One Good Turn part XIII

.

.

.

Erik looked down. He should have hired them a handsome cab to take them back to the train, but she had refused, saying she had wanted—needed air.

Megan was clutching his hand tightly, but what was even more surprising was that he was holding her hand just as tight. "Megan…" He had no idea what to say to her. He had no idea if she even really understood what had transpired on stage; the play had been performed in conversive Russian.

"The parallels were striking were they not?" Erik studied her, specifically her tone of voice. It was high and brittle, her color still had yet to return.

"Megan—"

"And to have it end so messily with his suicide." She tutted. "Tolstoy does love using that device, doesn't he?" And she laughed, the sound hard and grating to Erik's sensitive ears.

"Ptichka—"

"Tell me, Erik. Do you ever think we will be free of reminders of her—of them. Tell me truly?" He stopped their forward progress, pulling them away from the street into a side alley.

"Megan, calm down." He drew her to him, hugging her tight. "Sometimes a play is just a play, my dear." She snorted. "It is true. And my past is truly just that."

He felt her head shake gently on his chest, "No it's not. How can it be when I sometimes sense her ghost all around us? She is my sister, Erik—in everything but blood— and I am scared, so very scared—" she quickly bit off what she was saying, and Erik's yellow eyes narrowed seeing much in the darkness.

"You are scared of what, ptichka?" his Voice was gentle and soothing as he held her.

"Nothing, it doesn't matter." He watched as she drew away from him and dabbed at her tears with her sides of her gloves. "It's just the onset of my monthly blues. Come on, I'm freezing." Grabbing his hand, she began walking towards the train once more.

And Erik had the foreboding feeling that he had just missed some integral piece of subtext, some critical information in regards to his mate, and he couldn't for the life of him think what it was.

.

.

.

Of all of the joys of being with Megan, and there were ever so many, the greatest of all was waking to holding her in his arms.

No longer was he traveling this life alone, and he was reminded of that each morning. She was beside him—would always be there beside him— and the thought always made him wake with a feeling of delighted wonder.

He was always the first one to rise for he would always feel her beginning to stir from sleep. He would complete his morning ablutions, don his mask and clothes, and be waiting for her when she awoke. This morning was no exception to their nearly week-old routine, save one. She had awakened before him, and turning in his embrace, looked up at him in the dull morning light. He quickly averted his unmasked face from her view.

"Erik—"

"Megan—Do not. Please. Do not." He felt her touch him gently on his scarred shoulder. He closed his eyes.

"Erik, please—"

"You are asking the impossible of me." She moved until she was staring straight at his deformity. He could feel her stare; he buried his head in the pillow coverings.

Still, he felt her gentle touch on the back of his skull; he tried not to flinch. "No, I'm asking as is my right as your partner and woman who loves you. Please, love. Let me see you—all of you."

"Erik is—" he felt her hand come to press tenderly to his lips, halting his speech.

"You are beautiful beloved. There is no spot in you. Remember, love?" Slowly, she began to peel away the bedclothes, and he began to tremble.

It was ridiculous, this fear.

Ridiculous, he knew, to give her so much of himself but deny her this knowledge—the sight of him fully exposed to her scrutiny.

But he couldn't get past the degradation, the inborn shame that was instilled in him upon his unfortunate birth. Her hands stilled and just held him, his exposed back. And tenderly, she began running her fingers up and down, sometimes trailing them along his spine, sometimes following a meandering journey of his lash marks, and sometimes she followed no discernible pattern at all.

The sweetest torture; her touch—it was more than tolerable but less than pleasurable for he was not used to having another touch him so. But she was trying to give him pleasure, administering it gently, and he trusted her.

This thought alone caused him to roll over slightly so that he was fully exposed to her—to the light. Her hands stilled momentarily, but then resumed their tracing meanderings undisturbed, not coming any closer to any part of his exposed face.

Still, his jaw and hands were held stiff, riddled with tension. His eyes shut tight.

Slowly, she worked each hand open, bending to gift each palm with a kiss and then once more tracing up and down his body, lightly gliding her soft fingertips across his torso, thighs and arms. And Erik did begin to relax, eventually gentling to her caress.

Still, she did not touch his face.

She had mapped it many a time before. Her hands knew each and every contour, each horrid, grotesquely-misshapen spot. Her hands knew which areas could tolerate being touched and which would inflict unintentional pain. She had made a study of it, he knew, in the dark. And he had also noticed that when they were intimately joined, her hands would inevitably stray to hold him at the back of his head and to the side of his neck where the scarring and skin degradation was mostly kept at a minimum.

