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The night was bitterly cold, the promise of snow permeating the air, as Christine Daae sat atop the horse she had stolen from the stables of the de Chagny estate. The gathering wind blowing in powerful gusts stung her eyes, numbing her nose and chin, blowing her elegant coiffure into a state of disarray. But she didn’t care. Paying no mind to the stinging air cutting through to her bones, or the delicate flakes beginning to fall from the sky that began to collect on the dirt road beneath her, Christine had only one thought on her mind.
Run.
Christine could no longer see the stately manor in the distance as she turned to look over her shoulder, the towering spires and yellow lights having disappeared in the wintry haze. A sense of relief, of gratitude, swept over her as a tear escaped the corner of her eye and quickly turned to ice as it streamed down her freezing cheek. It was done.
When a pained shriek broke through the whistling of the wind, Christine gasped in alarm, the frigid air burning her lungs, and her steed reared up on his hind legs before landing feebly on his front hooves. Christine dismounted, shielding herself from the oncoming storm as she lifted each leg, a calming hand stroking his neck, and saw that he had thrown a shoe.
Trying not to panic or lose her composure, Christine looked around her for shelter or aid. Her spirits dampened as she saw not even a copse of barren trees where they might at least take rest, only open fields and ominous gray clouds blanketing the sky. Riding the horse was out of the question, for it would cause him too much pain. A fleeting sense of brutal practicality suggested that she leave the horse and make for the nearest cover on foot. Her steed would only slow her down. But as quickly as the thought had come, she dismissed it with disgust. He had been crucial in executing her escape, and she would not abandon him now.
Twisting the reins in her hands, she gently guided the horse as he hobbled and limped down the road. With each step, the tempest seemed to grow in force and severity until Christine could scarcely see in front of her, the snow falling sideways as the gales relentlessly beat against them.
It was nearly an hour before Christine at last came upon what appeared to be a small cottage, sitting alone a short distance from the road, with glowing light streaming from the windows. She longed to press her icy hands against the panes, certain the radiating heat from within would relieve the stiffening of her frozen fingers.
A small barn sat a stone’s throw from the cottage, and while it was not in her nature to be so presumptuous, she could not leave her injured horse to freeze to death in the storm. Guiding him inside, the barn offered decent protection, with bales of hay piled high, loose straw covering the floor. Christine was surprised to see there was already an occupant in one of the stalls, a striking white horse munching on a barrel of oats.
Leading her horse to the adjacent stall, Christine took his snout in her hands, gently scratching the soft space between his eyes, and promised to return as soon as she could. Lifting a handful of hay to his velvety lips, he seemed far more content and relaxed, settling in peacefully to the welcome reprieve.
Pulling her hood back over her head, Christine darted out of the barn and sprinted up to the front door of the cottage. Raising her fist, she rapped on the door with her knuckles. It only took a few moments before she could hear shuffling on the other side, the unlatching of locks, when the door finally opened.
--
A fire was crackling in the hearth as Erik licked his thumb and turned the page of his book. Sitting comfortably in the leather armchair before the grate, his chosen reading resting on his knee, his long legs crossed languidly, Erik passed yet another Christmas Eve in total solitude and silence.
He was accustomed to it. Nearly six years had passed since he had moved into the cottage and not once had he received an invitation or well wishes from the townspeople in the village just down the road. They knew he lived alone, they knew he had no family. And yet, they were content to act as though he did not exist during this time of alleged goodwill and generosity. It was hardly a mystery as to why, but their reasons hardly engendered any positive feelings on his part.
And so, without so much as a candle in the window or a wreath on the door, Erik made no effort to celebrate the holiday. Perfectly content to spend the evening alone, sipping a steaming cup of mulled wine and humming an idle tune as he gazed into the flames, tongues of yellow and orange licking the smoldering wood. The weather that night was fierce and unforgiving, and so he settled in for a peaceful, undisturbed night.
