The orgasm, when it came, was long, slow, undulating. She caught her breath, then let it go, trembling, ending with a jerk as the full force of pleasure peaked and withdrew.
And with that, he let himself go mad. Deeper, harder, faster… pumping madly inside her, there, against the wall. In and out, faster and faster… his breathing loud and noisy, his muscles trembling, and a sharp wave of lust returning to Christine's sated nib. He thrust and moved and finally slammed into her one last time with a low, long groan that matched the coursing she felt inside of her.
"Christine…" he murmured, his face against hers now. "Never leave me. Never leave me."
"I'll never leave you," she sighed into his ear. "Never."
When the Opera House plunged into darkness, Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard were standing in the offstage wings.
"The ghost!" cried Firmin, grasping the jacket sleeve of his partner. "He has come again."
"We shall be ruined!" replied Armand, stumbling out onto the dark stage. He felt the whoosh of air as something heavy moved and swung past him, and turned back to see three of the gendarmes rushing onto the stage from different directions, torches in hand. The gas lamps at the edge of the stage were suddenly reignited, casting warm yellow light over the pandemonium in the theater.
Miss Daaé was gone.
"Miss Daaé! Where has she gone?"
"It's the Phantom! He has taken her."
At that moment, an ominous rumble sounded from above and all of the gendarmes raised their lights at the same time to show the great chandelier, its lights still extinguished, swaying and tipping angrily.
Firmin and Armand looked at each other in horror, recalling the ghost's joke about bringing down the chandelier. "The chandelier," Firmin shouted. "Run!"
"We are ruined," cried Armand again, stumbling backward, his eyes still on the clinking, clattering, swaying lamp above.
A great tearing noise sounded, and the heavy lamp pulled loose from its moorings as if in a dream, as if every second slowed to more than a minute… and then it crashed onto the stage in a great bursting clatter. Explosions from oil leaking onto the gas lamps, shards of shooting glass, and billows of smoke filled the theater.
The audience screamed and panicked, pushing and shoving to get out of their seats. The cast and orchestra—those who had not been injured by the falling chandelier—stumbled and cried as they made their way toward the back of the stage, to get away from the mess.
"We are ruined! We are ruined! How can such a misfortune befall us?" cried Armand as Firmin dragged him away from the wreckage and away from the tearing fire.
In the back, where the dressing rooms were emptying and the dancers were rushing screaming from the building, they turned to see the Chagny brothers standing there, unruffled and unharmed.
"It is the Phantom, the ghost who has done this," cried the comte. "Just as he threatened before—he has brought down the chandelier and destroyed the theater. We must stop him. Send the men after him!"
"He has taken Miss Daaé. We must find him!"
"I know where he has gone," the vicomte announced passionately. "Through Miss Daaé's old dressing room. Come, we will stop them. Send the men after us with their guns and torches. We will catch him, and make him pay!"
"We will hunt him down," the comte said. "Collect the others and bring them."
Maude Giry came rushing around the corner. Her hair straggled from its tight bun in a manner that reminded Armand of the times she'd let it fall loose. Armand would venture to guess that this was one moment that the woman did not have sex on her mind.
"This way! They are hunting for the Ghost. This way!" Armand called, waving the gendarmes over to him. The fire raged out in the auditorium, and the smoke was beginning to seep into the high ceilings back where they stood, but there was still time to find their way back through the dressing rooms.
"But no, he has not done this! He would not!" Maude was crying, her face soot-streaked, a scratch of red along one cheek. "He would not!"
"But he has, madame, and we will not rest until he has paid for this. It is long past time the Opera Ghost should be stopped." The Comte de Chagny looked at her with dark, glittering eyes, then turned and rushed away after his brother.
Chapter Sixteen
The lovers walked hand in hand through the darkness.
"Where will we go?" Christine asked, noticing that the corridor had become lighter.
They rounded a corner and found Cesar, the white horse, and a torch. This was not the same place she had been taken before; at least, she did not think it was. The stone hallways looked so much alike.
"I have made plans for our safe trip and refuge," Erik told her. He had retrieved his mask but, in a show of trust, had not donned it. His twisted, angry skin shone tight and brittle, horrible in the low light next to the dark, handsome half she had come to know. "We will leave here tonight and be far away from here… and from the Chagnys. They will not be pleased you have slipped away."
It was only a short ride on Cesar before they reached Erik's cottage by the underground lake. Erik pulled her off, and she landed lightly on the ground, following him inside.
The house was just the same as she had remembered.
Except that the moment he closed the door behind them, they were face-to-face with the Chagny brothers.
"You must have taken the longer route," Philippe said pleasantly. He was holding a gun, and before Christine or Erik could react, something whipped through the air and settled around Erik's neck. "The Punjab lasso. Isn't the Opera Ghost famous for his technique with the lasso? Or, at least, that is what the legend says."
He tightened the rope and Erik coughed, jerking off-balance as he tried to pull it away.
"Don't touch it," snapped Philippe, jabbing the pistol at Christine's temple in an obvious threat. "Raoul," he snapped with a flick of his wrist.
"Raoul!" Christine cried, ignoring the push of metal into her skin. "What are you doing?"
He yanked Erik to his feet and muscled his arms behind his back, tying his hands there as Erik stood stoic, coughing faintly, face dark and twisted on both halves now.
"What do you want?" Erik choked from behind the rope cutting into his throat.
"Christine, for one," Philippe said, twisting her arms behind her back and dragging her toward him. He replaced the pistol in his pocket and reached around to squeeze her half-bare breast. She stiffened and tried to pull away, but he yanked her arms back harder, and she cried out. "Your final destruction, for the other."
Raoul finished his job and walked over to stand next to Christine. Philippe thrust her toward him, and she stumbled before Raoul caught her arm. "Let me go," she demanded, watching as Philippe coiled Erik's rope onto the small lamp that hung from the ceiling. His neck strained upward, and his face was darkening red.
"Let you go back to the horrific Opera Ghost? Never," Raoul told her. "We have come to rescue you."
"Rescue me?" Christine's fear eased out of her. It was a misunderstanding. "No, Raoul, I don't need to be rescued. Let him go; he means no harm—"
"No harm?" Philippe stepped toward her, a little smile on his patrician face, the other end of the rope taut in his hand. "I beg to differ, Miss Daaé. In fact, at this very moment, the Opera House is engulfed in flames. Explosions have been heard from every corner of the stage, and the chandelier was rigged to crash down upon the stage. It has killed, I'm certain, at least one woman, and injured many others. Just as you threatened, dear Opera Ghost. I thank you for not only putting the idea into my head, but also for setting yourself up as the scapegoat by your own words to those stupid managers.