Author's Note: Hello, everyone, and welcome to Voice Ensouled. This isn't really a sequel, per se, as much as it is a series of glimpses into the lives of my Erik and Christine from A Voice without a Soul throughout the first year or so of their marriage. I know, I know; I said I wasn't going to write more. But . . . I just couldn't let them go.

Particularly without this, the obligatory wedding-night scene (still T-rated and very tame; this is me, after all!).

Please, please review! Reviews make me want to write more, and as I still struggle with my continued association with fanfiction . . . (hint, hint).

Christine

We floated along the underground lake in silence; my eyes roamed the cavern, seeing the darkness with the gaze of a new wife, but my mind was wholly concentrated on the man behind me. I thought of how I must look to him: a figure standing boldly at the prow, gowned in bridal white, with her dark hair tumbling down her back; otherworldly and almost too real.

I wished he would speak.

But as we lightly came to shore, the increased pace of my heartbeat told the truth: I wanted more than just his voice, tonight.

Erik lifted me out of the boat and set me on the dry ground before his—our—home; those long, beautiful hands lingered at my waist. We were still silent, staring at each other, and I had to stifle a gasp as he slowly drew his hands from me in a long caress.

He looked away from me; the tension between us ebbed, but did not break, and his voice was rough when he spoke. "You should eat something." Erik took my hand and led me to our kitchen.

I wanted to protest; I wasn't hungry. Not for food. I was hungry for the intensity, always barely stifled, in his eyes whenever he said my name. I was hungry for his hands, the now-gentle, now-jagged way he would touch me with them before abruptly putting space between us. I was hungry for Erik . . .

None of these were hungers I could convey to him. I was too shy, raised too properly, to ask that he teach me of those things which were between a man and his wife. So I followed Erik to the kitchen and meekly sat down, absently eating whatever he put in front of me.

The awkwardness between us did not ease; Erik kept a distinct space between us.

When we finished eating, we both sat at the table, not quite looking at each other. Slowly, I gathered my courage and stood, reaching my hand out to him. In silence, Erik took it, though I could see the wary hesitation in his eyes as he followed me.

As I had half-expected, he halted us just outside my bedroom door. I turned to face him, wanting to argue, but he silenced me with a chaste kiss and a "Goodnight, Christine," before turning and beginning to walk away.

Not caring if anyone in the opera house above us heard, I called on the vocal ability he had given me and shouted his name.

Erik

"Erik!"

I stopped, unwillingly. Didn't she know how she was testing me?

I wanted her. I had wanted her for over a year, now. But Christine's innocence was something I cherished; I did not want to destroy it.

This was only the reason I told myself I was resisting her. The truth was, I loved the angel who had now consented to become my wife, but I had no idea how to go about loving her.

For all the teasing I indulged in with her, what kept me from her now was my absolute terror of harming her again.

"Yes, Christine?" I still had not faced her.

She came up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her face between my shoulder blades. I couldn't quite ignore how warm, how right it felt to have her touching me . . .

I felt her breathe deeply, and then, softly, she murmured, "Come with me."

If I hadn't been using all of my concentration to not do exactly that, I would have laughed at the thought of Christine inviting me into her room so boldly. I could not answer her.

"Will you make me beg?" Christine asked softly. "I do not want to spend tonight weeping because my husband avoids my room even on our wedding night."

I spun around, catching her and crushing her to my chest. Letting my eyes burn into hers, our noses almost touching, I demanded, "Do you know what you are asking?"

"I do," she retorted almost as forcefully; Christine made her words a deliberate echoing of our vows earlier that day.

Smirking down at her, I lazily stroked her jaw. I might be inexperienced in marriage, but arguing with Christine comes as easily as breathing. "Really?" I asked dryly, then made my tone a seductive velvet purr. "What are you asking, my dear?"

I restrained another smile at Christine's silence; then her soft, willing lips were playing against mine. She teased me, drawing back a little, and I hungrily followed until realizing that I was playing into her hands. Before I could remedy the situation, Christine's mouth opened in an invitation I found impossible to resist.

She was holding me close, her hands tangled in my hair; I had not even noticed Christine removing my mask, though she must have done so. It would have been impossible for me to ravage her tender mouth so thoroughly if she hadn't.

Without my direction, my hands wandered across the back of her bodice and down to her sensitive sides. I found that I couldn't care much that I was intimately holding her hips; her kiss was too distracting.

We had slowly been moving backwards; Christine had been guiding us, for I was incapable of paying attention to anything but the warmth of her mouth. Our retreat halted; regretfully pulling back from Christine, I discovered that we were in her room; her legs, pressed against the side of her bed, were what had stopped us.

I looked down at my angel-wife. Her eyes were burning, her cheeks rosy; even her red, red lips were swollen with desire. An unintended groan escaped me; she was so beautiful, so utterly tempting. I lifted my hand to the back of her head, burying it gently in the dark curls. "Christine," I protested weakly.

Her gaze softened. "Erik," Christine whispered, her lost tone cutting through my heart, "don't you want this? Don't you want . . . me?"

I dropped to my knees, resting my face upon her lap as she sat on the bed. "Of course I do, you little fool," I grumbled, equal parts affection and growl in my voice.

Christine waited.

Slowly, I grasped her wrist and traced the area where now-faded bruises had once been evidence of the violence of my passions—anger, then—whenever she was involved. "I can't hurt you again, Christine," I finally told her, my voice softened so much it was a wonder she could hear it at all. "I can't."

"Erik." She gently raised my face until I was forced to look at her. "I trust you, Erik," Christine whispered. "You won't hurt me."

"And if I do? I demanded.

Her lips twitched, ever so slightly. "Then next time, you will know how not to."

She was serious.

I took the wrist I was holding and warmly kissed her palm, my eyes never leaving hers. A blush swept up her skin; I laughed quietly and slowly stood. Christine's eyes sparkled as she lay back onto the bed; I followed, leaning over her until I had to put my hands on either side of her to support my weight. Relishing the delight I saw in her face, I lowered mine until our lips were almost touching. "I think we were right . . . about . . . here," I murmured, brushing my lips against hers with each word. Christine giggled, a happy, inviting sound, and I began to devour her succulent mouth again, paying attention to each and every detail.

Christine

The room was dark, but I was warm. Shifting a little, I discovered the reason for this; I was curled up against Erik. His chest was like a furnace, drawing me in, and I willfully pressed closer to him.

A firm, masculine hand began rubbing slow circles on my back. I smiled and closed my eyes. "Mmm," I mumbled, too content to be bothered with forming complete sentences.

My living pillow moved as Erik laughed softly. "And a good morning to you, too, my love," he drawled. The teasing tone in his voice intensified as he wickedly murmured, "I spent the night in the arms of an angel—so is this heaven?"

"Erik!"

More laughter followed my outburst.

He was right, though.

This was heaven.