"Christine, please," Erik murmured in the voice of a man dying and out of time.
She slid up his body, pressing flush against him, still completely clothed. She smiled, kissed his neck, sucked for a moment as she flipped up her skirts, and, opening her legs, straddled one of his thighs. The pressure of his leg eased the throbbing of her pip for a moment; she was dripping and she eased her way up and then down, holding on to his wide, square shoulders for support and leverage as her pleasure built.
Then the roar in her ears, the heat between her legs, became too much. "Erik… help me," she said, her own voice thin and needy. "I want you inside me."
"Hold on to me," he managed. His eyes were dark, black; his face was twisted on both sides—one by nature, one with desire. "Hold… on."
Christine used his shoulders to lift herself so she could straddle his waist. "My love," she gasped as his dripping cock brushed wetly against the inside of her thigh, beneath the mass of skirts and crinolines. He could do nothing to hold her, nothing to help as she looped an arm around his neck, levered her feet against the wall behind his hips, and scooped her skirts away.
The desperate grunts and sighs, the moisture of slick skin, the driving need, kept her frantically moving and shifting until at last… they found the place and she slid forward, filled.
A sigh that was half-sob, half-moan came from the back of her throat. Tears stung her eyes. Erik's deep, rasping breaths huffed against her neck.
Carefully, she positioned her feet flat against the wall, fingers clamped on his shoulders, and she moved, flexing her knees, feeling the long slide in and out, up and down… as the beauty built, there in that dark, angry dungeon. Her pip swelled, her stark, hard nipples jounced gently against her chemise, while the telltale tingle in her belly built, ready to shoot through her body.
She worked, her muscles trembling; he moved as much as he could to meet her, the slick suck of moisture between them the only sound beyond their channeled breathing. Faster she moved; more urgently he tilted back and forth, back and forth. Her fingers slipped and she almost lost her grip, but she held on as the desperate rhythm built unbearably, then, finally, blossomed into uncontrollable shudders throughout her limbs.
He surged against her then too… metal clanking, shoulders bulging with effort, and a long, husky breath ending in a moan.
"Dieu, Dieu" she breathed after a moment of stillness, of satiation. She slipped away, allowing her legs to fall, her fingers still gripping his sweaty shoulders.
"Christine…" he whispered, trembling against her, trying again to bury his face against her. "Ah, Christine."
She kissed him again, a slumberous moment of lips and tongue, heat and tenderness. "I must go," she said, smoothing her hands over his chest again. She would never tire of feeling that sleek plane, the power and heat of it. She kissed him beneath the hollow of his throat, bumping her nose into its little curve.
"I love you Christine," he said, the glazed look of lust, the dullness of pain, gone from his eyes, replaced by clarity. "Do not endanger yourself to save me. Promise me. Allow me at least that comfort."
She looked at him, purposely chose to stroke the gnarled side of his face. "I promise to take care. I love you."
And she slipped away before love won out and drew her back to his side.
Still breathing heavily, still tingling, Christine came around the corner where she'd left Madame.
"Such a lovely display, my dear," said Philippe, stepping from the shadows. "You are much more accommodating to him than you are to Raoul or myself. I look forward to remedying that situation in the very near future."
Christine couldn't move at first; she couldn't speak. Her eyes darted around as the comte's hand whipped out to grab her arm, and she saw the huddled form on the ground. A long, heavy chain led from the wall to under the bundle, where her arms might have been. "Madame!" Her automatic surge toward the still figure was halted as Philippe jerked her back.
"She tried to stop me… The voyeuristic bitch attempted to stop me," Philippe said easily, tugging Christine after him, back toward the alcove where Erik was imprisoned.
"No!" she cried, trying to pull away, seeing the glint in his eyes. "Let me—"
His other hand moved, flew through the air, and cracked against the side of her face, leaving her ears ringing and her cheek throbbing. "I'm beginning to believe that I should have left you to my brother from the beginning, but it is too late for me, Christine Daaé. You have become my obsession and I'll have you. There's nothing to stop me now."
Erik was looking at them, horror plastered over his face, as they came back around the corner. Philippe thrust Christine ahead of him while his heavy fingers grasped her arm.
"Raoul will kill you if you touch me," Christine said desperately, blinking back tears from the pain of his blow. "He intends to marry me; he'll not let you touch me."
Philippe chuckled, shoved Christine forward so they were standing directly in front of Erik. "Raoul is on his way to Paris. He believes that you and this monster have run off together… and he is hell-bent on stopping you. I tried to prevent him, tried to tell him it was a folly. But he would not listen." There was false pity in his voice.
Christines stomach suddenly felt like lead. Her lips formed the syllable of negation, but she could not speak it. She hadn't the breath, nor the energy.
Philippe had no such handicap. "So, my dear brother, you see that I told you a little white lie—just as I told our other brother—but in the end, it works out for the best that you know the truth. For now, as you wait for me to turn you over to the constable here in Chagny—you know the townspeople have never forgiven nor forgotten that monster who ravaged and killed those three young girls—you'll have something more to think about.
"You'll be able to contemplate the fact that, a mere five floors above your very cell, I'll be enjoying that which you'll never have again. And… ah, that makes your last moments of intimacy so much more poignant, doesn't it?" He tsked, his fingers tightening over Christine's arm as his other hand jammed down the front of her bodice, yanking it away to expose her breast.
Fondling it roughly, he tweaked and pinched as he continued his taunts. "Quite lovely, isn't she?" He hefted the weight of her breast in his palm, and Christine could do nothing but try to rear away from him. But the small movement she was able to make only sent her back into his embrace, closer to him.
"And you, my dear… it will be best if you cooperate. Truly. For there will be no Raoul to interrupt, and your lover isn't going anywhere. Nor is that slut you call a ballet instructor. In fact, if you don't cooperate and make this enjoyable for me—us," he amended with a low chuckle, "I am sure I can find ways to make things even more uncomfortable for my brother here."
He looked down at her. "So, my dear, shall we repair to above? If it weren't so drafty and cold, I might have been persuaded to remain down here in sight of your lover… that way he could participate vicariously. But… ah, well, you know… comfort is a great thing for me. I have many different… mm… places to recline that will suit our needs much better than the cold stone floor."
With one last look at Erik, Christine felt herself being dragged away. Their eyes met, his dark with shock and regret, burning into her. She thought for the first time she saw resignation there, and felt her own wave of despair crawl horribly through her body.
There really wasn't any way out, any hope of rescue or reunion.
She wondered if she would live through the night.
Chapter Twenty-four
Philippe's private chambers were as she'd left them—empty, remote, and horrifying. He thrust her into the room ahead of him as he'd done before, and closed the door behind with a snap of finality.