Hi phans! I had a slow start writing this chapter, but I wrote a lot of it in just the past few days. I'm very pleased with how it turned out – let me know what you think. Enjoy!

Christine glanced at herself in the mirror, then back to her drawing. A desk lamp cast her face in an interesting shadow and she had managed to balance a hand-held mirror at the perfect angle between her desk and the wall. Something in her drawing was off, but she couldn't quite tell what it was. The facial elements were evenly proportioned, the shading was fairly close…

As she tilted her head in thought, she noticed Erik walk past her open door.

"Hey," she called to him.

He took a few steps backward and leaned against the door jamb.

"What do you think?" she asked, leaning out of the way so he could see.

Erik came inside and stood behind her to get a closer look. "The shading on your face and hair is stunning."

"But I feel like something's off. Is it the eyebrows?" Christine looked at herself in the mirror again, checking the shape.

"I'm not sure…" Erik glanced away from the sketch to look at her work space. "...but it might have something to do with the absolute mess that's covering your desk. Jesus, Christine."

For the past two weeks, her tiny desk had been filled with pieces of charcoal, graphite, pencils, a few brushes, and a multitude of loose papers and sketchbooks. She had given up trying to organize it all within the second day.

"Being a creative, I understand the need to sprawl, but this mess… How are you going to find the pieces you want? Of paper or of charcoal."

"It's a mess, but at least mine is contained to one room," she said, raising an eyebrow up at him.

"Touché," he replied. "I would offer up the conference table in the library for you to spread out on, but we're having meetings next week."

"Already?"

"The next novel is set to go through the publishing process. Which you think we would have nailed down to a science by now…" Erik ran a hand through his hair and glanced back at her self portrait.

"I see what you mean. Something's off. It's…" Erik looked at her through the mirror. Then he touched her cheek, turning her face toward him so he could look at her directly. "It's the eyes." He held her chin in place so she wouldn't look away. "They're… blank, comparatively."

"How?" She stared up into his own eyes curiously.

"You're more expressive. I feel like I witness every subtle emotion you have through them. Even if you're just sitting there staring at yourself, you're still thinking about something. You are never a blank canvas."

Christine considered him for a moment. "Never a blank canvas."

"I hope that helps." He kissed her forehead. "Now I need to find a contract somewhere in the organized chaos that is my room."

Mustering up the motivation to clean the estate was becoming increasingly difficult for Christine. Now that she was working on the pieces to submit to Studio 801 and spending plenty of time with Erik… cleaning was the last thing on her mind. But she didn't want to neglect her responsibilities just because she was sleeping with the boss.

She tried making little games out of each task or creating incremental goals to make her feel like she had accomplished something. The days seemed to creep by, especially since Erik was busy preparing for the next round of meetings. He holed up in his office every day, catching up on edits, paperwork, and other odds and ends. Christine also noticed his stress level subtly increasing with each day – nearing the deadline to the meetings and being surrounded by people.

Christine awoke early Saturday morning alone. Erik had come to bed the previous night long after she had fallen asleep. She had hazy memories of him tossing and turning before succumbing to sleep in her arms. Sighing, she sprawled across the empty mattress and stretched. There was still a trace of his warmth left in the sheets. Erik was likely on a run to try to clear his mind of this anxiety. Some of it was beginning to work its way into her mind – not about the meetings, but a worry and concern for his wellbeing. She didn't want Erik to run himself ragged and send himself into a downward spiral.

Christine decided to get dressed and head to the gym to clear her own mind. About ten minutes into her yoga session, Erik came into the gym. He was flushed and sweaty from the run – his mask nowhere in sight. One of the burdens in her mind lifted; he was comfortable enough around her that he was beginning to wear his mask less. They made brief eye contact but said nothing. He walked over to the dummy in the corner and watched as she transitioned between the Warrior poses. His head tilted as he began wrapping his hands. Christine tried to ignore his gaze as she moved into the tree pose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

There was rustling in the corner. Focus. Then she heard his bare feet pad across the hardwood floor toward her. He must have taken off his shoes. She peeked one eye open. He stood with his hands on his hips, simply watching her.

"What?" she asked quietly.

"Does it—Why do you do yoga?"

She dropped the tree pose and turned to face him. "I find it calming. It helps me clear my mind. And it keeps me limber." Christine smirked slightly. "Do you want to try?"

He seemed hesitant.

"Come on, Erik." She took him by the arm and pulled him onto her yoga mat. "We'll begin with child's pose." She got on her knees next to him and demonstrated. They breathed deeply in unison. She walked him through some calming beginner's poses, running her fingers along his spine to remind him to arch his back in cat pose or touching beneath his navel as he pressed his pelvis upward in bridge pose. He began to lose himself in the exercise. By the end, his eyes were closed and his breathing was even and calm.

