Reconciliation.

The word had two meanings, both distinct in her mind. An act of repenting before the Lord, and an attempt to find compatibility between two seemingly opposite ideas.

The Lord understood her struggle. Maria knew this. And that was perhaps one of the few things she could take comfort in as she lay wide awake in her husband's arms while he slept.

She had never seen Georg sleep before, and it was strangely distressing. She had been so used to seeing him fully alert, with formidable reflexes and quick wit abound. To see him lying so still, with his head on the pillow, his eyes closed, each breath evenly spaced – it fascinated her.

It was after midnight when Maria slipped carefully out of bed in her robe and walked quietly over to the window. With tentative fingers, she drew back the lightweight fabric of the curtain and peered outside where the city of Paris hummed with mostly empty streets and mostly dim lights. It was difficult to find sleep here. She missed the sweeping silence of the mountains back home where not a sound could be heard for acres.

The world seemed so large and so daunting from the view of this window. Across the street she saw mostly dark windows, peppered with the occasional faint glow of a lamp where someone, perhaps just like her, found trouble sleeping. The rest, she supposed, were sleeping soundly – wives who were proud and unafraid to please their husbands; couples with simple, uncomplicated histories, and futures which did not entertain the danger of losing one for the sake of his country.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, Maria turned from the window and began to walk back toward the bed. The sight of her own reflection in the floor-length mirror from her peripheral made her stop. She glanced at herself, meeting her own gaze with hesitancy. She used to look upon herself with certitude, knowing who she was through and through – but she could not seem to see herself the same way anymore.

This battle within her heart was so strange. She had no regrets about the decision she had made to marry Georg von Trapp, to become the mother of his children, to take on the title of Baroness instead of Sister of the Convent. So why then, was she still not fully at peace?

Curiously, she inched closer to the mirror, studying the lost expression on her own face until she was able to see the very glint of uncertainty in her eyes. Pausing, she allowed her robe to slide off and onto the floor, taking in every familiar angle and curve of her nakedness.

Everything God made is good.

She was not afraid of herself. So why should she be afraid of him? Why could she not put her trust in God's design? Sexuality as a mere concept was pure sin to her just days ago, and now, as a wife, it was considered sinful not to indulge. That was the problem. It was a cruel whiplash of everything she had known to be true. On top of it all, having to accept that this man had not married her for the sake of convenience, but rather because he truly saw in her something that he admired and loved.

He did love her. She had seen it, not just at the altar, but so many times leading up to that moment. He had let go of another woman all for her, he had called off an engagement all for her. He had spared no opportunity to tell her how much she had done for him and for his family. So why should she have doubts?

She straightened slightly as she watched her reflection, bare beneath the moonlight, her skin pale as doves. God had led her to this point, and she could not question Him. Her body had been fearfully and wonderfully made. It was good. Everything God made was good.

She looked back to the bed.

She could not explain why she was not startled to find Georg's eyes open, watching her with equal parts hunger and caution as she stood poised before the mirror. She could not explain why she had no desire to fumble for her discarded robe and cover herself immediately. A reversal of instincts had taken place in those few precious minutes she'd appraised herself as a work of God's hands.

She expected her husband to speak, but he said nothing. His eyes held that same solemn blue fire of forbidden focus that she'd seen every day from the day they'd met. Only now, it had the power to undo her completely.

Her heart was beating so hard she felt it could bruise her ribs, but she moved confidently toward the bed, and settled back down beside him, eyes never parting from his.

His eyes finally moved, but not far from her face. He studied her features as if it were his first time seeing them, his gaze posing a silent question, pleading with her to release him from the brink. Her hands cradled both sides of his face and she pulled him in to kiss him, her newfound confidence somehow making the kiss seem unnecessarily harsh. But he did not seem to notice.

That kiss was followed by a series of actions which seemed to have no direct link from one to the next. It was as if his hands were moving in slow motion, crossing every forbidden point on her body, discovering sources of pleasure she did not know existed. He touched her with absurd reverence, caressing her in places she did not consider erotic at all before this night. The crooks of her elbows, the curves of her shoulders, the backs of her knees. He touched some parts with the tips of his fingers, some with the backs of his knuckles. She could not help but feel that each touch was intentional, designed in perfect balance to arouse them both. She was lost in a cloud of hazy euphoria, drowning in his touch, at the mercy of his hands, haunted by the harmony of her sighs blending into his. At long last, his left hand drifted down the center of her body, clasping her hip, pulling her closer, then slipping between her thighs.