But perhaps she could not bring herself to touch his face now that she was looking at it in the unforgiving light of day? Perhaps, the sight of it proved too much for her to take? His eyes flew open to meet her own, needing to know the truth.

What he saw made his breath catch and his heart skip. The look of utter love and acceptance on her own perfect face humbled him, left him bared fully before her, not in shame but in love—as her equal—her mate. There could be no more masks between them now, he knew. He would never have to hide; never have to shield himself from her scrutiny. For she loved him; grotesquely misshapen, scarred and damaged as he was—she loved him.

Reaching, he drew her until she was lying fully supine upon him, and she laid her head upon his chest, right over the beat of his heart. And her fingers still traced meandering patterns on his skin, this time moving toward his face, loving worshiping him with her hands. As for him, Erik relished feeling the velvet-soft texture of her back and sides beneath the loose nightgown she wore. Her feminine curves pressed so temptingly against his own flesh.

Her caresses became more heated, more arousing in their intent, and Erik smiled, letting her feel and examine him as he quickened to life in her hold. She cupped him and drew him into her little palm. Her hands, already so very knowledgeable in knowing just what he liked—how he liked to be touched— rubbed him. She smirked, a thoughtful gleam in her eye, as she made her way down until she was eye-level with his staff. "Megan—"

"Maestro, surely there is an equitable action for me to perform to counter what you have done on previous occasion for me." She bent and swirled her tongue around the tip of him. His breathless "oh." of surprised wonder made her smile. "And what is this act called, Erik love?" her tone, just as her tongue, was teasing. God! She was going to be the death of him! She rained kisses down the side of him, pausing to study intently the underside of his tip, sucking ever so slightly. Another 'oh' of wonder escaped him.

His hands grabbed for the bedcovers, holding them tightly, just as he closed his eyes to better sense her lips and warm mouth encasing him. She drew his hands and placed them on her head, urging her to hold her as she performed this act. Groaning, he did so, gently cradling her skull as he felt himself start to gather for release. "Megan—"

She paused, "The name Erik?" He looked down. She was teasing him, the little minx! As he watched, her tongue darted out and licked his weeping tip. Squeezing his eyes shut, he climbed further.

"Fellatio." he ground out, and then she took him fully in her mouth once more and closing her lips tightly, applied suction. "Ah, Megan—"

He had seconds only. His hands tightened involuntarily in her hair as, with a final swirl of her tongue, he flew apart. Quickly he pulled away from her warmth with an audible 'pop' and spilled himself in the bed clothes instead of her mouth, loudly groaning his release. He felt her move until she was behind him, holding him to her, and stroking his sensitized skin. At length, she broke the stillness, "Why did you pull away?" He turned and drew her until she was pillowed on his chest once more, his arms cradling.

"Because, my dear, I cannot help but think it uncommonly rude." She laughed sweet and low, and he looked down. Her eyes were sparkling. And her lips, her dear, sweet succulent lips were swollen slightly from her ministrations on him. Erik felt himself stir again and rolled his eyes at his adolescent behavior. Besides, his Megan was indisposed. He sighed, only a few days, and he would be able to be with her again. And perhaps someday, he would tell her that in some cultures, it didn't matter.

"Uncommonly rude? Really, Erik." She tsk'd. "Well the next time it happens, don't; I want to taste you." And moving lithely, she kissed his lips with another 'pop' and then rolled out of bed, leaving him looking at her in bemused wonder.

.

.

.

"So when will I see you again?" The train had been gradually slowing as they both finished making their preparations to depart. Meg felt apprehensive. Oh, she knew she wasn't saying goodbye…not really. But things would be different once they left their little travelling abode, and she couldn't help but feel nervous at the change.

She felt Erik's arms wind around her as he pulled her to rest against his bony chest. "Do not worry, Megan. I will never be far from you." She looked up and met his earnest, loving gaze. "You will stay with the Demidovs as discussed, and I will see you soon." He bent and placed a light kiss on her lips, using the peculiar power of his Voice to whisper straight in her ear, "You can consider that a promise if you like, and a promise sealed with a kiss is irrevocable." He tapped her nose, using the words she had uttered so long ago upon their first kiss.

Meg felt her knees go weak. He held her steady and kissed her neck, she groaned. "Erik—"

"I know, ptichka, I am making it worse for myself as well." He drew her hand back until she stroked the hard length of him.

The train stopped.

.

.

.

review please. it means the world to this little authoress and all feedback is most welcome.