Until he heard a knock at his door. It was an ungodly time to be out, especially so far removed as he was from any other houses or buildings, that curiosity got the better of him. He put his book down, folding the corner of the page to mark his place and picked up the black mask that sat on the small table beside him. Placing it upon his face, securing it with an almost invisible string behind his head, Erik got up and made for the front door.
He was in no way prepared for the sight that greeted him on the other side.
It was a woman, and perhaps the sorriest looking woman he had ever seen. Clad in a meager gray wool gown, a thick cape draped over her shoulders, the bottom of her skirts dark and drenched, she was one of the most beautiful people Erik had ever laid eyes on. Her hair was loose, wild and windblown, small white flakes clinging to the chestnut curls. Her dark eyes were wide and pleading, the tip of her nose and the apples of her cheeks ruddy and chapped from the harsh winds.
“I am so sorry to disturb you, Monsieur,” the woman said, teeth chattering, unable to stop the shivers from racking her small frame, “My name is Christine Daae. I was traveling along the road when my horse threw a shoe. I hope you don’t mind, but I put him in the barn.”
Erik could only stare at her, speechless and shocked. He watched her face closely, waiting for the inevitable reaction - revulsion - at the sight of him in his mask, covering more than half his face, leaving only his lips, chin, and jaw exposed. Much to his surprise, her eyes gave nothing away. Her expression was only beseeching, imploring.
“Would you be so kind as to let me wait out the storm? I would be so grateful. I can even stay in the barn, if you’d prefer,” Christine offered. She had been surprised to see who occupied such a cozy and quaint cottage, and she had certainly not been expecting a man such as he. Tall and lanky, with jet black hair swept back with a few loose tendrils falling into his face, and golden eyes that were practically glowing - a feature accentuated by the black mask that concealed most of his face. Given her circumstances, she wasn’t in a place to be particular about who would be willing to offer her shelter, and for all the mysteriousness that his mask implied, he certainly didn’t seem dangerous.
“Are you certain you wish to stay here?” Erik asked. It was all he could think to say, still stunned by her presence. Surely she wouldn’t wish to seek refuge in his home, the remote cottage of a masked man on a stormy night. On Christmas Eve.
Christine’s face fell, and she felt a heavy rock of disappointment and despair form in the pit of her stomach. His inquiry was cryptic, perhaps intentional so as to drive her away, and she began to consider the possibility she might have to spend the night out in the bitter storm.
Unsure of how she should answer, she meekly replied, “Are you saying no?”
Erik cursed his confounded clumsiness. It could not be farther from it!
Get her inside, you fool! Don’t leave her standing there!
“No, not at all!” he said, stepping back to let her pass through the doorway, welcoming her into his modest and humble home, “Please come in. My name is Erik. Erik Leroux.”
“I’m sorry to bother you on Christmas Eve,” Christine apologized as Erik helped her remove her cloak, the heat radiating from the fire almost painful against her frozen skin as it slowly thawed her blood.
“It is no matter,” Erik replied, ushering her towards the blazing hearth, “I do not celebrate the holiday, so you are not disturbing me. Come, warm yourself. I will fetch you a cup of vin chaud.”
Placing a pillow on the ground for Christine to sit on, he hurried off the kitchen. Christine looked around the cottage, a quaint and cozy abode. Plush Turkish rugs covered the wood floors, the walls covered with sketches and art, pinned up with nails, layered over each other in a mosaic of charcoal and paper.
Erik returned with a cup and placed it carefully in her hands as he seated himself next to her on the floor. Christine cradled the bone china delicately in her fingertips, the smell alone melting the chill that still lingered in her body, and took a sip, sighing contentedly. It was a sound that sent shivers down Erik’s spine and he reached for his own cup.
“If it isn’t too impertinent a question, why were you out in a storm like this?” Erik asked, watching Christine closely as the biting red color staining her cheeks faded to a rosy pink, much to his relief.
