Could it be that he had truly won over Christine, that she was willing to take his disfigured form over waiting for the utterly normal vicomte that she was engaged to wed? Erik had hurt Christine so much in Paris, but he'd been desperate for her in the opera house, eager to be loved, to be her target for affections. When she walked away from him in the darkness, he was sure he had lost her forever and now she was here, telling him how much she had missed him, how happy she was to see him again. It felt like they'd been parted for years and years instead of weeks.
When she rested her head to his firm chest, Erik lifted a hand slowly and a bit awkwardly, and he began to stroke the auburn curls of her hair, the silken strands falling between his fingers. He found himself swallowing a lump in his throat, dark eyes flickering across their surroundings--they were alone and Christine was...clinging to him like a child would a parent. Once again he remembered that final night in his lair and what it felt like for Christine to kiss him. She had been the one in control then, trying to prove to Erik that not everyone in the world would see him as a monster--he wasn't alone like he believed.
He licked his dry lips suddenly, moving a hand beneath her chin to gently pull her head back and lift her face up to his. Nervously, his mouth descended on her own and the man made a pleased, choked sound in the process, his hands coming to rest on the soprano's petite waist. Hopefully she would like this...