We're getting into where the story earns its T rating, so be warned! There's nothing graphic, but there is some sexuality. If you don't know what happens on a wedding night, well, I don't want to be the one to teach you. So if that's the case, it'd be best for you to skip forward a couple chapters!
Thanks for reading!
Christine
Erik walked into the room like a man approaching a hangman's scaffold. He seemed determined to look anywhere but at me. His hand trembled as I guided him toward the bed, and I felt quite sure that if I didn't have him by the hand, he would have bolted right out of the room. If my own nerves hadn't prevented it, I should have been rather insulted!
Oh, I was quite nervous myself. Despite my careful appearance of calmness and resolve, inwardly I was in a remarkable state of agitation. I felt as though my stomach was filled with writhing snakes…strangely, not as unpleasant a sensation as it sounds. I was beginning to feel almost giddy in my flustered state. As I'd prepared for bed, my head swam with a hundred little worries; more than I'd care to admit concerned Raoul. I'd feigned indifference when Erik mentioned his worry of Raoul coming after me, but I had to acknowledge that it was a very real possibility. In all honesty, I hadn't altogether thought this whole scheme through, as far as some of the practicalities were concerned. And if I should continue being honest…I did still feel love for Raoul, and couldn't bear the thought of causing him pain. But I couldn't think of that just now! Whatever may happen, one thing was for certain: Raoul may have a claim on some small part of my heart, but the chief of it belonged, and always would, to Erik.
It was a conclusion I'd arrived at long ago…but then the love that I'd felt was incomplete. Shamefully, though I would willingly let him lay claim to my heart, I would not grant him to do the same to my body. He'd as much as told me that my heart would be enough, and I believe he would have been happy with only that. But to be his wife in name alone…how cruel I would be to deny physical love to a man so clearly starved for it! I'd tried to run away from my confused feelings, but ultimately I had to confront them. And so I did. I'd finally jumped off the rocky cliff and into the waters below, and found I could swim after all. In fact, I found the waters so warm and so pleasing, that I was now like a willful child who would not come back to shore after being called again and again.
I don't mean to imply that after I first kissed him I saw only beauty in his face, for that certainly wasn't the case. His face appeared as grotesque as ever, but I'd lost the fear in beholding it. And, to be sure, my love did not exist only in spite of his face. His face was part of him, and I loved the whole of him…so much so that my affection extended to that which I would otherwise find repulsive, because it was his. In a strange way his distorted face had become so very dear to me that I felt I wouldn't trade it for another, were it possible!
It was onto this very face, now taut with uneasiness, that I trained my gaze as I turned around to face him. We stood beside the bed, neither of us wanting to be the first to sit. We had spent countless hours alone in each other's presence, but the now the space between us thrummed with an unfamiliar energy. Words seemed impossible.
I tugged at his gloves…slipped off one and then the other. His fingers were ice cold and bloodless. I gathered them up and held them to my breast, just above my heart. His eyes followed his hands, and then turned away sharply. A dull flush crept up his neck.
We had touched before only a handful of times, and never in such an intimate way. In my mind I recalled the numerous times that he had seemed to reach out to me, while I shrunk away, denying him. A fresh wave of remorse washed over me. I intended to prove to him that I was past such childish shrinking.
I dropped his hands; he pulled them back as if burned and began wringing them. My hurt must have shown on my face, for he dropped them to his sides self-consciously and instead started digging his fingers brutally into his thighs. "Oh, my dear, you must forgive me," he said, his voice strained and quavering, "but my…whole life…people have done all they could to avoid…touching me…and now this! I find myself quite…overwhelmed. I'm so sorry…so sorry…" He glanced up at me earnestly, beseechingly.
I choked back the lump that had formed in my throat. I realized again how little of his life I knew, and it pained me. I reached again for his hands, this time pressing them to my lips and against my cheeks. "Don't apologize," I said, keeping my voice soft and even. "Now you have a wife who loves you, and longs for you to touch her." I kissed his fingertips, and released his hands. He did not pull them away, though his breathing became labored. He stepped nearer to me, and trailed his fingers across my lips, along my jaw, and down my neck to rest upon my collarbone. He groaned - a soft, throaty sound - as he let his fingers glide lower, skimming the low neckline of my chemise.
It's hard to say which of us was trembling worse.
He took back his hands and pressed them into fists against his stomach, almost doubling over. He exhaled a long, slow, ragged breath. For an instant I thought he must be ill again, but then the action seemed to be familiar. All the same, I asked after him anxiously.
He shook his head, but did not look up. "No, no…I'm not ill, my love. Merely…overwhelmed, once again." After several more deep breaths, he seemed to gain control of himself, and straightened up in his usual graceful way, his expression betraying no sign of what had passed. "I think it best for me to lie down now, though, with your permission."
I murmured my consent, blushing furiously.
I helped him shrug off his coat, and draped it across a chair as he removed his shoes. It was a beautiful wool coat, and likely very expensive. There had never been a time when I had seen him dressed in anything but the most formal and handsome of clothes, always a perfect gentleman. The trait was an endearing one, and I smiled to myself.
I piled the feather pillows high against the headboard of the bed, and helped him settle among them so that he remained propped up. I felt his eyes on me as I made my way around the room, blowing out all the candles except for the one that remained beside the bed. Finally, left with no other task, I crept into bed beside him, unsure of how to proceed. This was one area where I knew we were equally matched in inexperience. I decided upon nestling up along his side, with my head resting on his shoulder, one hand on his chest. He sighed a deep sigh of contentment.
"Oh, Christine," he whispered. "I could die right now and be the happiest man there ever was."
His words caught me so off guard that I couldn't help but let out a disbelieving laugh. "Well! I would really rather you didn't, if it's all the same!" Despite my laughter, terror welled up in my stomach.
"No, I'd really rather I didn't, either. That certainly would put a damper on our wedding night, would it not?" He smiled down on me, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Erik? I know you are very ill…" I didn't know how to finish my question.
"Yes, yes I am," he said with a sigh. "I won't lie to you. I can't imagine that I have more than a week left, if I should be so lucky."
I was crying again before I even realized it. Guilt was threatening to overcome me. "Oh, Erik… I'm so sorry I wasn't here earlier. We might have had more time together."
"Please don't blame yourself when it was I who sent you away," he said, wiping a tear away with his thumb. "No more tears on my account, please. 'Time is precious…' Let's enjoy what we have left together."
I buried my face against his shoulder until the tears stopped. My eyes felt puffy and my nose raw from all of the crying and sniffling I'd been doing in the last several hours. "I must look an awful mess," I said, my voice thick. He placed a finger under my chin and tilted up my face to his.
"You've never looked more beautiful," he said quietly. Though I doubted the truth of his words, I couldn't argue with the blazing look that was in his eyes. He pressed a hesitant but tender kiss against my lips, and I returned it with increasing depth. Absently, I began fingering the smooth buttons of his waistcoat, and then unbuttoned them, one by one, from top to bottom. Through the soft fabric of his shirt I could feel his thin chest heaving under my hand. Our kiss began to grow more desperate, and he sent a tentative hand to stroke the length of my arm.
I felt flushed with a peculiar feeling of power. It's not my intention to sound vain when I say that I was convinced that he desired me more than any man had ever desired a woman. It's simply the truth. He'd spent a lifetime believing that he was unworthy of love, and now I could give it, in the most intimate and meaningful of ways. This new sensation coursing through my veins drove away what remained of my apprehension, and with open arms I welcomed my husband, my love, my Angel into my embrace.
