our desires, which is why we often feel regret and confusion the morning afterwards. Think of whisky as the ticket to the train away from your own mind. It’s a nice journey from time to time, but a dangerous one too. It’s about time you learned that.”

“Do your loyalties still lie with Jean then?” Raoul questioned accusingly. “Do you still want to be in his good graces because he is family and rich? If I recall, it was you who threw the first punch, why the change of heart?”

“Raoul.” Philippe sighed dejectedly, his patience becoming short, “If we were to… well, you know, we would be found out and ruined in every way imaginable.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that we kill him!” Raoul laughed then, his face looking boyishly amused. “If I did not know any better, I would say you are the one harboring the illicit fantasy here, not me.”

Philippe scoffed, but his face had become ashen. He had thought of killing Jean. It was a normal desire to want to defend one’s honor and reputation, was it not? He, however, had the civility and good sense to know that such an action would bring upon the law and the knife-wielding guard dog who nearly slit his throat during their last confrontation.

He didn’t want to believe that fear had become a deterrent, but it had.

Both men remained silent for a few moments more as the rain pelted the window.

“Fantasy or no fantasy, the man remains alive, unless he keels over from heart failure,” Philippe said.

“If he keeps eating and drinking as much as he does now, we wont have long to wait.”

“Pity,” Philippe joked sadistically.

Raoul smiled, his lips twisting into a grin imagining being rid of his uncle after one too many morning sausages. He immediately felt ashamed of his heartlessness, but could not bring himself to truly care. An odd paradox of emotions it was, masochism and ethics.

“Philippe?” Despite himself, Raoul felt that scared, unsure little boy coming to the surface. “What are we going to do?”

“Bide our time for now,” he answered absently.

“I see.”

“You want to get home, I imagine?”

“Of course I do.”

“The little lady will have to wait; more pressing matters are at hand here.”

“I disagree. I would much prefer the company of my wife.”

Philippe scowled inwardly. That showgirl was half, nay, most of their problem. Had she not been resting peacefully in the silk-covered marriage bed neither of them would be sitting in a dodgy London hotel nursing injuries and drunkenly debating the ethics of murdering a family member: a vile, ruthless family member, but a De Changy nonetheless.

Philippe decided that this time and this time alone, he would bite his tongue. He was tired and disgruntled as it was.

“Perhaps we should leave for a bit, get some fresh air, charm some lovely English roses. What say you to that?” Philippe asked.

“I say ‘no’.”

“You are a great bore, Raoul.”

“You’re a fine one to talk, you with your poncy attitude and elite disposition!” They were joking, somewhat.

“I’m not in the mood to be a gentleman tonight. How does a brothel sound?”

Raoul nearly dropped his glass and gasped, “You’re joking!”

“No, not really. I’m almost completely serious, actually.”

“Good God! You’re mad! I am married, and you…”

“Are not?” Philippe finished for him.

“It shouldn’t matter whether or not you are married! Your idea is debauched and…”

“I am not in the mood to be a gentleman, I told you so mere minutes ago.”

“I am repulsed. I can almost smell the filth just thinking about it.” Raoul’s face contorted into a look of revulsion, as though he just smelled something vile and unpleasant.

“Ah, you’re as exciting as an old woman.” Philippe straightened his jacket as he stood.

“Not wanting to soil myself with a whore old enough to be my mother does not make me an old woman.”

“They have gorgeous young girls there! They often have cute names too, sweet sounding things like Cinnamon and Honey Suckle.” He laughed gaily, the whisky giving him an added bounce in his step. “Come Raoul, it will take your mind off of things. We need this release now more than ever.”

“I would rather go to the gaming hall and play cards, to be honest.” Raoul did not move from the window.

“Cards do nothing for the body, boy.”

“My body is fine the way it is.”

“Suit yourself.” Philippe shrugged on his jacket and stepped into his boots.

“Philippe, this is truly disgusting.” Raoul shuddered at the thought of taking a woman not his wife. He enjoyed the feeling of being gripped tightly by a woman’s warm flesh, but he did not hunger for it with insatiable lust. He could admire a lovely woman without wanting to ravish her on the spot. Such was the way of a randy teenager, not a full-grown man.

Was it not?

