Rated M for a reason. I know at least three of you are doing fist pumps now. NDBRs: the last bit changed a little.

I know I haven't updated in two weeks and I'm really sorry. I'm writing 8 different stories, so forgive me if I don't have an update every few days. I do try really hard to keep up, but you must remember that I'm human, I have two small children, it's baseball season, and I have editors who think I work on serious writing all day long.

Rose37

An hour and a half later Erik planted one final kiss on Christine's nose and watched her eyes blissfully close. Her angel face was still cupped in his hand, her massive head of hair strewn about the pillow in wild abandoned, just as they had been for the evening.

"Bodies entwining," she murmured. "Defenseless and…"

A little more talkative than he would have hoped, but as Erik rolled onto his side he was far too content to worry about what Christine said.

"Oh, how perfect it would be to rest my head upon your chest."

"Yes," he agreed, fixated by her firm ivory breast that the blanket failed to cover.

"Sunlight upon the stark white linens, the smell of spring in the air, the sound of our brilliant children playing in back of the cottage…what a perfect life." She closed her eyes and stretched her hands over her head, drawing her bosom upward. He stared unabashedly, the stirring in his loins which had delivered them to the seat of passion finding itself with a second wind.

"Perfect," he whispered.

His thumb ran over her pebbled nipple and her body responded. He turned to is side and circled the hardened peak with his finger until she sighed in delight and moved closer.

"And a garden, and a large orchard, and a stream with a little boat we can row. Or perhaps a quaint lake with lots of fish in it. I'd like a boat, wouldn't you?"

"Boat," he said, reduced to caveman intellect as she kicked at the bed sheet until it covered only her hips.

His lover was stretched out, her stomach concave. Greedily he ran his hands along her ribs, swirled his fingertips around her bellybutton. Such a soft, warm palate of flesh, he thought. Such a work of art craving his artist's hands.

One hand cupped her small breast as he draped his leg over hers, feeling his power over her at a primal level. She willingly submitted beneath him, her legs slightly parted, soft breaths leaving her lips as she turned her face and kissed his cheek.

"What a wonderful life," she whispered.

His hand skimmed down her flat stomach, slid beneath the blanket, and caressed her inner thigh, his mind barely able to comprehend that she was his—willingly. He kissed her hungrily, needing every ounce of her being to join with his.

Soft, dreamy sighs turned to low, urgent moans as he explored her body. The pleasure was instantly returned, which only heightened each sensation. Within moments he was fully aroused, and by the way she writhed beneath his long fingers, he knew she was as well.

Christine guided him to her womanhood and released a soft cry as he filled her. With her fingers pressing into his shoulders, she cradled him between her thighs.

Her hand cupped his face, the warmth of her flesh a welcomed substitution for his mask.

"Open your eyes," she whispered. "Watch what you do to me, how you make me feel."

When he gazed down at her, he barely recognized her face. She was more beautiful, more alive than ever. He felt her nipples graze his chest with each thrust, felt her legs lock around his hips, keeping him near her.

"I love you, Christine," he said before he kissed her hard.

Her body trembled and she held him tighter, clinging to him. At last he felt her walls contract around his manhood and he could not hold back a moment longer. Together they unraveled, arms tangled around one another, lips caught, tongues caressing in mutual bliss.

"Anywhere you go let me go too," he whispered as he smoothed her hair back from her face.

Christine smiled and closed her eyes. "That's all I want from you."

-o-

After several more hours in bed, Erik decided it was time to confront the stagehand. With Christine still asleep, he dressed and donned his cloak. With one last look, he ascended the opera house stairs.

It would only take a moment to kill Bouquet. When Christine awoke, they could enjoy a peaceful supper, free of roving eyes and meddlesome stagehands.

-o-

Christine woke to the sound of a door closing. She instantly sat up in bed and gazed around the open room, finding only the hideous monkey with its cymbals. The little beast stared at her with its enigmatic gaze, and though she knew it wasn't real, she lifted the bed sheet to her neck and faced it away from her.

"Erik?" she called.

There was no answer, save for her echo.

Once she dressed, she tiptoed into the other room and found the pipe organ untouched.

"My angel of music," she mused. "Father once spoke of an angel…"

An idea hatched in her brain. It had been a long time since she'd paid a visit to her father's grave. But, now that she'd found love, there was no better opportunity to leave her father flowers and tell him of her wonderful lover. Of course, she wished to keep it to sensible topics her father would appreciate, such as he was good at playing the organ and managing finances. That he could send her into toe-curling ecstasy seemed inappropriate graveyard conversation.

Dressed, she skipped up the stairs and entered the stable where a gray haired man gave her a peculiar look, either because she was dressed in a rather low-necked gown or because she'd clearly stolen a handful of roses from a vase in the hallway.

"To my father's grave," she announced.

"Excuse me?"

"I would like to go to my father's grave."

"Who'n the hell is your father?"

Taken aback, she pursed her lips and thought a moment. "Surely you've heard of Gustav Daae!"

"Nope. Doesn't sound familiar."

"But he's—"

"Which cemetery?"

"I don't believe I know the name of it. I've always called it To My Father's Grave."

"What do the statues look like?"

"Well…they're…somewhat…"

"Naked?"

"Yes." She blushed.

"St. Olga of Perpetual Longing. Into the carriage. I'll drive you at once."

She happily seated herself and straightened her dress.

"Ouf!" cried the coach driver.

Christine glanced back but couldn't see past the side of the carriage. "Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine, Christine."

She sat back and grinned to herself. "I'm ready whenever you are."

The coachman stepped into his seat, dressed in a rather elaborate cape and a scarf which covered his face.

"You've changed rather swiftly."

He glanced back. "Where to?"

"Don't you recall? St. Olga of Perpetual Longing." She sniffed her roses. "To my father's grave."

"Yes, of course."

"My, your voice has changed," she said.

"The better to speak with you, my dear." He slapped the reins against the two horses' backs and they set off through Paris.

"Yes, of course. The better to speak with me." She turned her head and held her breath. He also smelled as though he'd swallowed half the wine cellar.