The M rating is most definitely fulfilled in this chapter. Let's be honest, I had a good portion of this chapter written from the beginning. (Hence the quick update!) And let's be even more honest, it's what you all have been waiting for. ;) It was scary and exciting to write—I hope you enjoy it!

Pan seared salmon with a dill cream sauce on a bed of asparagus. Or at least that's what the recipe said. Erik wasn't the world's most talented chef, but he definitely wasn't the worst. He had enough of a natural inclination toward cooking that he knew he wouldn't ruin dinner. Or burn the house down.

The salmon was perfectly seared with a golden crust, the dill sauce looked creamy, and the asparagus was perfectly al dente. Surprisingly enough, he still had ten minutes to spare. So he put the food into the oven to keep it warm and headed toward the stairs. Before he left the kitchen, however, he passed by the box of condoms that sat atop the counter. He had found them in one of the grocery bags. Erik paused to look at the box, grabbed it, and went upstairs to get ready.

He could sense movement in Christine's room as he passed by her door. He gripped the condom box a little tighter and went to his room. Erik let out a breath as he leaned against his closed door. The condoms had been quite the surprise. Initially, he was embarrassed. It had been years since he had even considered having sex with someone, so he didn't have any on hand. But he couldn't believe that he had forgotten such an important element. He was the man—wasn't this his responsibility?

Erik walked over to the bedside table and put the box in the drawer. Christine knew all of this about him. She had anticipated his needs—their needs—before it had crossed his mind. His heart began to race. She knows me. He ran a hand through his hair and wandered over to his walk-in closet.

Dark-colored suits—black, charcoal, navy, oxblood, and the like—Oxford shirts, tailored pants, leather shoes, dark wash jeans, vests, boots, Henleys, belts, flannel… Every other year, he went to department stores and designer boutiques, rented out the place for privacy, and let Nadir dress him. It was torture, but the man had impeccable style and Erik appreciated a well-tailored suit. He picked leather shoes, navy slacks, and a heather grey oxford cloth button down shirt.

The only mirrors in the house were in the bathrooms. He undressed, leaned against the bathroom counter, and took off his mask. The experience of feeling his right cheek suddenly bare was always a mixture of terror and freedom. Every single time. It was like his stomach dropped and his heart leapt simultaneously. He briefly wondered if that would ever go away. Erik stood up straight and looked into his own eyes in the mirror. He tried to subdue the anxiety that was bubbling to the surface. She knows me, he assured himself as he began to dress.

But will she know me after she sees?

At precisely seven o'clock, Erik heard Christine's door open. As soon as he saw her descend the stairs, his unease began to fade. Her brunette curls were as wild as ever, but she had pinned a few pieces back. The thin, sheer sleeves of her black dress draped across the edges of her shoulders. The neckline dipped elegantly, just below her silver, thin-chained necklace. The fluid fabric cut a couple inches above her knees. She would almost be as tall has him in those electric blue heels. Almost.

He couldn't help staring. She was positively breathtaking. He hadn't said a word as she descended the stairs or as she walked across the foyer. Now she stood in front of him; she smelled floral. Erik realized that his mouth was open and quickly closed his lips and swallowed.

Christine smiled slightly. "Hi."

"Hello."

She stepped forward and kissed him. He savored the taste of her ambrosial lips.

He took Christine's hand and led her to the formal dining room. Earlier he brought out the turntable from the music room and placed it on the server. Sinatra crooned from the corner. He pulled out a chair for her, set their plates on the table, and poured the Sauvignon blanc.

"Erik, this looks incredible," she said as he sat down.

"Thank you. I hope it tastes as much."

There was a pause as they began to eat. Why was this a transition difficult for him? They had plenty of meals together lately; calling this a "date" made it no different. And no one had actually labeled it as such. Even though it was. Erik took a drink of the wine, hoping it would help calm his nerves. Sometimes he had to remind himself of certain social etiquettes, especially in moments like this. It was easier to feed off of Christine, but she was a little busy enjoying the salmon and wasn't giving him much to work with. Finally it clicked and he asked her about her weekend—which led to Studio 801.

"Did you know they take submissions from local artists for their monthly shows?"

"I did not. Will you apply?"

"I think I will," she said thoughtfully.

"What would you submit? Art shows usually have some sort of theme in motif or medium or subject matter, right?"

"Right. I think I would do all charcoal, but on different sizes and kinds of paper."

"And your muse?"

The way Christine looked at him set a fire deep within him. "Undecided."

Erik raised an eyebrow as she took a sip of wine. "Shall I guess?"

"Guess away. I told you that I haven't decided yet." She was being coy.