A strange, secret smile crossed her face and she looked at him from the corner of her eyes with a kind of bashfulness that made Erik’s heart thump loudly in his chest.
“I really wasn’t planning on it,” Christine admitted, acknowledging her lack of forethought, “But it became imperative that I travel tonight.”
“Where were you trying to go that was so important? There isn’t much out here, save a few farms and the village down the road.”
Christine hesitated, looking down into her half empty cup. She didn’t know how to respond, if she even wanted to. It wasn’t so much a matter of needing to go somewhere, as it was to get away from something. And as much as she wanted to, Christine didn’t feel entirely ready to admit it just yet.
“It’s a little complicated,” she replied after a few moments, her eyes distant, worry creasing her brow.
“Please, forget I asked,” Erik said hurriedly, the distress on Christine’s face apparent, “You owe me no explanations. I am just happy I was able to help.”
A companionable silence settled over them, each enjoying their spiced wine, as Erik placed another log on the roaring fire.
“Why don’t you celebrate Christmas, Erik?” Christine inquired cautiously, not sure if her question was too intrusive.
“Because I am alone,” Erik replied plainly, as if such an answer would not make a tender heart ache with sadness, “Christmas is a holiday of togetherness, as I understand. Since I spent Christmas each year in solitude, it hardly seems worth observing.”
“You’re not alone tonight,” Christine said, her voice low and demure. Chills erupted across Erik’s skin as she gazed upon him, her dark eyes glittering in the light of the fire, nearly undone by the kindness and sweetness he saw in them.
“If nothing else,” Christine continued, a playful smile upon her face, “We can keep ourselves busy until the storm passes.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” Erik asked dubiously, entirely unfamiliar with what Christmas traditions could be upheld in this house that contained no sign that it was even Christmastime.
“Well,” Christine paused in thought, biting her plump lower lip, a forbidden feeling rippling through his body at the sight, “We could cut out paper snowflakes and hang them in the window.”
Erik skeptically eyed the windows above them, his brow arching in befuddlement.
“But why would you do that if it is already snowing?” he asked innocently, and Christine couldn’t contain the laugh that bubbled up. His unexpected naivety was utterly endearing.
“Well, it’s less about putting them on display and more about the artistry of it,” she explained, and Erik nodded his head, beginning to comprehend the purpose of such an activity. If there was anything Erik appreciated, it was the finesse that went into a craft.
Conceding to her suggestion, Erik went to his music room and collected a pile of blank paper and two sets of shears. Christine smiled cheerfully upon his return, seeing the supplies in his hands. Once he was seated, the room went silent again, with only the sounds of folding papers and the snipping of scissors as they both focused intently on their snowflakes. After several minutes, Erik unfolded his paper and presented it to Christine.
Her mouth dropped open, and for a moment, Erik feared he had done something wrong. He was ready to crumple it in his fist when Christine exclaimed, “Erik! That’s amazing! It’s perfect. It’s so intricate. How did you do that?”
Erik held it up again and reevaluated his handiwork, Christine’s praise in mind, and actually felt pleased with his creation. If she thought it was exceptional, he was certainly not going to argue.
Christine unfolded her snowflake and quickly held it against her chest, leaning forward as she laughed from deep in her belly. Erik could not help the smile that bloomed across his face at the sound.
“Oh, I cannot show you this,” Christine said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, “Not after seeing yours. It is too embarrassing.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Erik cajoled, holding out his hand so she might offer him the paper.
“Don’t make fun,” Christine said, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she handed it to him, “I really did do my best.”
Erik slowly unfolded the snowflake and he had to bite his tongue to conceal his amused smile at the sight. She was not entirely wrong. With uneven gaps, thick lines, and paper hanging loosely from where she had cut too far, Erik couldn’t deny it was a bit amateur.
“It . . . has its charms.”
“I heard the hesitation, Erik,” she moaned miserably, snatching the snowflake back, “You can’t fool me. It’s dreadful.”