She could barely swallow for her breathlessness, feeling some terrible notion of foreign torture at his touch. It was torture, but it was not altogether torturous. An invisible itch that could not be sated by any but him, and at just the right pressure, which seemed impossible. She writhed in anguish, trying to recreate the sensation – then suddenly it raptured her again – brought to life by the combined strength of his fingers and the hovering presence of his body.

This was precisely what she had feared: having no threshold for tolerance – like a sack of sugar being poured into already oversweet tea – she wanted nothing more than to wash herself free of it, escape and jump into icy water, shake the tremblings from her body and wake up in her former self. But she could not escape him. He was too strong, he was her husband, and his need was feeding hers as much as she tried to fight it. His finger moved in a beckoning gesture against her flesh, with an urgency that frightened her. She was on the precipice of something she could not understand, and just when she felt she was seconds from discovering the source of that ravishing ache, he retreated.

"Maria," he purred her name, "you're ready."

It took her several moments to catch her breath, to recover control of her limbs again. Body quivering, she rolled over to face away from him, drawing in as much air as she could to brace herself in preparation for what infliction awaited her.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice raspy and breathless and confused.

"I was . . . once told by someone, it was no different than the animals," Maria responded, staring down at the pillow in mortification. She felt him shift his weight on the bed behind her, breathing shallow.

"For some perhaps," he at last consented, "but in this bed it will not be that way." Then she felt his hand gently nudge at her arm, followed by his whisper, "Maria . . . turn around."

She flashed back to that moment in the foyer of his villa, where he had instructed her to turn around so that he could study her appearance. This time, she did not resist.

Once she was turned on her back, he rose above her, his arm outstretched briefly to set aside the covers – in a heavy rustle of fine fabric, the motion was oddly regal to her eyes – a stark and inviting contrast to his nudity. His eyes flashed with conviction in the glow of the moon, and then she was gripped by sudden realization.

His gaze dropped to her lap, and there he centered both his hands, and with infinite care he parted her thighs to span further the measure of his hips. Her body peaked with feverish arousal, knowing the nature of his resolve.

Ever vigilant, he monitored her expression with each motion. There his fingers rested in the place where she would not dare to touch of her own body. She squeezed her eyes shut and tossed her head to the side, facing away from him as a shy fire bloomed all over her by his touch. He did not even move his fingers, which for inexplicable reasons made her mortification even stronger. He just kept them there, somehow snug and firm, gently prying in stillness as if he were waiting for explicit invitation. She tightened at the prospect, and just the nuance of her flesh constricting against his warm knuckles was enough to ruin her. She imagined his gaze on her in the quiet room, and could practically hear the indecent concentration in his breathing. She was not the only one shaking.

Her body protested, but her heart exalted as he guided himself with capable hands to join with her. His first attempt was unavailing, for she was too tense. His second and third attempts were likewise hasty and futile. He did not correct her in any way, or offer suggestion for her allowance. On the fourth attempt he seemed more meditative, using his fingers for aid. She was so beyond embarrassed at the infliction, she could do nothing but squeeze her eyes shut and keep her head turned away, her arms rigidly cradled across her stomach. She could not help but tighten at his intrusion, and she was very aware that this was creating pain where there should not have been. He continued to stir ceaselessly with his hands, arranging her hips in any manner of position that would incite their union with more ease. She could feel in the movement of his fingers, his resolve rippling with each attempt. But he did not dare utter one cross breath in her direction. Ironically, his tender determination heightened her resistance and unease.

"Maria," he spoke at last, her name a quaking plea in the darkness. And she dared to look up at him. "Hold me," he ordered softly, beckoning her folded hands with his. He took her hands and placed them securely around his back, then lowered himself so that his face was nearly flush with her breasts. She struggled slightly, overcome by his weight, but the pleasure of having him so close was thrilling. She looked down to find his dark hair tickling her fair skin. He kissed her once between her breasts, breathed in, and then pushed into her.