"You have said that nature is too perfect, that you prefer people. I think we differ in that, my dear." Christine chuckled and rested her chin in her hand. "Portrait or candid?"

"Candid."

"Young or old?"

"Old."

"Skin or hair?"

"Hmmm… Hair."

"Hands or clothes?"

"Hands."

"Eyes or lips?"

She didn't answer. She simply stared at him, looking into his own eyes and glancing at his lips. "Don't make me choose," she said softly, leaning toward him. Erik looked into her eyes before kissing her. Once. Twice. Christine pulled away after the third, tucking her hair behind her ear and trying to hide her smile. She took another sip of wine.

"Where will you create all of these masterpieces?" he asked, taking a bite of asparagus.

"At my desk in my room, I guess. The gallery probably wouldn't let me use their studio space," she joked.

"If you had your own studio, what would it look like?"

"I've thought of this so much lately. It would have giant windows for natural light but also big lamps for direct lighting. The walls would be covered in my sketches, ideas, and inspiration. But one wall would be dedicated to my own finished pieces. There would be huge work tables that I could spread everything out on; cupboards and shelves full of supplies; stools, easels, canvases, paint, charcoal, brushes…" she trailed off, looking out the window at the spectacular view. He followed her gaze, thoughts wandering.

"Erik, what do you do for fun?"

"Well, I enjoy writing—"

"No, something other than work. I don't think I've ever seen you do something for the pure enjoyment of it. And running doesn't count either. That's not enjoyable."

"Maybe not for you."

She made a face. "Come on."

He thought for a moment as Sinatra hummed in the background. "I play the piano."

"So that explains the music room!" she said sarcastically.

"You're hilarious," he replied, completely deadpan.

Christine laughed. "How long have you played?"

"Since I was a child. I took lessons for a few years, but I ventured out on my own. I compose some as well. The producers have used some of my pieces for the film adaptations of my novels."

Her eyes widened. "Really? I didn't know that. That's amazing, Erik."

"I suppose you could consider that work, but it feels… different than writing novels. It's just as fulfilling, but it's more meaningful. Being able to take the feelings that I've written down—the emotions and situations I've designed—and create a new channel through which a person can experience them… It's a completely different level of creation and expression."

She convinced him to play one of his compositions after dinner. They went to the music room and he sat at the grand piano. Erik's hands hovered over the pearly keys, fingers twitching in anticipation. It had been a little while since he had last played. He started with the theme they had used for his first film, Scorch.

His eyes slid closed as the notes and chords flowed from his memory to the keys. The compositions he had created for the film adaptations were usually heavier, more dramatic pieces that would translate well for a full orchestra. Erik could find little pieces of a theme floating around while writing or camping or even sleeping. Then he would flesh them out and send his ideas to the professional composer for the latest film, who usually expanded them beautifully. A couple times the composer kept his pieces very close to their original state and used them for the trailers. Erik was perfectly comfortable with this interaction. It was just another way for him to have a hand in his stories.

The music accelerated and he felt Christine move behind him. He breathed in, enjoying the familiar scent of the music room as it combined with her floral perfume. As the first piece ended, she trailed her fingers across his back. He leaned ever so slightly in to her touch. "Another?" she whispered reverently.

This time he played an original piece that he hadn't shared with anyone. It was more delicate than what he wrote for the films. More lovely. More Christine. His music filled the space, enveloping him and wrapping him within his senses. Erik didn't even think of the notes anymore, they just happened. He had no control over his movements; he was the music.

And then suddenly, the song was over and Christine was in his arms. His vision focused on her beautiful face in front of his as she gazed at him with amorous eyes. They were like warm honey and he wanted to swim in them forever. She kissed him tentatively, sending him higher than any music could take him. Erik touched her hair, stroking a curl between his fingers. Her breath was light against his face. He kissed her again and she touched his cheek. Her tongue was gentle and soft as it fluttered against his own. Erik trailed a finger down her throat and spread his hand across her collar bone. Christine ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer.

She was straddling him now on the piano bench, kissing his neck. Erik rasped out a moan against her hair as his desire grew. She pulled back, kissed his lips, and breathed, "Upstairs?"

Christine felt electric as she followed him up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom. He closed the door behind her and she leaned against it. His palms pressed flat against the door, their breath mingling between them in anticipation. Warm sunlight bathed the room in an otherworldly glow. It was the golden hour and she felt golden. The shadows on his face and mask were stark and beautiful.

Erik's lips rested against hers briefly before he kissed her. Slowly. Deliberately. She sighed as his fingers slid down her neck and across her shoulders. His body leaned into hers and she could feel every sculpted muscle, every hardened piece of him. A carnal heat unfurled between her legs. She clutched his hips, pulling him closer still. His arms wrapped around her body and his fingers searched for the zipper at the back of her dress. And then he gently pulled it down.

