If anyone reading this is from TN, specifically near Smithville, please PM me.

Paladin107

Erik tossed and turned in bed, finding himself hopelessly restless and frustratingly aroused. Each time he inhaled he swore he could smell Sophia on his pillow, and in the soft threads of his pajamas, but it was little more than the lingering scent of laundry soap. Still, it reminded him of her and kept him staring at the ceiling, wishing she was there with him.

He folded his hands on his chest and took a breath. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he had no idea how to please a woman. Skilled in music, knowledgeable in travel and language, he was ignorant of the female form. The closest he'd ever come to seeing a woman's nude form, outside of dancers obscured by poles and drapes, was in books and the occasional statue, but those were cold and unfeeling. He could study a book for an hour but never gather substantial information. What he wanted was warmth and response—the body of a living, breathing woman.

Perhaps he would know what to do once she was before him. He did, of course, know the basics. Among his collection of books were medical volumes, some of which described copulation and conception in the most straightforward and uninteresting of ways.

He still remembered when he first stumbled upon the text and sketches of both male and female subjects. He'd stared quite blankly at the woman immortalized in pencil strokes. At first he'd been stunned that anyone, even a perfect example of humanity, would allow an artist to sketch their nude form. He didn't know why. It had been done for ages and he'd seen nude statues before. But this was different. Alone, with only firelight and moldy text, he'd felt a strange sense of intimacy he'd never felt before.

She'd been the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen and he wondered what she'd have thought if she knew a twenty-year-old virgin sat with a candle burning low and his gaze fixed on her breasts. All he could think was that she'd be repulsed if she knew a monster of a man memorized each curve of her body.

The thought did nothing to quell the already undeniable erection pushing at his pajama pants as he imagined staring at human flesh. More specifically, he longed for Sophia's flesh.

Mechanics of lovemaking didn't interest him as much as the sensations involved, which no drawing could provide. Pictures showed how a man and woman fit together, but he wanted to know how it felt. In almost forty years of life the only stimulation he knew was the manipulation of his own hand. Perhaps he should have felt ashamed, but he didn't. What little relief he had in his life was never a regret before, during, or after he'd found satisfaction.

But now it could all change. Now it could all be real. His breathing turned harsh, expectations for the future growing. The wasted years finally seemed at a distance. He no longer dreamed of unrequited love with a ballet dancer. What he'd imagined would be his death was merely the ending to a long-lasting nightmare.

It seemed anything he was thinking of would deliver amorous thoughts to his mind and an instant reaction below his waist. He couldn't stand the frustration a moment longer and reached for the satin drawstring.

Erik turned onto his side and found Fidelio staring at him, which instantly drained away his amorous feelings and made him chuckle. A lolling tongue and fuzzy canine eyebrows were far less appealing than thoughts of Sophia.

"Quit staring at me," he mumbled.

The bed shook as the wolfhound furiously wagged his tail and pawed at the covers. Erik reached out a hand and patted the dog on the head. He couldn't help but think that one day, with any luck, it would be Sophia asleep beside him and waking to greet him for the rest of his life.

Frustration built again and he rolled away from the dog, turning onto his other side. He thought about his travels, and how he'd once stayed in the presence of monks some twenty years ago. A eunuch had told him in a roundabout way that some monks could not fall asleep at night and that out of necessity they stimulated their bodies until their minds were at last at rest.

The thought turned into a consideration to relax himself, but he still felt Fidelio not only looking at him, but breathing heavily on the back of his neck. As if to confirm his intrusive presence, Fidelio pressed his cold, wet nose to the back of his master's neck.

"Go away," Erik growled, though his voice was filled with humor. He realized, almost in the same instant he spoke, that Fidelio was apparently sharing in his master's frustration.

"Off," he said firmly. The bedsprings squeaked as the wolfhound continued rubbing against the bed. "And stop that, you uncivilized beast."

Downstairs a door opened and promptly closed. Erik gulped down a breath and paused, listening in the darkness as to who was wandering the halls. He couldn't remember if Citrine had returned home for the night. Or if it was the back door he'd heard, or perhaps Madame Giry's door. Or the door to the parlor. Or the solarium. Fidelio failed to take notice of their nocturnal company. Back end swaying back and forth in a hearty tail wagging, he attempted to steal Erik's pillow.