"How do you feel?" Christine asked when they finished."

"Good," he said, sounding surprised.

"Namaste."

Erik chuckled lightly. "Now let me show you how I relieve my stress."

He led her over to the kickboxing dummy in the corner.

"Erik, I don't know any—"

"I'll show you," he said as he wrapped her hands. Once he was satisfied, he taught her the basics – how to stand, how to hold her fist as she punched to avoid injury, how to use her body weight to get the most out of a punch. He demonstrated a punch-kick combo and walked her through the motions.

"So do you do kickboxing to let out anger and stress?" Christine asked, stepping away from the dummy to catch her breath.

Erik thought for a moment. "Yes. But it's also a way for me to clear my mind, like yoga does for you. I focus solely on the technique and physicality of it all and I can forget about the deadlines and meetings for a while."

By the time they finished, it was mid-morning and they were exhausted. They shared a shower and decided to make a large brunch before getting back to work. The afternoon turned into a blur of paperwork and edits for Erik and graphite and charcoal for Christine.

That night, Erik sat in bed and tried to turn off his brain by reading someone else's writing. It was a new novel; one Christine had picked out from his library, read, loved, and suggested he read. Surprisingly enough, he hadn't read every last book in his possession, which was both disappointing and exciting. He would love to boast that he had read everything in his fair-sized library – what an accomplishment that would be! Then again, it was always nice to have something new to turn to, some unexplored writing to discover and be inspired by.

Next to him, Christine closed her journal and set it on the bedside table. She shifted down onto her pillow and pulled up the covers to her chest. Once she was settled, Erik closed his book and set it on his bedside table. As he leaned over to turn off the lamp, he felt Christine's palms plant gently on either side of his spine. He could feel her light breath against his bare skin. He wasn't quite sure what she was doing, but he held still – propped up on his side – as he waited to find out. Her fingers trailed down his back. His muscles tensed slightly as she felt the topography of his skin, trying to read the Braille of his scars. One finger gently traced the largest – a silent question akin to her curiosity over the scar on his wrist. His body relaxed against her hands.

Erik took a breath. "My father hated me."

Her fingers stilled.

"He became depressed a decade after my mother died. At first, he was absent, negligent. I first began to question whether or not my father loved me when I was ten years old. When he became an alcoholic, something snapped. He would go on drunken rages, yelling and screaming and throwing things to scare me. But he never laid a hand on me. Until I turned thirteen."

Erik glanced at his mask on the bedside table. Remembering. Christine's hand wrapped around his arm tenderly. His eyes closed.

"The first time he hit me, it surprised us both. I didn't believe my father loved me very much, but I didn't peg him as that kind of man. I don't imagine he thought of himself that way either. But it kept happening. I think it was his way of letting out his anger, resentment, and pain. It was cathartic for him to abuse me. If I did anything to set him off, he would reach for the belt or the switch and I knew… eventually I knew he hated me."

He felt her nose, then her eyelashes against his back. She kissed his spine.

"Two years of silence. Who could I tell? Who would listen? When someone finally noticed the abuse, I escaped one hell and was tossed carelessly into another."

Christine pressed her face against his back and he could feel her tears. He wiped at his own face. "Don't cry for me, Christine."

"I'm not."

"I didn't tell you this so I could garner your pity."

"Erik, I know. I know you don't want that from me. I just…" She trailed off and Erik finally rolled back over to face her. She took a breath and looked into his eyes.

"I'm crying because I can't understand how anyone could look into your eyes or feel the hurt beneath your scars or read your writing or listen your thoughts and not love you… like I do."

He looked carefully into her eyes, searching for a moment of regret for the words she had just spoken. There was none.

He reached up and touched the side of her face, gently wiping away a tear with his thumb. His lips paused in front of hers for a moment as he breathed in her scent. As Erik kissed her, he became aware of every piece of himself – every limb, every tendon, every bone, every cell. Every word he had written, every song, every moment of anguish, every feeling of exhilaration. And every piece came together as her words washed over him again and again.

His heart pounded against his chest, and as Christine kissed the tears on his mangled face, he accepted what was true.

"I love you, Christine."

Erik woke up the next morning to Christine's eyes examining him. They said nothing at first, just looking at each other. Her gaze swam across his features, into his own eyes, at his hair, his ears, his lips.

Finally, he asked, "What is it?"

"Would… Would you mind modeling for me?"

Erik stared at her for a moment. Then he chuckled. "That would be the first time someone has asked me that."

Christine chewed on her lip, considering his comment.

"I suppose you've drawn me before…" he finally said.

"What? I—"

"Come on, Christine. I notice you studying me while you're sketching away in the corner. I'm not blind."

"Oh. Does that bother you?"

"No, it's… flattering coming from you. That I could be a muse."