The sound of the zipper was surprisingly loud. Christine looked up into his eyes once it reached the end of its track. Her hands dropped to her sides. The grey fire blazing within his irises sent a quiver down her spine. Erik slid his fingers between the fabric of the sleeves and her skin and pushed them down her shoulders. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her chest. The more she breathed, the farther her dress fell. Finally, the entirety of the chiffon pooled at her ankles into an elegant pile.

He admired her. His eyes traveled up her pale stomach to the black lace bustier she wore just for him. A single finger touched the dip of her clavicle and traveled downward, resting in between her breasts. Her breath hitched. He traced the rounded edges, alternating between skin and lace. Christine reached out and began undoing the buttons of his shirt, eager to see his skin. She pushed the fabric over his shoulders and stepped out of her heels. She ran her hands over his chest and stomach while guiding him toward the bed. He sat down on the edge and tilted his chin up to kiss her.

She reached down and lightly stroked his hardened shaft over his slacks. Erik suddenly grasped her shoulders and tried to bite back a moan. It had been so long since he had been touched. She stroked further, enjoying how his eyes closed, lips parted, and head tilted back.

"You'll be the end of me," Erik whispered huskily as she undid his belt and helped him out of his pants.

Christine paused and looked down at him as he took off his shoes and socks. She smiled. Then he leaned back slightly, extending one arm behind him on the bed. One leg bent. The shadows outlined every taut muscle, every jagged scar. Her lips parted as her eyes scanned over the tumescence in his boxer briefs.

"What?" he asked softly.

"You are so beautiful. I can't decide if I want to draw you or make love to you."

"I sincerely hope it's the latter. Or else you would have purchased these," Erik pulled out the condoms from his bedside table, "for nothing."

Christine smirked and climbed on top of his lap, planting her knees on either side of his hips. Erik wrapped his arms around her as he kissed her. His fingers fumbled with the clasp of her bra only momentarily before slipping it off. His hands splayed across her breasts and he encircled her nipples with his thumbs. She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair.

Erik's hand traveled down the curve of her neck, between her breasts, grazed her stomach, and settled between her legs. She whimpered salaciously into his mouth, closing her eyes.

"You're so wet, Christine," Erik breathed.

Eyes still closed, she reached up to grasp his hair again, but her hands collided with his face on the way. She felt his mask topple off. His hands stopped. They both froze. Her breath was so loud. Christine kept her eyes closed, waiting for him to put the mask back on or push her off. The seconds that passed felt like an eternity. All she could hear was their breathing. Why was it so loud? When he still didn't move, she realized he wasn't going to put his mask back on. She decided to try something.

Christine ran her hands over his chest blindly, following the patterns of his breath. Up and down, up and down, trying to calm him. Her fingers ghosted over his nipples and he shivered against her. She touched his neck, feeling his pulse, his humanity. She kissed him there. The blood pounded against her lips. He held very still as her fingers moved toward his face. Down his left cheek, across his jawline, over the slight cleft in his chin… His breath accelerated as she crossed the unspoken longitude.

Very gently, Christine moved her fingertips up to his right cheek. The skin felt odd. Bumpy in some places, too smooth in others. Twisted. His hairline was uneven. He didn't have an eyebrow. She traced where it should have been. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Christine leaned up and pressed her cheek against his and held him. As she pulled away, she opened her eyes and looked into his. The right side of his face was still in stark shadow, but she now could see the variations that she had just felt, like understanding Braille. His face was mangled and abnormal. It wasn't pleasant. But it didn't change who he was and how she felt about him. She kissed his cheek.

She kept her face close to his and whispered, "Erik, you are beautiful."

Something fell on her thigh. It took her a moment to realize it was a tear.

Then his lips collapsed onto hers in desperation. He touched her all over. Her hair, her face, her breasts, her hips… It was wonderfully overwhelming. Erik wrapped his arms around her and twisted around, pulling her onto the bed so that he was above her. She tugged at his waistband, finally releasing him. She reached down and ran her hand up and down his throbbing length. He was thick and hard.

"Fuck," he groaned against her neck. He panted as his hips followed the strokes of her hand.

Then Erik withdrew from her grip, afraid he would finish before they even started. He pulled down her black lace panties and tossed them aside. His hand glided between her thighs, against the heat of her sex. Hesitantly at first; he sat back a bit to gauge her reactions. Christine guided him with her own hand and they felt her together. She let out an instinctive moan when his thumb encircled her bud. He smiled slightly and continued feeling her, stroking her, knowing her. Her body began moving with him, almost uncontrollably. Her head tilted back as he allowed one finger to enter her. Erik followed, kissing her neck, gently nipping her skin, suckling at her breasts. She rode her hips against his hand.

