Chapter Eight

Oh, Christine.

You are standing too close, love, much too close.

You do not reply to my gratitude for some time, simply standing as close as you can to me, before whispering, "Erik. . ."

"Yes?" But I do not give you a chance to respond. I warned you you were standing too close, Christine.

In one smooth motion, I turn around on the bench, so that I am facing you. I pull you down into my lap, and bury my face in the crook of your neck, pressing frantic kisses to the pale flesh there, breathing in your delicate scent, drinking in your softness, taking what I have been waiting for.

I come to my senses, and prepare myself to feel you pushing me away. But that does not happen. The scorn, the tears, the hatred, the fear, they do not come. They seem to be miles away, as you wrap your arms around my neck, pulling me closer, and release soft sighs of what even I could identify as pleasure. "Erik. . ." you breathe.

"Christine," I murmur against your skin, before abruptly pulling away, and gaze into your eyes, unable to mask fear of the rejection I know is coming.

But it did not, as you throw me a confused look. "What are you doing. . .?" you ask.

"I must stop this. . . Excuse my lack of propriety," I mumble, beyond embarrassed.

"Erik, propriety hardly matters," you reply sternly. "You set the rules down here. . . and we are husband and wife. . . what you just did is what many husbands do to their wives," you add, a blush rising in your cheeks.

"And does it embarrass you?" I ask, noticing.

"Not so much the action itself," you reply evenly.

"Does me initiating the action embarrass you, then?" I ask, my spirits sinking.

"No. . . It is my reaction which embarrasses me. . ."

"Oh," I say, surprised and pleased all at once. "That is nothing to be embarrassed of. . ."

"Then. . . you are not disgusted with me?"

Your innocence is charming in its greatness. "Do not be silly, Christine." Though, I had of course been fearing you would be disgusted with me, as well. I then realize that we are two very unseasoned people, in that way, and neither one of us knows much more than the other. Perhaps this is good, in a way.

You seem to grow flustered. "Well, I'd just thought — "

I place a finger to your lips to silence you, and if I'm not horribly mistaken, I swear that I feel you place the softest of kisses to it as I do so.

"Never mind this," I say. "Forget what has occurred, and let us go eat this feast which you have so graciously prepared."

"I don't want to forget. . ." you whisper as soon as I remove my finger from your lips.

I pretend not to hear you.