Here it is, Angel and Christine's wedding night and the reason for the change to an M rating. Of course, it can't be all hearts and flowers, there's a bit of angst too. Enjoy, and please review. After this chapter, there are only four more left.

At Long Last

Christine slid her arm around her Angel's waist under his cloak as they said their good-byes to Cecilié, Meg and Tristan. Upon the group's return to the opera house, they had celebrated with champagne and cake in Cecilié's rooms. After far too many toasts, Christine's head was beginning to spin, and she had gratefully let her Angel find an excuse for them to leave. The door to Madame Giry's apartment closed behind them at last, and they were alone in the deserted hallway.

"Oh, Angel," she murmured, leaning heavily against him and fighting back a yawn.

Smiling down at her, he pressed a kiss to her curls. "I know it's late, my love, and we both have a big day tomorrow." He led her swiftly through the corridors and into the hidden passageways that led to his home. Their home, she reminded herself, at least until tomorrow night.

She stepped out in front of him, turning to face him. Her Angel came to a stop, his left eyebrow raising in a silent question. "Kiss me," Christine demanded, her arms going around his neck.

With a low chuckle, he obliged her. "You realize," he said when he broke the kiss to take a breath, "that the more often you stop us, the longer it will take to finally get to our wedding night."

She smirked at him, her hand sliding down his chest to rest on his stomach. "In a hurry are you?" Laughing, she took off at a run down the familiar hallway.

He caught up with her just before she reached the gondola. She let out a breathless squeal as he grabbed her about the waist, swinging her around until her back was against the wall. He planted a hand on the stone on either side of her shoulders. "And just where do you think you are going?"

Christine's hand found the back of his head, drawing him down for a slow, exploratory kiss. Her Angel moaned into her mouth, moving closer. Heat radiated across the millimeters still separating them, and need welled up inside her like water from a spring.

They had touched and teased each other before but there had always been an invisible line between them, an unconscious but mutually agreed upon boundary. She crossed it now, her fingers curling around his hip, closing the gap between them. "Christine..." he growled, the way he rolled the "R" sending shivers down her spine. His hands dropped to her waist as he grazed his teeth across the flesh of her throat. She felt wild and brave as she grasped his fingers, guiding his hands up.

He made an attempt to stroke her breasts through her dress, but the stiff fabric and whale-bone of her corset prevented her from feeling anything. She groaned in frustration. Her Angel leaned his forehead against hers, his hands coming to rest lightly on her bare shoulders underneath her cloak, his fingers stroking her skin. "The man who invented the corset should be shot," he murmured. "I should be shot for creating this dress." He didn't move for a long moment, and his stillness seemed to calm the tingling sensation that fluttered just underneath her skin. She let out a sigh, and he kissed her temple. "Come, my dear, home is only a short boat ride away."

Taking her hand, he led her to the gondola and helped her in. Instead of sitting though, she stood behind him as he poled the little boat through the waterways. She leaned against him, her hand on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against the soft wool of his cape. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the feel of his muscles moving underneath her. He was her strong, beautiful Angel...her husband.

The silence was broken only by the faint rippling sound of the boat gliding through the water. The noise soothed her and by the time they reached the lair, Christine was nearly asleep standing up. Angel gave Christine a hand out of the gondola then took her cloak. "Wait here," he said mysteriously.

She was puzzled, but did as he said. He crossed the lair, dodging the trunks and piles of paper taking up most of the space, then ascending into the bedroom.

Christine walked over to one of the mirrors and examined her reflection. Marriage seemed to have left her rather disheveled looking. Her face was pale and her eyes still puffy from the tears she had shed at the church. Her hair had slipped its pins on one side and she took the rest of them out, running her fingers through it to get rid of the tangles. Leaning over, she gave her head a good shake, hearing a few more hairpins clink to the floor. When she looked back up at her image in the glass, Angel was standing behind her, a bemused expression on his face. He had discarded his cloak, frock coat and vest she noticed as he held out his hand to her.

"If you'll come with me, Madame Noir," he requested, giving her a gentle smile.

Christine laid her hand in his, following him in silence across the room to the stairs leading up to the bedroom. "If you would close your eyes, please," he said, his warm voice sending a shiver through her.