But he couldn't last forever.

"Christine… I—I need…"

She pulled a condom from the box and opened it. His lips parted as he watched her slide it down his cock.

He positioned himself above her when they were ready and slowly drew her hips toward him. They moaned in unison, each loving the feeling of the other. Filling. Enveloping. Erik slowly pulsed into her as they got used to each other. Before long, the steady rhythm became maddening. Christine urged him on, thrusting her hips with his. He braced himself on the headboard and pumped faster. Each movement was something voracious and fervent. Each touch was fire.

Christine ran her hands up and down his stomach and chest. Then she reached up to his neck and pulled him back down to her, unable to resist his lips. Kissing, panting, biting, teasing… His weight on her felt overwhelming and safe. She wrapped her legs around his waist, inviting him deeper. The noises he was making in her ear drove her insane. She gently clawed at his neck and back as she moaned with him.

Her breasts were pressed between the two of them and it was exquisite. Erik's hand tangled in her hair, creating yet another sensation. Her fingers caressed his right cheek as she kissed him. Erik panted against her and reached down to her velvety core again. She gasped his name. It encouraged him further, going harder, faster. She was so close to the edge of…

He groaned breathlessly and wrapped her in his arms as he orgasmed. His hips continued to thrust into her as he rode it out, bringing her along with him in bliss.

"Erik, I'm—Oh! I'm—"

Christine let out a primal noise as she shuddered within herself. Overwhelming waves pulsated over her and her vision blurred. All she could see was the man she loved.

Erik leaned his forehead against hers as they panted in unison. Breathing. Existing. Descending from their highs. Christine caressed his hair. Erik kissed her lips. Her nose. Her eyelids.

"We are beautiful," he whispered against her ear.

A cool breeze woke her. She opened her eyes lazily and stared at his ceiling. She knew it was his ceiling, that she was lying in his bed. There was no forgetting for even a fleeting moment what she had experienced with him the previous night, over and over. Christine smiled as she stretched her pleasantly sore body. Then she rolled over and found him.

Despite the crisp morning air that drifted through the open doors, a warmth spread over her entire body. Erik stood on the balcony, bathed in lavender. The sun was about to rise. The sight of him—his naked body, his unmasked cheek, the slight smile on his lips—left her feeling… happy. His head tilted toward her slightly, beckoning. She sat up and slipped out of the sheets. As she stepped in front of him on the balcony, Christine took in the entirety of his face. Erik stared down at her, waiting for her response. Waiting for her to regret it all. Waiting for her to push him away. But she didn't.

Christine wrapped her arms around him in a hug. "I meant what I said," she said softly. "You are beautiful." He exhaled against her and she felt his anxiety dissipate. She kissed his chest, then his neck, his right cheek, and his lips. Erik was stunned for a moment, unused to such tenderness directly against his deformed face. Displeased with his lack of reaction, Christine pressed her naked body against his and grabbed his backside. He finally chuckled and kissed her.

Then he suddenly picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She let out a squeal, which quickly turned into laughter. Erik carried her across the room and gently dropped her onto the bed.

They stayed in bed for most of the afternoon, naked and lazy. Making love, drifting in and out of sleep, caressing, holding, playing… It was lovely. They left the doors to the balcony open, welcoming in the beautiful summer day. Erik left briefly to get lunch for them both. He brought back a bowl full of fruit and cheese and stopped short in the doorway, watching Christine.

She reached above her head to stretch. She pushed a mass of curls away from her face and to one side, stroking the ends over her shoulder. A breeze swept across the room, sending a wave of gooseflesh over her body and making her rosy nipples perfectly taut. Her milky skin practically glowed in the sunlight. He walked toward her, completely entranced by her beauty.

"This is the female form," he said softly.

"What?"

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. "A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction. I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it." Christine gazed up at him, spellbound. She took deep breaths as he spoke, as if to emulate the poetry. "Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear'd of hell, are now consumed, mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable."

He reached out to her, his hand touching the parts of her body of which he spoke: "Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused. Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb." Erik looked into her eyes. "Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice." He felt his mouth watering as he spoke.

Then he carefully climbed on top of her and lowered his head, kissing her all over between each phrase. "Bridegroom night of love—working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn—undulating into the willing and yielding day—lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh'd day." He kissed the hollow of her shoulder and cautiously rested the right side of his face against her chest.

"Walt Whitman," he finally said into the stunned silence. His hand caressed her breast and trailed down the curve of her side.

"Oh my god, you're amazing," Christine murmured as she wrapped her legs around him.