"Stop it!" He snatched his pillow back and gave the dog a stern glare, which caused Fidelio to playfully jump back and run his backside into the wall. The room shook with the force of a seventy-pound puppy and Erik sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed.

The stairs creaked with the weight of a visitor and again he held his breath and listened, certain Fidelio's antics had revealed that he was still awake. Without turning his head he glanced at the clock and saw that it was a few minutes before two in the morning. Far too late of an hour for it to be Madame Giry, he concluded, and perhaps an hour or two too early for Citrine to start her day.

His blood pulsed hotter and hotter. It had to be Sophia, though he couldn't imagine how she'd mustered the courage to see him in the middle of the night. Perhaps she had decided that the wedding night was too far in the distance and that she wanted to experience just a taste of the unknown. Broad hands stretched across masculine thighs. How hungry he'd become in only a night, how thirsty for a mere drop of her.

It was too much to resist. He desperately needed to hold her in his arms, feel her pulse as he nuzzled her neck and nibbled on her throat.

Erik pushed away from the bed, took a breath, and pulled the door open. He nearly swallowed his tongue as he found Madame Giry standing in the doorway with a heavy woolen shawl wrapped around her thin frame and her hair down, the silver threads of hair gleaming in the candlelight. He partially hid behind the door, perplexed by her presence.

"Madame," he said warily.

She gave a smile, both unusual and enigmatic in nature. "Good," she said. "I was hoping you were still awake."

He made no reply because his tongue was still lodged firmly at the back of his throat. Without waiting for him to open the door any wider or offer her a moment of his time, she pushed past him and placed one hand on her hip.

"It doesn't surprise me that you're still awake at this hour."

Still he said nothing. He merely watched her, wondering what precisely she wanted with him. Surely she had waited until Sophia was sound asleep so that she could badger him over their inappropriate evening.

"I always did hear you at all hours as you ventured through the walls," she said lightly. "Watching us, I'm sure. Or watching over us?"

"You were never awake this late." His words were curt, his voice cold.

She didn't appear to notice his tone as she studied the fabric walls. "No, not usually. But after that hellish ride in a carriage with that girl in the kitchen, I couldn't sleep."

"Her name is Citrine."

"You always did have a good memory," she sighed. "And a knack for remembering women's names."

"Excuse me? What precisely does that mean?"

"It means exactly what I've said. You're quite intelligent."

Despite her sweet tone, he couldn't relax. He wanted to ask her to leave but was unsure of how to tell her. She wasn't exactly being rude, but she lacked sincerity. No, he thought, it wasn't that she lacked sincerity. He couldn't pinpoint what was lacking, but he had never felt so uneasy in her presence before.

"How was your meeting with Madame Turro?"

"Fine."

"That's all? Merely fine?"

"We enjoyed tea and conversation."

"You've waited a long time to see her again, haven't you?"

"I have." He swallowed, eyeing her with caution.

"And after all of this time, you sum up your first meeting in one, insignificant word? I can't imagine how you'd sum up our relationship, Erik, especially after I'd helped you not once, but twice. First as a boy, then as a man."

"What reward do you seek, Madame?"

"No reward," she said, the same sweetness in every word. She neared him, her gaze sweeping up and down his still form. "Merely a moment of your time."

"A moment of my time in the middle of the night?"

"We're both very similar people, Erik. We're creatures of the night," she replied.

At once he stiffened and took a step back. "No, we're not."

"Then what are we, hmm? You are a musician who has spent the majority of his life within an opera house. I've lived and worked with the stage in all of its forms since I was a young child. We share such similarities—more than we share with anyone else in this house."

His brow furrowed. Words continued to escape him and he swallowed again, rather than reply.

"We should sit a moment, discuss our lives, perhaps…and who knows?"

He didn't want to know what she was insinuating. With each passing second he felt dread pour into his insides, and he backed away from her, deciding that distance was also safety.

"I have work in the morning," he said cautiously. "Many operas and…other…pieces. I should retire now before the sun rises."

She glanced at his bed and shrugged. "As you wish. I will see you in the morning. My last morning."

He couldn't help but give a sigh of relief. "To Paris?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't know where I'll travel to now."