She did as she was told, tentatively searching for each step with her toes before setting her foot down. Arriving at the top without incident, she paused at the sudden scent of flowers. "Angel?"

"Open your eyes, Christine."

The room was filled with roses of every size and color. Rose petals were strewn on the floor in a scarlet pathway to the swan bed. More petals, white this time, were scattered over the crimson sheets. Candles flickered in two large candelabrums, shedding enough light to give the room a golden, ethereal glow. "Oh, Angel," she whispered, feeling tears fill her eyes for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. "It's perfect."

Something seemed to burst into flame within him at her words. She turned toward him, a smile curving her lips, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. Slowly he brought his hands up, threading his fingers through her hair, his thumbs brushing across her cheeks.

He kissed her softly, feeling her lips yield and part to him, her tongue grazing against his. A shiver went through him. His hands moved to her neck and he stroked her silken skin as her fingers tugged the knot from his ascot and let it drop to the floor.

His fingertips drew aimless patterns along her bare shoulders as he continued to kiss her, desire growing in the pit of his stomach. Her touch seemed to burn him through the fine lawn of his shirt, her nimble fingers slipping the buttons free of their holes.

Her lips left his, trailing over his chin and down his neck, her teeth nipping at the hollow of his throat. He let out a hissed breath, his hands gliding down her back, searching for the laces holding her dress closed.

Her hands slipped inside the opening of his shirt, the soft pads of her fingers brushing over his nipples. "Christine!" he gasped, his eyes going wide at the electrifying sensation. She smiled up at him then kissed the point of his collarbone as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders. He trembled, passion and frustration both building inside him. She would have him completely stripped in a moment and he had not yet found the tie to her dress.

She dipped her head lower, planting little kisses over his chest. The silky caress of her hair against his already overly sensitive skin was too much for him to bear.

"Christine, stop!" It came out as a ragged snarl. He grabbed her hands as they headed for the buttons on his trousers, his fingers digging into her wrists. She looked up at him, her expression hurt and confused. He took a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. Letting go of her hands, he grasped her by the shoulders and turned her gently so that her back was toward him. His fingers went to the lacing.

"Oh," she breathed softly, the hint of a laugh coloring the single word. Reaching up, she pulled her mass of chocolate curls to one side and over her shoulder.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "Thank you," he murmured, feeling a semblance of control returning. Or perhaps not. The tangle of laces was knotted. Somehow he did not think stalking off in search of a knife would be appropriate. The knot stubbornly refused to yield to his trembling hands, and Angel felt all his plans for a perfect wedding night slipping away.

A drop of water appeared as if by magic on Christine's bare shoulder.

"Angel?" She turned to face him, her hand going to his cheek. More tears dripped down his face, colliding with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm ruining everything. I can't get the knot and my hands are shaking and I have no idea what I'm doing…."

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, her gaze searching his face. Her hand moved up slightly, her thumb tracing a half circle below his left eye. She finally said, "Have you slept at all these past three days?"

He bit his lip, shaking his head slightly. Christine made an exasperated noise, but he got the feeling it was directed more toward herself than at him. Her fingers stroked his face gently. "I'm not starting out very well as your wife, am I, if I didn't even notice you not sleeping."

"There was so much to do­­–" he interjected, not wanting her to take all the blame on herself.

"Yes, and I should have been helping you," she snapped, her self anger now fully evident. "My God, you're still recovering from a near fatal injury! I should have—"

"Christine, please," he said as he took both her hands in his. "What's done is done." She said something under her breath he didn't catch then she slipped her arms about his waist and leaned her head against his bare chest.

"I think," she said quietly, "that perhaps our first time should be saved for a night when we will both be awake enough to enjoy it." As if to emphasize her point, she yawned hard enough that Angel could feel her shudder against him.

He held her a moment longer, a mixture of disappointment and relief filling him. She was right; they should wait. But some small part of him still felt like he had failed her.

Christine moved back a bit and kissed him lightly. "Now perhaps you can find a knife or some scissors and get me out of this dress?"

Several minutes later, Christine was free of the offending gown and Angel watched as she packed it away carefully in the sole trunk remaining in the bedroom. He undressed slowly, resisting the urge to turn his back to her as he had done for so many nights. She was his wife now; he was allowed to look.