“Maybe we can hang it in a back window,” Erik offered, and the glorious sound of Christine’s joyous laughter once again filled the room.
“That is very gracious of you,” she replied sarcastically, and folded up the paper, tucking it under the pillow beneath her.
“What else does one do on Christmas Eve?” Erik asked, diverting their attention away from the previous activity.
Christine’s eyes scanned the room before landing on a bowl of fruit sitting on the small, round dining table nestled in the corner.
“Oh! Perfect!” she exclaimed as she jumped up, scurrying towards the table and grabbing two apples, before plopping herself back down next to him. Reaching for the fire poker, Christine skewered the two apples on the end and lifted the fruit to the flame.
“And what is this?”
“Have you ever had a toasted apple?” Christine asked, trying not to sound too shocked, not wanting Erik to think she found him pitiful. It was certainly not that. If anything, she found him alluring and sweet, awkward but endlessly generous.
“I am afraid I have not.”
As the apple skins began to crisp and crack, Christine pulled them from the fire, letting them cool. She caught a glimpse of Erik from the corner of her eye, and she felt a pleasant feeling stir in her stomach as she realized he was looking at her too. He was devastatingly handsome in his own way, his movements elegant and his voice rich and deep. His hands were large with long fluid fingers, thin but agile. The presence of his mask seemed to pale in comparison to all that Christine had seen in her peculiar rescuer.
Erik was surprised in his own way, wondering when - inevitably - she would ask why he wears a mask and he would have to explain his humiliating circumstances, his life as little more than a pariah. But the question never came. She looked at him with amusement, with joy, with interest - but there was no morbid curiosity he could detect, nothing tense and unspoken between them. It was nearly impossible to consider but perhaps - he could only pray - Christine actually didn’t care.
“Here,” she said, offering him an apple, “It’ll be a little hot, but peel off the skin and just eat the flesh of the fruit. It’s a wonderful flavor.”
Erik followed her instructions and was delighted by the sweet and succulent flavors on his tongue as he bit into the tender apple. He took another bite, the juices dripping down his chin, moaning in satisfaction as he nodded his head in approval
Christine watched him as he devoured the apple, feeling her heart jump to her throat as he wiped away the sweet liquid from his mouth, the small sounds escaping his throat stirring that same pleasant feeling, sending a fluttering warmth through her veins. She bit into her apple, but it was not nearly as enjoyable as watching Erik eat his.
“That is genius,” Erik said, when all that remained was the core, “I had never thought to do that, but that is truly delicious.”
“I’m so happy you liked it,” Christine replied, “I haven’t had one in a long time.”
The syrupy liquid of the apple began seeping out onto her hands, and Erik thought he might die right there as she began to lick each of her fingers, sucking the sticky fluid off her skin. He offered her his handkerchief, lest he succumb to something ungentlemanly.
“So, what is it you do, Erik?” she asked, cleaning her hands.
“I do some work for the local village, just simple things like clock repair or rebinding books. I also teach music--”
“Really?” Christine interrupted, her eyes lighting up, “You’re a musician?”
Erik nodded.
“That’s wonderful! We should sing some Christmas carols,” Christine said excitedly, picking herself up from the floor. Reaching out to Erik, he tried to still the shaking in his fingers as he gripped her hand and she helped lift him from the ground.
“Follow me.”
Erik guided Christine to his music room, filled with instruments from cellos to clarinets, a French horn in the corner and a small piano in the center. The surfaces were littered with sheet music and librettos, and Christine felt immediately at home.
On top of the piano sat a violin. Erik walked over and picked up the instrument, settling it under his chin.
“You play?”
Erik paused, lifting his gaze to Christine. Her voice had changed, quite suddenly, sullen and wistful. Her expression was soft as she gazed at the violin in his hands, but with unmistakable grief.
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh no, it’s just . . . my father played violin, too,” she explained, “Before he died.”