Either way, he was not one to fuck. He preferred to make love. In his bed. In his home. To his wife.

He attended a brothel once as a lanky sixteen year-old, but the woman had done no more than pleasure him with her mouth, which left him quivering with embarrassment. She said that her name was Rose Velvet Lips, which made him want to laugh. He would have, if he weren’t dying of shame at the time. If it were not for the persuasion of his naval comrades he would never have set foot into the seedy brown building that smelled of lilacs and moonshine in the first place.

In fact, he preferred to pretend that outing never occurred. It was best for his conscience if he did so.

“I’m leaving now Raoul, this is your last chance…”

“No.”

“I’m really going, are you su…”

“Yes!”

“Sit here and mourn and brood and seethe all you want then.” Philippe chuckled to himself and walked outside. He spent enough time worrying and brooding. Tonight he was drunk and resigned, and he needed some company. There would be plenty of time for plotting how to disengage himself from the mess he was in. Tonight was not that time.

Raoul watched him leave and shook his head in disgust.

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Christine had made a promise to herself that morning she woke up with Erik wrapped around her nude body. She had promised herself that no fears or doubts were going to make her regretful of what she had done.

Was it wrong? Yes.

Was it immoral? Certainly.

Should she be in the midst of shame and self-loathing? Indeed.

Yet, she wasn’t. She was in his bed and in his arms because she wanted to be. There had been a time when it was the last thing she wanted. Well, no, that wasn’t right either. It was more accurate to say that there was a time when the last thing she wanted was to want him.

She had good reason to fear him. For every gentle caress and thoughtful word there were outraged bellows and strangulations. Well, he had certainly never tried to strangle her, but she knew that it was an art he was capable of.

Yet an entire week had passed, and never did she feel the guilt or shame that she had expected to come crashing down upon her like lightning - a lightning bolt sent by the Lord himself to punish her for her immorality, of course.

She had always giggled as a child when warned that a silver bolt of lightning would not hesitate to strike her dead should she misbehave. The threat was a frightening one, but the picture it created in her mind’s eye was almost comical in nature. She still behaved herself though, so her mockery did not come with defiance.

Now, as an adult woman, she tried to think of all the people she knew who should have been struck dead by the hand of a vengeful God who still walked the earth each and every day. In fact, the heavens did not seem to pick sinners off on a whim at all.

If they had, she would not have had her lover.

If there was such a thing as immediate smiting, he would have surely been vaporized that morning for what he had done.

She would have faded into a cloud of black smoke as well, for letting him do such a thing.

Why did the memory bring such a naughty grin to her face, she wondered with amusement.

The week had gone by so quickly it was as though every hour passed them by in less than a minute. Time did not stand still when one was having fun. Yes, fun would be a good word to describe the lightness that seemed to have coated the cold, dark home. The bliss could certainly not last forever, but it could last for a few precious hours at a time.

Christine dreaded her inevitable return to the world of the living, for this fantasy was becoming more and more consuming. It was drowning her, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into it as deeply as possible, consequences be damned.

She stepped into her shoes and opened the door, the sun immediately blinding her as she lowered her head and brushed her hair out of her face. She had stopped bothering to pin it up, Erik much preferred it down. So did she, actually. She felt free and less confined, wild and sensuous even.

There was no feeling more relaxing and glorious than the feeling of his fingers weaving their way through her curls. She treasured the way he would sigh and inhale the scent; it made her feel like a goddess. It was vain, she knew, but the feeling of being worshipped so reverently was an addiction she was coming to love. When she heard his murmurs of sensual endearment she would go weak in her knees and close her eyes, simply basking in the glory of being free to feel.

Rules no longer existed. He was the man who made her feel special, and she was the woman who made him feel human, a being worthy of love and affection.

She saw him sitting upon the grass, his face lined with pensiveness even while he smiled softly.

Christine said nothing, but rather simply sat next to him on the grass and stared at the reflection of the sun upon the river. The grass had grown longer and more unruly, it seemed, as the thick green blades came up to her wrists when she laid her palms flat upon the earth.

He did not speak, but rather smirked and patted his lap innocently.

“No.” She laughed and swatted his hand away as it moved to caress her thigh.