Christine smiled at him as she unfastened her garters and rolled her cream-colored stockings neatly down her trim legs. A surge of pure lust shot through him, and Angel found himself having to look away to keep some shred of control over himself. He concentrated on changing his own clothes, and when he finally dared look at her again, she was demurely clad in the same cotton nightgown she had worn for the past month.

He blew out most of the candles and seated himself in the bed with a sigh, resting his back against the headboard. Christine sat down on the edge, running a brush through her hair. The glow from the candles outlined her curves through her thin shift and streaked her hair with strands of gold. Her simple beauty stole the breath from his lungs, and he covered his eyes to stem the desire flooding his veins. He could feel her curious gaze on his skin. "Angel?"

He peered at her through his fingers. "You are a tease, Madame. An incorrigible tease. Give me the brush."

Her eyes widened slightly and she grinned at him. Crawling onto the mattress, she settled herself between his splayed legs, her back to him. Taking his hand, she pressed the hairbrush into it. "Be gentle," she admonished him.

Angel leaned forward, planting a kiss on her shoulder. "Always, my love." He carded his fingers through her curls, working through the major tangles with his hands before using the brush on the remaining snarls. Her hair was like raw silk to the touch and full of the scent of roses and the vanilla soap she used. He leaned forward, burying his face in it for a moment then he separated it into three sections and plaited it for her. He kissed the back of her neck when he was done. "There, that ought to keep it from tangling over night."

Letting out a happy sigh, Christine leaned back against him and Angel slid his arms around her, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "I should have you do that for me every night."

"It would be my pleasure," he responded, letting go of her enough to lie down fully on the mattress. She lay down next to him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, her arm around his waist.

He almost believed she had succumbed to sleep when she said, "May I ask you something, Angel?"

"Of course."

There was a long moment of silence, and he could feel her hesitancy. Finally, Christine said, "When you were fighting with my dress earlier, you said you had no idea what you were doing. Did you truly mean that?"

Angel wasn't quite sure how to answer her, and an embarrassed flush made his cheeks burn. "I'm not sure what you're asking," he responded.

Now Christine was squirming beside him, the subject they were dancing around making her as uncomfortable as he was. "Are you–are you–I mean, you haven't–because I'm—" She buried her face in the curve of his shoulder. "Forget I asked," she said, her voice muffled.

He sighed, stroking her hair gently. "Are you trying to ask me if I've been with a woman before?"

She shifted in the bed, raising up on one elbow to peer down at him. "Yes, I just–I just wanted to know if there was anyone before me..." she whispered.

Tears prickled his eyes and he blinked them back, swallowing the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "No, Christine," he answered softly. "You are the first. The first woman I ever kissed, and the first woman, the only woman, I will eventually make love to."

She plopped down on the bed again, on her back this time, staring up at the ceiling. He waited patiently, knowing she wasn't finished with her questions. Rolling toward him again, she asked, "But why? I mean, I'm not naive–"

"No, you're not," he agreed.

"I know that men are not like women, that they can't control their...urges...as well as we can, or at least that's what Cecilié has always told me. And I know that men without wives or mistresses can go to a fille de joie to–satisfy those urges." Christine shook her head, frustrated at not being able to explain. "I would think that you–that they would have–.that they wouldn't have turned you away if you offered them enough francs–surely they have seen stranger things than a man in a mask..." Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of the expression on his face. "I'm saying it all wrong," she whispered, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm hurting you..."

She touched his cheek, her fingertips brushing away his tears. She kissed him, too, kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Finally she wound her arms around him, holding him tightly, laying her head on his shoulder.

He rolled toward her, so that they were face to face, brushing his lips against hers gently. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her close, pressing his damaged cheek against her hair. Several minutes passed before he spoke, his voice husky with long suppressed emotion. "I thought about it many times over the years. I–I even went once, to a bordel, 10,000 francs burning a hole in my purse." A tremor went through him and he felt Christine's arms tighten around his back.

