I am glad people are liking this. One point I would like to make... Please understand throughout this story how very immature and young Christine really is. Before you judge her too harshly, try to envision these events through your own eyes when you were perhaps 14 or 15(which is where I feel Christine's current maturity lies). Being married now, she will have to grow up much quicker and we will have to see that change. But can't you see how Erik might complicate things?

This is still an EC, for those of you who are not big Raoul-fans. We're just getting started!!!!

Thanks, and review! Everyone's reviews have been super helpful, and let's me know what you think of the situation.

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I think Raoul must still be feeling ill, for he still rests throughout the day and falls asleep early in the evening on the mall sofa in the den. I drag him upstairs while he stumbles in front of me, and place him comfortably in bed. We snuggle as he dozes, and I too finally fall asleep. It is peaceful and sweet.

In the morning, we wake together and play innocently in bed. He tickles me, I push him away, and we giggle a lot before going down to eat muffins for breakfast.

That night, however, he takes me into the study where there is an old phonoautogram. "I want you to dance with me," he says passionately.

Anticipation—or dread?—curls inside my stomach. My hair is not up and I am not even wearing a pretty gown… Why does he want to dance with me?

"I'm not a very good dancer." I say stupidly.

Raoul grins at me. "Look how serious you are. Come, my little ballerina. Show me all your finest moves. It is music for you."

I do not want Raoul's music.

"I don't want to dance," I say blankly. "Not—not with music."

He hesitates, but his reply has no hint of irritation. "No music. That is fine. I understand. Will you still dance with me?"

He is asking so nicely and he is so handsome in his dark blue buttoned shirt. The dim light from the kitchen reflects in his eyes. I am so in love with the way he looks at me, with the way he is so very kind to me. Not many people were kind to me after Papa died. I would be a horrible person if I turned my husband down for a dance.

We mostly sway together in the small room, the lack of music providing us with no common tempo. It is slow… I try to imagine we are at our wedding, where everything was laughter and happiness, and people were smiling and Raoul was smiling… Now he is not smiling, and he is close to me, and his lips keep pressing on my face, and I can't breathe…

I think he is trying to be romantic as he pulls on my dress to lead me upstairs. I cannot tell, because there is no light. I am stumbling blindly in the dark. As I am exposed, I tremble.

"I'm cold," I whisper.

Instantly, he is over me, his hands in my hair. "I'll warm you," he says, and he is everywhere, above me, around me, inside me…

It is not quite as uncomfortable anymore, only rather boring. I thought it would be much more exciting. I thought it would be life-altering. That is what the girls at the Opera always said. I thought it would make me feel wonderful. But all I feel is guilt. This is naughty, naughty, naughty, and I should not be doing this with my good husband…

He kisses my eyelids so lovingly. I try to smile at him, but it feels so incredibly dramatic. I am no one. I feel like no one, and I do not know why. I do not feel special or loved, or like I am the only woman in the world. There are millions of women in the world, and are they all doing this with their husbands? How do they look at them the same in the morning? How do they meet the eyes of other people? How does this love work?

Prying his sticky skin away from me, I turn and wonder if I am perhaps just too young and immature to appreciate it. Maybe I was not ready for marriage if the mere thought of marital relations makes me blush and gag.

He softly brushes my hair back. "You are so quiet," he says. "I try…"

I do not want to talk about such things with Raoul."No, no," I say, with abosolutely no idea what I am denying. "I am just trying to relax."

"I don't want to relax," he says, and he presses his wet lips to my ear. It makes a funny sucking sound.

"But I understand," he continues. "You are young, and a new bride. I love you so much. And we can learn together."

I feel that maybe I should put my arms around him, but I don't know where to touch. Where do you touch a naked man?

In the back of my mind, I am thinking that not all love is like this. There is love like the love woven into the chords of the opera I know so well. There are those feelings that the girls at the Opera always whispered about. And it feels too good… it must be too bad.

But he has never been deterred by doing anything that is considered wrong. He would gladly partake in anything I asked of him.

In the back of my mind, I know I cannot—should not—compare.

Erik's lips are thinner than Raoul's, and even though Raoul's are unfailingly gentle until the end, Erik's were feather light and travelled, skimming my skin and making me tingle. Raoul was thicker in the shoulders and in the waist, but it is soft and almost heavy; Erik is so thin and so hard, so tense against every inch of my body surface.

And with Erik, his hands had coaxed me to a sensation that was terrifying and exciting—he had done things that would make me blush in the light. But we didn't need the light. And where Raoul is perfectly content to be patient through the years and learn together, Erik was desperate—driven to the point of physical starvation and need from years of no human contact, and months and months of desiring me like no other—the frenzy had been exhilarating.

Raoul is massaging my back, and it feels nice, but I am still cold. He makes no comment as I rise and put on my nightclothes.

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I'm just adding that I really should give bwayphantomrose more credit. She is basically writing this story. I am just telling her my ideas, and she figures out how to make it sound pretty on paper. Actually, she's writing it more than I am. So credit to her. Kudos.