“Oh?” He went to lie back on the ground, his upper body supported on his elbows.

“We had our…”

“Yes?” He was grinning. He never truly smiled, only grinned. The muscles of his face would only allow him to express the tiniest bit of amusement.

“Our ‘go’ this morning.” She found she blushed less and less these days. What was the point or purpose? He had seen and touched every part of her and heard her beg and plead for more. Modesty was superfluous now, and neither seemed to mind.

The last time she had blushed down to her toes was when he came in to the water closet while she was bathing and simply lowered himself into the tub behind her the morning after they had first made love. She was used to bathing alone, as it seemed a rather private and personal thing.

She had entertained the thought of having him join her in such an intimate setting, but had never imagined that he would actually do it.

He reasoned that their antics of the night past had rendered them both in need of bathing, and what would be the sense in wasting water for two baths when one would suffice?

His logic was impeccable; therefore, she saw no choice but comply with his reasoning. She smiled wickedly to herself in memory of her equally as logical justification.

A lot of water had ended up on the smooth tile that morning.

She had again blushed when he informed her that he would be going into town to purchase some French letters.

The thought of buying those had made her nearly shudder with humiliation. Erik had no such fears, which made sense really, as he was not one to care much about the petty disapproval of others.

That trait had kept him alive.

And she was content with him making the dreaded, yet necessary purchase. He would receive little to no condemnation from the leering eyes of the Parisian selling the salacious purchase. She would have been immediately deemed a harlot and a disgrace to the angelic, virtuous, untouchable quality that was womanhood. Proper womanhood, that is.

Neither of them dared to discuss why the French letters were so important. Both knew that a pregnancy would…complicate things, to say the least. To carry another man’s child would not simply be the ultimate treason against her husband, it would bring too much reality into the blissful fantasy that they had created for themselves. Neither could allow that to happen. Neither was ready to conceive of the possibility of binding one to the other through a child. It would be remarkably unfair to the infant, and the final nail in coffin of the mother.

No, a baby would be a truly terrible thing indeed.

Besides, Erik felt his stomach coil into hard knots of jealously at the thought of his lady giving up her body to something that would drain her energy and cause her pain, physical and otherwise. She was his and his alone; he was not willing to share her attentions with an infant. He would work around her marriage in time, but for now, he wanted the world to contain no one else but him and her.

He had never fantasized about starting a family with his Christine, he only wanted her.

“You should take advantage of my energy now, I’m an old man.” He ran his hand down her arm, marveling at the delicacy of her wrist before linking his fingers through hers.

Christine thought for a moment. How old was Erik?

“You’re not old.” She had guessed him to be in his mid-thirties or so.

“I am, quite. Compared to you, I am as ancient as the pyramids.”

“Right. Since you are joking I assume you’re in a good mood this morning?”

“I’ll be in an even better one if you come sit.” She smacked his shoulder indignantly when he lewdly patted his pelvic region. A gentleman he was not. He dressed like one, spoke like one, and moved about with the elegance and grace of a privileged aristocrat. Yet the words that came out of his lips in the heat of passion made her burn with shocked excitement. His fine, velvety smooth voices beckoned her to do the most shameless things, yet his silky tone was often complimented by her breathless replies.

His smooth tone often turned gruff and barbaric when he was aroused, and his striking eyes would burn into hers. He was not afraid to ask for what he wanted and pursue it should he so choose to. His lack of social convention was frightening and arousing all at once. She admired him for his honesty and his unashamed acceptance of his passions and desires. She feared her own desire to give into the freedom of allowing her own restraints to pool at her feet like several of her fine dresses and succumb to the voice and body of the man who urged her to free her soul and trust him.

“Perhaps I shall take you up on your offer, should you tell me one thing…”

“Hmm.” He had begun to drag her onto his awaiting lap as though she were no more than a pliant, feather-light rag doll.

“Age, monsieur?”

“Old. Come here.”

Christine wished for a fan to dramatically swat him with.

“No, no, no!” She wriggled free from his grasp and smiled inwardly at the petulant scowl that crossed his unmasked cheek when he hesitantly released her. “Answer the question, and I may just take the lovely seat that you’re offering me so selflessly.”

