The man played with her breasts, fingered her nipples, bent to suck loudly on one as Erik was forced to watch. Her hips were moving; she was making soft huffing sounds from full parted lips; she shivered and shifted and moaned as the man sucked on her beautiful breast, leaving it red and moist from his lips.
Erik could see every texture of her ruched-up areola under the thick fingers of the man who manipulated it… the jutting red point, the gentle pink wrinkles. It was as if it filled his vision; then the close view of the man's lips, closing over the nipple. Greedy, they sucked, pulling it into the circle as the white flesh around it trembled and shook.
She cried out when the man moved, his hand fingering the black thatch between her legs. Erik saw it then, the red, swollen sex that he would die for… the slick, warm velvet of Christine… She bumped and moved and cried and Erik struggled again to pull himself loose and go to her… The man's head bent there; Erik could see only the back of it as it moved, as he licked and sucked and tasted her.
She thrashed against the manacles that held her spread-eagled, her head rolling from side to side, her breasts, now free from questing fingers, bouncing and jiggling. She cried out, cried and struggled, begging… and the man pulled away.
He turned, and Erik saw the familiar face of his brother, glistening with Christine. His lips, full and red, dripped with her and he smiled. Mocking. Taunting.
"Don't frighten the girls, Erik. They cannot stand your touch. Hear them scream?"
She spreads her legs when you force her. She'll not spread 'em for your cock.
"But she'll take mine," his brother said to Erik. "She'll take mine."
He turned back to Christine, suddenly naked with her, and somehow her arms were around him as he drove into her. Then Erik could see the cock as though he were next to it, working in and out of her swollen sex, in and out, in and out, the rhythm pulsing within him, his own need building in agony.
Then he saw them from a distance again, writhing, twined, against the wall, Christine's arms around him, her face tilted up, her eyes closed in deep pleasure. She cried out, cried her release, scoring her nails down the man's back, and Erik felt her shudders as though it were he buried inside her…
And he woke.
Panting, sweating, naked, and tangled. His cock screaming with pain, jutting toward the ceiling. His heart racing, his hands clenched.
His unmasked face wet with tears.
Christine.
"Oh, Christine," he cried softly, bringing his hands to his face. One side, smooth but for the stubble that edged his jaw… the other, rough and textured as the bark of a tree.
How he loved her.
He wanted her, yes, but he loved her.
He had grown to love her. Watching her, seeing the same loneliness in her face that would be etched in his own… if he had the courage to look at it.
Listening to her music—music that he pulled forth from her, music that they created together.
But she could never love him, deformed and defective as he was. He dared not let her see him, barely allowed her to touch him, though his body craved it. Trembled for it.
Oh, he had hope, buried so deeply inside him that he rarely let it out. Perhaps someday she would love him for himself, in spite of his face. In spite of his past.
From that first morning he'd watched her sing alone on the stage, months ago, Erik had been fascinated. Who knew why Christine should have touched him so, that first day? But she had.
After that, he'd watched her. Lurked. Loitered. Saw that she was not like the other girls—not like many of them, anyway.
There was a purity about her, and a shy goodness. A tolerance. She was kind to the door closer, the lowest of low on the hierarchy of the opera personnel, who had the club foot. Instead of ignoring the half-blind man who worked in the cellars below the stage, she greeted him. And he learned to recognize her voice.
She shared her meager meal of Red Egg and garlic sausage with one of the younger, smaller dancers, who obviously was in need of extra nourishment. She even gave one of her hair ribbons—a lovely scarlet one—to an ouvreuse for her daughter's new baby.
Perhaps that was part of the reason he'd fallen in love with her. Certainly, if it were just for her beauty and her singing voice, there were others who'd passed their way through the Opera House. Carlotta had once even been less jaded, more innocent. Beautiful.
But neither she—nor anyone else had never touched Erik's heart and soul the way Christine Daaé had. Lonely, sad, magnificent Christine.
And now… anger churned inside him. She was dining and associating with Raoul de Chagny and his brother, the comte.
Erik had not known whom she had left with last night after their interlude on the stage until he'd listened in on the foyer de la danse, when Raoul de Chagny had swept in and fairly carried her off. Until that moment, Erik had been merely indulgent, watching from his hidden knot high in the wall, as his protege shyly accepted the attentions of her admirers.
It was nothing more than he'd expected—of course one as gifted and beautiful, but still with that underlying innocence, would attract the attention of the abonnés. And Christine had given him no cause to feel any differently, for she was polite, and reserved, but seemed to single none of the men out. They were all the same to her.
Until Raoul de Chagny.
Her eyes had lit up and sparkled, and she swooned up to her feet upon his presence. And immediately took his imperious arm.
And then he'd swept her away, out of the theater, away from Erik, away from the Opera Ghost's stronghold.
Leaving Erik alone, with the darkness of his destiny and the taunts of his imagination.
Chapter Six
With the encouragement of the two managers, and her many supporters, Carlotta defied the Opera Ghost's warning, gliding onto the stage that night in full costume and regalia. She had determined that she would sing, and sing she would.
Feathers quivering from her ornate, glittering headdress, the train of her silk gown and yards of ruffles and gathers spilling onto the floorboards, the prima donna took her position in the exact front center of the auditorium as the beaming Moncharmin and Richard looked on from their places in Box Five.
"The ghost is late," chuckled Firmin Richard to his partner. "The performance has begun and he has not arrived to claim his seat."
"I am glad we did not let this box out tonight; I am looking forward to hearing La Carlotta's performance. She is not afraid of the ridiculous jokester ghost."
"I refuse to keep this box unavailable to our patrons any longer. Opera Ghost, indeed."
"And whoever it is… he shall not find any salary forthcoming from us," Moncharmin replied, laughing to himself. "We can put those twenty-four thousand francs to much better use."
The second act passed without incident, and during the intermission, the two managers left their box in order to greet La Carlotta backstage.
"You have never sung better, madame," Firmin Richard told her, bowing over her hand. "I am so pleased you did not disappoint your many supporters and comply with the threatening letter you received."
"Ridiculo. The Opera Ghost is nothing but a story made up by Christine Daaé's friends, trying to frighten me. Me, La Carlotta!" She humphed and preened, and the managers, well satisfied with the result of their foiling whatever plot had been hatched, returned to their box for the third act.
When they reentered Box Five, however, they noticed almost immediately that a box of candy had been placed on the railing.
"Where in heaven has this come from?" asked Moncharmin, pointing to the box.
"And these." Richard produced a pair of opera glasses that had not been there when they had left. "Call the ouvreuse and find out who has been here since we left. Someone must have put them here as a joke."
But when they questioned the ushers, they all indicated that no one had come along the staircase leading to the box. No one at all.
Richard and Moncharmin looked at each other uneasily, but settled into their seats as the curtain rose for the third act of Faust. It was only an instant later that a strange draft, eerie and unhealthy, began to seep through the box. Moncharmin fancied he could hear someone breathing, just behind him. The managers looked at each other, but remained silent, suddenly very attentive to what was happening onstage.