"I stood outside for hours, watching men come and go, watching the shadows behind the curtains. It was the only way, I thought, the only way I would ever know what it was like to be with a woman. And yet I was afraid, though not of how they might look at me or what they would whisper among themselves once I was gone. I was afraid that somehow it would feel wrong, that I would have spent my life up to that point not knowing, and that once I entered that doorway, once I had lain with a woman, the reality of it would never live up to what I imagined. And I knew in my heart that mindless rutting wasn't what I wanted. I wanted love." A tear dripped from his cheek into her hair.

"Angel," she whispered, "You don't–"

He shook his head, moving back enough to look into her eyes. "I decided that I would rather not know. I decided–I decided that I would deny myself the joys of the flesh for the chance to love someone, if only from the shadows and if only for a moment." He took a shuddering breath, awaiting her response.

Christine stared into his eyes for several heartbeats, her hand on his cheek. "You've found your someone to love–and she loves you back." She kissed him then, her lips warm and soft and tasting of tears.

"Christine–"

She put two fingers to his lips, gently silencing him. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"I did it for you earlier. Close your eyes."

He did as she requested, feeling her squirm about on the mattress for what seemed an eternity, but was probably only a few seconds.

The unexpected brush of her bare skin against his was soft as velvet. "Christine?" he whispered in shock, opening his eyes. Her face was close enough to his that he could feel the gentle warmth of her breath on his cheek, her eyes dark with desire. Her fingertips ghosted across his chest and down, and he let out a gasp as she touched him intimately.

"Let me love you, my Angel," she breathed. "Let me give you what you've waited for all these years."

"Oh, Christine..." he murmured, pressing his lips to her throat, his hands stroking her warm skin. Her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding his kisses lower. He ran his tongue along the defined line of her collarbone, feeling her shiver. He moved ever downward, his mouth finding the small swell of her breast, his lips closing over her dusky pink nipple. She cried out as he suckled her instinctively, her fingertips digging into his scalp and his shoulder. As he flicked his tongue against her tight nipple, her hips bucked into him, the downy brush of hair against his belly startling him.

Angel raised his head to look down at her, truly seeing her fully for the first time. His fantasies could not compare to the ethereal beauty that was his Christine, his wife. He ran his hand down her side, tracing the line of her body. Everything about her was long and lean, from the firm muscles of her graceful arms to the slight curve of her hips to the elegant length of her dancer's legs. He stroked his hand up the inside of her thigh, but she caught his wrist before his fingers found her body's secrets.

"Not yet, my love," she sighed in his ear. A hand on his shoulder pushed him down on his back on the mattress as she leaned over him. "While it's true we are both novices at this game," she said with a sly smile, "you are the one who has been denied even the simplest of touches for far too long. Be still now, and let me give you joy."

She had kissed him numerous times over the past month, and Angel had kept a careful count of them, treasuring each new one as if it would be the last he would ever receive. Now he was lost in the deluge of her kisses as she caressed his face with her lips. Her hands flowed over his shoulders and down his body as her teeth nibbled at his throat. She kissed the center of his chest, her palm smoothing over his belly, a fingertip tracing the still healing wound that had brought them together.

"Christine," he moaned as her lips brushed the soft skin just below his navel. One hand clenched the bed sheets, the other her long braid as a shudder went through him. She rubbed her cheek against his stomach, her warm breath tickling. His chuckle turned into a groan of longing as she laid the flat of her hand on him lightly. His hips surged up against her palm, a wild cry erupting from his throat as her fingers curved around his hard length, sliding the silk he wore deliciously over his skin.

"God! Christine, please!" Angel begged her, unsure exactly what he was pleading for. Nimble fingers loosened the tie holding his pajama trousers closed. Thumbs hooked under the waistband and slowly drew them down his thighs and off.

She knelt at his feet, smiling up at him, the yellow light from the candles making her skin glow golden. Her braid he had so lovingly plaited was coming loose, her hair a corona of chestnut fire around her head. Angel inhaled slowly, afraid almost to breathe in the presence of this sensual goddess who looked upon him with such love in her dark eyes.

Her hands stroked down his right calf and grasped his ankle, lifting his heel to rest on her thigh. She caressed his foot, her fingers applying firm pressure, the sensation both delicious and unsettling at the same time. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The smile she gave him was secretive. "Touching you where no one's touched you before. It's a foot massage. Nothing is more wonderful after a long day of dancing."