“I can play something else, if you prefer,” Erik said, his voice tight with concern, not willing to inflict any pain on her.
“Oh, please do,” Christine implored, “I haven’t heard the sound of a violin in a long time. I would love to hear you play now.”
“Will you sing with me, Christine?” Erik asked, bringing the violin back up to his chin, a gentle smile on his face.
“I would love to.”
Bringing his bow to the strings, the resonant sound filled the room as he played the opening notes, and Christine closed her eyes.
Erik nearly fumbled the bow, almost faltering the notes, as the sound of Christine’s voice joined in his festive song.
Adeste Fideles laeti triumphantes,
Veníte, veníte in Bethlehem.
Natum vidéte, Regem Angelorum:
He had never heard such an angelic voice in all his life. It was resplendent. It was exquisite. Round and bright, nimble and sonorous, she was a near flawless soprano. Struck with awe, practically overwhelmed by beauty he was blessed enough to hear, he could not help but join her, their combined voices a more glorious sound than he had ever conceived.
Veníte adoremus,
Veníte adoremus
Veníte adoremus Dóminum
As the chorus closed, Erik stopped and stared at Christine in astonishment.
“How do you know how to sing like that?” Erik asked breathlessly, closing the short distance between them in just a single stride, “That is no common voice. You have a gift, Christine. If honed and trained properly, your voice could attain unparalleled perfection. Such talent. Such potential.”
Christine smiled modestly, and thanked him for his kind words, but he could see conflict behind her eyes.
“I’m sorry if I said something . . .”
“No, not at all!” Christine assured him, “Erik, may I confide in you? I have been holding all of this in for so long now that I think I might burst if I do not speak it aloud.”
“Anything you tell me will be kept in the strictest confidence,” Erik promised earnestly, looking expectantly into her eyes.
“The truth is,” she began, twisting her fingers in the folds of her skirt, “I was a singer at the Palais Garnier, in the chorus. I had been taking voice lessons and when our lead soprano caught an illness that robbed her of her voice for two weeks, I filled the role for a few nights. It just so happened that a very old friend of mine - the new patron of the opera - was there that night. We had met before when we were children, and he must’ve felt very nostalgic because he began to do everything in his power to win me over, wooing me with flowers and elegant dinners and expensive dresses. Eventually, I gave in. I allowed him to court me. But it was only then that I learned that he had no intention of letting me perform at the opera once we were engaged. I couldn’t bear the thought. I have always been surrounded by music.”
She began to relax as Erik listened quietly and attentively to her story, nodding his head, his gaze fixed on her with gentle and compassionate eyes.
“I learned earlier this evening that Raoul intended to propose to me tonight, with all his family present, and I just couldn’t do it. I had to leave. It might’ve been a cowardly thing to do, but I had to flee. I couldn’t be caught in a world without music.”
“Do you mean Raoul de Chagny?” Erik asked. Christine’s face paled as the blood drained from her cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to offend, i-if you have some relationship with them,” Christine quickly apologized.
“No, I am hardly aware of them. You do not need to fret,” Erik replied, his voice calm and soothing, “I suppose it makes sense that you’d find yourself out here if that is where you were running from. Please continue.”
“Well, now that I've accomplished the first part of the plan, I need to decide where to go from here. I suppose I could return to the opera house, or perhaps to my old guardian in the city . . .”
Erik reached out a hand and dared to place it on her shoulder. She did not flinch or recoil, but simply lifted her eyes to meet his gaze.
“There will be time enough to address that. But you need not trouble yourself with those questions tonight. You’ve been through an ordeal, and I am happy to offer you accommodation for the night, if you wish,” Erik said, trying to hide the hopefulness in his voice.
“I couldn’t,” Christine objected, “I have intruded upon you enough.”
“It is no intrusion,” Erik dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, “Besides, I would not feel right sending a woman out into a storm in the middle of the night. I will see to the horses, and you can take my bed for the night. There are nightshirts in the bottom left drawer of the armoire; please change if it makes you comfortable. I have spent many nights in my music room, so do not think you are displacing me.”