Her cheeks flushed slightly and she gathered her hair over one shoulder.

"Am I your muse, Christine?" he asked in surprise.

"Kind of," she mumbled, rolling away.

Erik grabbed her waist and pulled her back. She looked up at him with embarrassed eyes. He ran his fingers along her pink cheek before kissing her.

"It would be this muse's honor to model for you."

When she had gathered and set up her drawing supplies, Christine turned to her model. Erik stood in front of the bed, waiting for her instructions.

"Boxers off," she said, straining to sound professional.

He looked into her eyes for a moment before taking them off. Christine moved past him to adjust the sheet, draping it down the side of the bed. She tossed all but one of the pillows out of sight.

"Lie down." He obeyed. "Lean up on your left elbow, turning your torso slightly toward me. Right knee bent." She lightly touched his body with each instruction. Once he was posed to her liking, Christine kissed his knee and sat on her usual chair. "Look to that corner," she said, pointing to his left. Her head tilted, observing. "Never mind, look here." His grey eyes gazed into hers, sending her heart into a frenzy. Finally she could look into his eyes as she drew them.

"Hold very still. Don't move, don't adjust."

Erik took a deep breath and exhaled.

She picked up her larger sketchbook and a pack of charcoal pencils and began. She lost herself in the drawing almost immediately. Basic rough structure of the composition, directional lines, filling out body parts, muscle anatomy. Finally, she made it to the details. Dark, messy hair. Intense eyes. The shadows and texture of his twisted cheek. Scars flecking his shoulders. Muscled chest, stomach, and legs. The hair on his chest and the trail of it down to his manhood.

Erik felt the heat as blood began to pulse toward his groin. He promised himself he wouldn't ruin this moment for her… but she kept staring. And not in the way an artist does. Her eyes lingered on his dick longer than her drawing. Then she would look back to his eyes knowingly. Like she wanted him to fall apart under her gaze. Erik clenched his jaw slightly, accepting her challenge. She licked her lips. It seemed like the harder his resolve got, the harder he became. Christine glanced down at him once more and his cock twitched in anticipation.

"Careful, Destler," she said looking down at the sketch, "your professionalism is showing." All too finished playing this game, he let his hand slowly snake down to touch himself. "Erik, don't move!"

"Too late." He gave her a wicked smile and started stroking.

"Stop! I want to finish," she whined.

"You stop. I want to finish," he insinuated, stroking faster.

"Fine."

She tossed her drawing to the floor, crawled onto the bed, and slapped his hand away. Erik leaned back on his elbows. His smile faded as he watched her settle on her knees between his legs. Her charcoal-stained hands touched his thighs and slowly slid upward. Her fingers grasped his waist for a moment, thumbs stroking against his hip bones. It was… sensual. Christine's potent touch traveled back down his thighs and Erik let out a mixture between a sigh and a groan. She wasn't even touching his dick yet, which now sat flushed and hard against his abdomen. She was driving him crazy.

She grazed his cock every now and then, getting closer and closer to relieving the burning desire deep within him. Christine sat back and looked down at it with such… curiosity. Her head tilted slightly before she reached for him. A single finger touched the base and slid up all the way to the tip, pressing him more firmly against his stomach. Erik tried to control his breath as he watched her. She repeated the action, but with two fingers, then three. When she wrapped her hand around him entirely, Erik let out a sharp breath. She firmly grasped his length for a good twenty seconds, just holding him. The pressure was exquisite but maddening. His hips jerked toward her instinctively, begging for movement or friction, begging for release. Christine gazed down at him in fascination; then she looked into his eyes and smiled mischievously. He bucked against her again and took a handful of the sheets. "Please…"

She stroked him slowly at first, meticulously. Making sure no part of him went untouched. Then she tried variations on speed: quick, quick, slow. She liked watching Erik's reactions to each adjustment – the hitch in his breathing or the muscles in his abdomen contracting or his head tilting back. She massaged his sack with one hand and gripped him just below the head with the other. Her thumb circled around his tip and caressed the clear liquid that was beginning to spill from within him.

"Oh my god," Erik moaned.

"Mmmmm… you better wait…" Christine teased, leaning down and gently blowing a light stream of air along his length. He collapsed back onto the pillow, running a hand through his hair roughly. Then she took an experimental lick.

Erik sat back up, wide-eyed, and stared at Christine as her tongue swirled around his tip. "Chrrrrisss – " She took him into her mouth and hummed around the sensitive head. "tinnnnnnnnee…" He growled and took a handful of her hair. Her head began to bob up and down, hand pumping the rest of his cock.

"Fuck." Erik's head tilted back again and he began thrusting with her instinctively. Faster and faster. She loved watching him come undone as she made love to him with her mouth. A thin sheen of sweat coated his forehead. A vein bulged on his neck.