"I can think of something I'd like massaged better," he murmured, raising up on his elbows to look at her.

"Oh?" She dragged a knuckle across his instep, and a jolt of pleasure traveled up his leg to center in his groin.

Gasping, Angel threw his head back as her hands glided up his lower legs, the arousing motion pausing briefly so she could kiss the inside of his knees. Fingertips trailed abstract patterns over his inner thighs, and he dug both hands into the sheets, trembling. "Please, Christine, please…" he rasped.

She moved up and to the side, lying down next to him, entwining her leg between his. He grasped the back of her head roughly, his lips connecting with hers in a forceful kiss. Christine met him eagerly, her tongue parting his lips as she devoured him. Her hand closed around him, and he moaned into her mouth as she stroked him firmly, her fingers pushing his foreskin back as her thumb slid over the sensitive crown. Whatever control Angel had left shattered at her bold touch. He thrust into her hand, his orgasm sending sparks of ecstasy shooting along his limbs as he gave a low, guttural cry.

He pressed his face into the curve of Christine's neck as the tremors faded. She cradled him in her arms, stroking his hair while she whispered words of love to him. When he came back to earth, she was kissing the damaged side of his face tenderly. He touched her under the chin, turning her face so he could look into her eyes. "How did you know?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "How did you know where to touch me?" For a moment Angel envisioned his wife with the boy, but he forced that image away. There were no secrets between them; she would have spoken of it if the boy had taken liberties with her.

Christine's tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip as her mouth curved in a smile. "You slept a great deal when you were ill, and I found your extensive library." Her cheek grew warm under his hand. "It was interesting reading. And," she continued a little more hesitantly, "I asked La Carlotta for advice."

Angel's eyes widened. "She would be the last person I would think you would seek out."

She gave a little shrug. "Ever since I told her I was leaving the opera house, she has been very kind to me. She is never without one or more suitors, so I simply asked her what her secret was. She was kind enough to tell me."

Bending his head down, Angel began to nibble at Christine's neck. "Hmm. And what was her advice?"

Her fingers tightened painfully in his hair as he gently sunk his teeth into her shoulder. "She said--she said to not be afraid of anything...oh, yes, Angel...to be bold in bed, because intercourse is so much better when both of us participate." She gave a little cry as he lightly pinched a nipple then swirled his tongue over it.

"Fascinating," he murmured against her skin, "but enough talking." He licked a trail from one breast to the other as his hand stroked down the gentle swell of her stomach. Her legs parted for him, and he ran his fingertips lightly over the soft curls there before seeking out her body's entrance. He explored slowly, finding a hard nub of flesh that caused her to sigh and moan when he stroked it.

Angel shifted his position on the bed, his breath hitching as his growing erection rubbed against her thigh. Christine clasped his arm tightly as his finger circled her entrance before slipping inside. She called out his name, and he leaned his cheek against her shoulder, an exquisite shiver going through him at the thought that soon he would be inside that warm, tight embrace.

She was the one begging for release now. "Angel, please, I need you," she cried.

He pulled her over onto her side facing him, wrapping her leg over his hip. They fumbled a kiss as she guided him to her. "Christine, I love you," he growled, and then they were one, two halves of the same soul finally united.

Their coupling was slow and sweet, the fevered rush of earlier gone, vanished as the flames of lust burned down to glowing coals, leaving nothing behind but the pure, true essence of their love. He gave himself up to her, freely, completely, heart and mind, body and soul. He was hers forever, her lover, her husband, her Angel, until death do them part.

Though as his body melted into hers and she called out his name, somehow even death did not seem strong enough to sever the ties binding them together.

He cradled her in his arms afterward, not wanting to let go. He closed his eyes, listened to her breathing slow into the steady rhythm of sleep, and for a moment he could still remember the shimmering vision appearing in his mind's eye as they had found completeness in each other. Two angels joined together in the throes of passion, one with wings as white as the foam on a storm-tossed sea, the other's feathers as dark as the storm that churned the waves.

He wondered what Christine had felt in that moment, if she had shared his waking dream. She stirred in his arms, pressing a sleepy kiss to his shoulder. Somehow that small gesture made him think she had.