“Thank you, Erik,” Christine said, her voice hushed and breathless as she was overcome with gratitude.
Erik escorted Christine to his bedroom, closing the door behind him as he rushed out to the barn. Tending to Cesar and the brown stallion in the stall beside him, Erik’s mind could hardly believe how his Christmas Eve had taken such an unexpected turn. Christine - oh, his mind was already consumed with her - a strange, beautiful, extraordinary woman who had stumbled across his doorstep. It had to be fate, some kind of destiny that brought her to him that night. A voice in the back of his mind, growing louder with each passing hour, had only one thing to say:
Please, Christine. Don’t leave.
Returning indoors, shaking the snow from his boots and his coat before hanging them up on a peg, Christine returned to the main room in a nightshirt and the thick emerald dressing gown that had been hanging in the armoire.
“I can’t thank you enough, Erik, for everything,” Christine said, stepping closer to him in her socked feet, “How can I ever repay you?”
Her face was all warmth and tenderness and Erik longed to hold her in his arms, to protect her, to give her a life of music, or anything she wanted.
“I have one question, Christine,” Erik spoke suddenly, not certain he was entirely prepared to hear the answer, “Why haven’t you asked? About my mask? Everyone does.”
She looked off thoughtfully for a moment, as if the question hadn’t already occurred to her, and gave her answer.
“You were immediately kind and accommodating to me, a total stranger. You’ve been generous and caring, welcoming me into your home without question. I suppose I felt there was no reason to ask. I saw from the very beginning what kind of person you are, and if that person wears a mask, then that is just a part of that person.”
“Aren’t you even a little curious?” Erik asked, disbelieving that she could be so indifferent to it.
“I mean, I’m a little curious, yes” she admitted, “But it just didn’t seem that important.”
Erik wanted to laugh. He had never imagined a conversation about his mask and hidden affliction going quite this way, and it was almost difficult to comprehend, too ludicrous to be reality.
“It is my turn to confide you, Christine. I wear this mask to hide my face. I am . . . deformed. I was born with a twisted face. What is underneath,” he gestured to his face, “frightens most people. That is why I live here, and not in town. My mask unnerves them and my face horrifies them. So they send their children for music lessons and bring me their broken clocks, but I barely exist beyond that.”
Christine felt her heart ache at his confession, feeling compelled to take him in her arms and comfort him for all the cruelty he must’ve endured. She could only summon the courage to lift her arm and press her palm on his chest above his heart. A thrill ran through them both as Erik brought his hand up to cover hers.
She looked up at him meaningfully, a fierceness in her eyes that made Erik weak.
“I know we have only just met, but there is nothing under your mask that could change the way I think and feel about you. I can’t recall the last time I was treated with such kindness, the last time I experienced such comfort and happiness with someone else. That is who you are to me, Erik. No deformity could change that.”
With a boldness that shocked them both, Christine lifted herself up on her toes and pressed a chaste, yet lingering kiss to his lips. It was all sweetness and tenderness, and Erik could only stand, unmoving, as she pulled away, casting her eyes to the floor sheepishly.
“I’m sorry,” she said so quietly he almost couldn’t hear, “Good night, Erik.”
She had barely turned away when Erik regained control over his limbs, grasping her arm and pulling her back to him, their lips meeting in a bruising kiss.
Christine felt lightheaded as she felt Erik’s lips moving hungrily, desperately against hers, his arms moving around her waist, pressing her body firmly against his. Her mouth opened beneath his, tracing the seam of his lips with her tongue, and Erik groaned, grasping her tighter. He responded in kind, savoring her taste, the flavor apples and spices lingering on her tongue as he pulled it between lips.