“Will it be sufficient to say that in a few years time, it will be you lifting me up onto table tops?”

“If I were to do that, I would at least have the decency to have closed the blinds first.” Memories of the morning flashed behind her eyes.

“I told you, closing the blinds would have been useless, it would have blocked out the sunlight.”

“You hate sunlight.” His hand snaked around her to squeeze her hip and bring her closer.

“I do not.”

“Liar.”

“I much prefer the view in the light, then.”

“You’re an animal.” Their lips met softly, both smiling as they kissed each other gently. She rested her forehead against his and moved into his lap, her legs dangling over his thighs as he cradled her as though she were a child.

They often took on these roles when they would lie together. He would reach for her urgently and she would crave his dominance. When they were speaking to one another over supper or walking about outside there was no such dynamic. They spoke easily, often touching, but always discussing without overshadowing or dismissing the other. Never did his voice bellow out over hers, forcing her into silence or complacency. Never would she accept his rough, possessive nature without scowls and rebuttals of her own.

Yet when they were lying upon the soft sheets of his bed, she longed for that gruffness to overwhelm him. She burned at the thought of his rough hands and punishing kisses. She felt safe when he pressed his body into hers forcefully; she often wantonly begged for more animalistic abandon. It was exhilarating, freeing, and dangerous. And she trusted him. How could something shared in trust be wrong?

She briefly reminded herself to look up “nymphomaniac” in the dictionary. When she was much younger, she had heard a woman call La Sorelli that name behind her back. Confused by the term, she had looked it up and was shocked to learn that it referred to one so consumed by sexual desire that it rendered them insane.

Nothing but insanity could explain her insatiable need to be loved with passion and force. Yet, she was not concerned. Not yet, at least.

He kissed her neck softly while she ran her fingers through his hair. He nearly swooned when she stroked the soft strands with the pads of her fingertips. Christine knew that he treasured every loving touch and caress. He would sometimes still flinch slightly when she would grasp him suddenly, as though he was expecting her to take a mighty swing at his jaw.

“I’m thirty-five.”

“Hmm?” She had her head against her shoulder with her eyes closed. The sun was warm against her cheek.

“A tired, grumpy, temperamental, randy old man.”

“You are all of those things with the exception of ‘old’,” she replied.

He was silent, but it was a comfortable, companionate silence.

They only had two days left together, and the thought of her leaving him was becoming more and more difficult to bear. She did not want to, he knew this. Yet she would, even if he wanted him, she would return to her home and dashing Vicomte. He expected as much, but he could not stomach it. He dreaded becoming the wreck that he would surely become when she packed her ridiculously large bags into the taxi and headed back to the world of aristocratic privilege.

“Don’t go,” he whispered in her ear.

She shushed him gently and pulled him in for a long, languorous kiss.

He pulled back, but she grasped his face in her hands and kissed him into silence once more.

She had to leave soon, but she didn’t need to think about it just yet. She could pretend for one day more that he was never the murderous Opera Ghost, she was never the infamous object of his obsessive affections, and her young and brave husband whisked her away from him to live life in peace. Boring, uneventful, dishonest peace, but peace nonetheless.

She could pretend that it was normal to be eating breakfast, only to have strong hands lift her up onto the table and jerk her skirts up around her waist while kissing her until she became breathless and excited. She could imagine that every day she had to plead for her overzealous lover to draw the curtains, lest someone look into the kitchen window and see him thrusting against her while she tried to stifle her moans with her fist.

She could imagine that he was her husband, and that she was not leaving another man to believe in a lie. She could pretend that she and Erik were starting life anew, the tragedies of the past erased and forgotten.

“Please don’t go.” He grasped her so tightly she feared she would faint from lack of breath. His head was nestled in between her neck and shoulder and his breath was hot against her skin.

She could not get enough of him, of his body, his voice, and his soul.

When they held each other they spoke of endless promises that words could never do justice to.

“Let’s not talk about this now, Erik.”

“We will need to speak of it soon, Christine. You know this.”

“Yes,” she began, “but let’s have tonight and worry about tomorrow when the morning comes.”

The breeze blew her hair into her face and he swept it away gently.

“The morning will come very quickly.”

She sighed.

“It always does.”
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Black Angels