He let out a moan. "I'm coming… Christine, I'm – " He was breathless.

Her mouth released him with a pop, but she kept her hand wrapped around his length with a pulsating pressure. His entire body convulsed in ecstasy as his orgasm spilled forth. He groaned after each pleasured shudder; this high continuing longer than he was used to.

Christine watched as his toes slowly uncurled, the muscles in his legs relaxed, and his breathing slowed. He sat up to stare at her.

"That was—" Erik took a steadying breath. "You should draw me more often," he said. She laughed as he pulled her close and kissed her. "Now I'll draw you."

By Sunday afternoon, Christine was satisfied with the five pieces she wanted to submit to the gallery. They were all done in charcoal and graphite on various sizes of paper. She included the completed figure drawing of Erik posed on the bed, a collection of hand studies in the spirit of Da Vinci, a reworked version of Erik sleeping (aptly entitled Fever Dream), a detailed portraiture of Annette's eyes, and one self portrait. She had a more singular vision for her show – if her work was accepted, that is – but she wanted to showcase a variety of styles and skill.

She filled out the application, took photos of the pieces, and emailed it all to Studio 801. Once she hit send, Christine began to feel uneasy. Perhaps she should have taken the pieces in… drawings are better viewed in person. Should she have done more than just a monochrome medium? Was submitting a study a stupid idea?

Christine looked through the five completed pieces and stopped on Fever Dream. This was the essence of the show she wanted to do. Gorgeous shadows and shading, interesting textures of the fabrics, a simplicity to the subject matter and content, and Erik both with and without his mask. Realizing that he was her muse was like discovering electricity – it had always existed but it was thrilling to stumble upon. Drawing him pushed her as an artist and simply being around him inspired her. She wanted to be able to tell a story through him, not necessarily his own, but he could be a vessel to tell their story. Elements like his mask and his scars and his hands… they meant so much and held different weight for Erik and herself. Christine wanted to do his pain and beauty justice.

She shuffled the papers into a portfolio and began to clean and reorganize her desk. There was no reason to be uneasy about the submission. She loved her artwork and the pieces of significance they held. If the gallery didn't want to tell their story, then she would find another way. Even if it meant hanging them on her own wall.

Both of the Girys came to the house first thing in the morning on Monday. Christine and Annette needed to finish cleaning and preparing the library and still had to do all of the grocery shopping before Erik's team came on Wednesday. Meg was going to work with Erik for the next two days and get everything finalized for the week. She would be staying in Christine's room, which Christine found comical – how was there not an extra guest bedroom in that massive house? Then she remembered that it was Erik's house.

There was such a flurry of anticipation that Christine completely forgot about her anxieties over the submission and how much she hated cleaning. She and Annette swept and mopped the floors, dusted the shelves, and cleaned the windows all morning. They barely spoke but worked with the perfect ease of a team, maneuvering the conference table and chairs. By noon the library was clean and completely ready for meetings.

They made a quick and easy lunch, knowing it would barely be touched anyways. Christine brought two plates to Erik's office. Before she opened the door, she could hear that his voice was raised. She braced herself and hoped he wasn't yelling at Meg. But when she went inside, she realized he was on the phone – Meg was casually typing away on her laptop, unfazed by Erik's apparent aggravation. Christine placed Meg's plate on the table next to her, she received it with a nod and a smile.

"I told you to confirm them two weeks ago," Erik snapped. "I don't care—" He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Christine noticed that the sleeves of his Oxford shirt were already rolled up to his elbows. Not a good sign.

"His agent Oliver didn't confirm everyone's hotel rooms," Meg whispered. "Erik pays for everything when the team meets here."

Christine's eyes widened. It would be impossible reschedule all of this within a reasonable timeframe, which would delay the publishing timetable and ultimately the release date.

Erik's voice seemed to drop an octave. "Mr. Cunningham, I ask very little of you as my publicist and agent, and you have done nothing but disappoint me for the past two years. Don't bother coming on Wednesday."

He ended the call and slowly turned around. Meg stopped typing. Erik seemed to notice that Christine was in the room for the first time.

"Meg, have Nadir call the hotel. He can sweet talk his way into a short notice reservation."

"Will do."

Christine took a tentative step forward and set the plate on his desk.

"Thank you," he sighed.

She went around his desk and stood in front of him. She was glad he fired Oliver – he was a worthless agent. But he still needed one, especially right now. "Erik, what are you going to do about replacing Oliver? I know you don't need the interviews and talk shows, but an agent can take care of so much more for your book's publicity."

"I don't know. Nadir and Meg are already expanding the limits of their job descriptions for me. I don't have time to go through a hiring process. I need someone here for this week. I need someone now."

"You know," Meg's voice came from behind them. She set her cell phone down. "There is someone here who has a background in PR."

:D Please review!