Gripping his arms tightly, Christine allowed herself to get lost in Erik’s kiss. It was ardent and frantic and needful, and she relished the clumsy urgency with which he slid his tongue against hers, devouring her pouting lips, the press of his hands against her all at once possessive and yet reverent. She had never been kissed like this, so loving and wanting, and she decided she never wanted another’s kiss, not if she could have this.
Gasping for air, Erik pulled away, dropping his hands as he brought his trembling fingers to his lips.
“I am sorry, Christine, I don’t know . . . That was entirely inappropriate of me. Please forgive me for my brazenness.”
Christine wrapped her arms around him, placing her head on chest as the sound of his heartbeat filled her head. Slowly, his arms closed around her and she felt the hard plane of his mask rest against the top of her head.
“Don’t be sorry,” she said with a contented sigh, melting against his body as she clung to him, “I’m not.”
“If you are not, how could I ever be?” Erik replied, his voice quavering at the woman who did not merely tolerate his embrace, but craved it.
Neither had the courage to propose they share his bed, though the thought had crossed both their minds to varying degrees of carnality. As much as his body sang for her, and as much as she desired his touch, they restrained themselves. The night was fraught, despite their good company, and both needed rest.
With a tender kiss on her forehead, Erik urged her towards his room, wishing her a good night’s rest, and to let him know if she needs anything. Even if he is asleep, she should not be afraid to wake him. Placing one last kiss upon her cheek, they said good night and Christine disappeared into his room.
Erik swiftly made his way to his music room, nearly slamming the door behind him as he began to pace rapidly back and forth, running his fingers through his air at the sheer impossibility of what had transpired that night. She could not know that her lips upon his were the first to ever grace him with such a gesture of affection.
She had kissed him! She did not demand to see what was beneath his mask, nor did she let his appearance change her perception of him. Fate was a cruel mistress if she had flung them together only to be torn apart, and Erik knew that whatever it took, he could not lose her.
Christine had no better luck finding sleep, tossing and turning on the soft mattress and downy pillows that smelled of Erik, musky and smoky, mingling with the clean scent of soap and the herbal aromas of lavender and rosemary. It was hardly sufficient to satisfy her when the source of such a heady scent was only a few rooms down the hall, alive and affectionate.
This would not do.
Pulling the dressing gown over her shoulders, Christine quietly exited the bedroom and tiptoed down the hall until she was at the door of his music room. She couldn’t hear anything on the other side as she pressed her ear to the wood, and so she turned the brass handle slowly and stepped inside.
She was shocked to see Erik already standing at attention, eyes wide behind his black mask as he watched her enter.
“Is there something you need, Christine?” Erik asked, quickly closing the distance between them, “Are you alright? Are you warm enough?
Christine looked at him for a long moment, and Erik’s stomach twisted with anxiety.
“No,” she replied, her eyes darkening as she met his gaze, lustful and seductive, “No, Erik, I’m not.”
Before he could think twice, desire surging through his veins, Erik reached for Christine, cradling her face in his hands, and brought her lips to his. She moaned happily against his mouth, nipping his thin lower lip between her teeth, her soft chest heaving against his.
“Christine,” Erik said raggedly, dropping gentle, lingering kisses across her cheeks and along her jaw, “Is there anything you would like as a gift for Christmas?”
Smiling sinfully, Christine snaked her arms around his neck, “I can think of one thing.”
“Then by all means, you shall have it,” he purred in her ear, his voice rumbling low in his chest.
--
Breathless, blood running hot under their skin, hearts pounding in their chests, Christine laid in Erik’s arms, sated and sore, as the haze of their passionate joining began to clear from their minds. As much as she tried to resist, Christine’s eyelids became heavy before finally falling closed, her head resting on Erik’s bare chest as she drifted into sleep.
His heart was so full, Erik was sure it would burst, having never known such bliss.
Before his own drowsiness claimed him, Erik managed to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head as he whispered words he never thought he would speak.
“Merry Christmas, my love. Merry Christmas, my sweet, sweet Christine.”