It hurt, very badly. She was not expecting less, but this did not help the pain one bit. He shifted yet again, until he was fully inside of her, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out. She kept her arms around him, though they had now slipped from his back to his waist as he aligned himself to her.

"I won't move until you tell me to," he murmured, his voice shaking.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her face hidden against his shoulder, trying to understand his meaning. Then she remembered how he had demonstrated, earlier that evening, using her hand…

"Maria."

She could almost taste her name each time he said it, he was so close.

"What should I do?" she asked, her voice unrecognizable.

"Just hold me," he whispered, his words heated with reassurance. He stroked her cheek with the back of his finger. "If you tell me to stop, I will stop."

Her grip became tighter as he began to slowly rock back and forth against her. It hurt even more when he moved, but she could not speak. A strange kind of delirium had possessed her from the inside out, and she felt almost numb. She wondered absently how long it would take, were there other things he wanted to do to her, or would the night end with their consummation? All she could do was tighten her white-knuckled grip on his body, as if exhausting her strength would somehow distract her from the pain.

Of course such an action did not hurt him. For his body was the weapon, and hers the sheath. The word 'stop,' melted on the tip of her tongue several times, overridden by the fear that she might lose his favor forever. It seemed impossible that God would ever allow her to disentangle this man from such ecstasy. She could tell he was holding back, which caused her more pain than anything physical. The selfless urge to please him was far greater than anything else she felt in that moment.

He choked out her name again – this time it was a question, a plea for permission. His eyes met hers as he lifted his head, and she responded by kissing his cheek.

He began panting then, as his pace quickened to an impossible tempo. He looked positively frenzied, desperately chasing something just barely within his grasp. Her pain had then reached a threshold by which the burning sensation was worn to its limits, and all that followed was a rigid numbness deep within her. Her body was helplessly whipped along by his thrusting until she was startled by a most shocking outcry from her tender assailant. He buried his face in her neck, and she felt and heard the most staggering sounds from him, as if he were sobbing.

Maria watched her husband surrender to this manic possession, her eyes wide, paralyzed by his scandalous display. It was altogether arresting to witness him in this state, and she knew that she may never be able to look at him in the same way again. The entire ordeal lasted less than a minute, yet it was so rich with unfamiliar happenings, Maria was tortured without a pen in hand to make mark of everything she had just experienced.

Her pain was forgotten until he pulled away from her, and in so doing, her body cleaved unto itself in agony, like a flower having its center plucked straight out. From her waist down there suddenly surged a sensation of uncomfortable wetness soaking everything from her skin to the sheets. Beside her, Georg collapsed into the bed with nothing left to unleash but the air in his heaving lungs.

Maria looked upon him with a forbidden sense of enchantment, this stunning man whose propriety had been so recklessly abandoned before her. All evidence of strain was now gone from his fiercely handsome face. Without a word, he reached out and pulled her close. She had never felt so needed as she did when he beckoned her this way. She tucked her head against his shoulder and tried to settle herself as he had done so effortlessly. It was so overwhelming to have nothing between them; her skin was flush against his, and his heart was pounding vigorously against her cheek. His chest was warm and damp with perspiration, and hers was equally feverish but prickling with gooseflesh.

She had not imagined it would be like that. It was mysterious, inappropriate, terrifying, and yet . . . she wanted to continue. If only to prove to herself that she could enjoy it, somehow. It had not been unpleasurable entirely. Having his hands on her, everywhere, had been too wonderful to recall.

His voice was so soft, she thought she may have imagined it as he whispered, "I love you."

Suddenly she felt like crying.

Within a few minutes, his hands, once tight around her arms, became lax. His breathing had slowed to the steady rhythm of undisturbed sleep. Curiously she peeked up at him, and was heartbroken at the sight of his face - so familiar, yet so foreign at complete rest. How vulnerable he was, lying here naked and exposed, all defenses surrendered before her, fast asleep. And once several more hours or so had passed he would rise in the morning, don the costume of a gentleman, and go about his business as if nothing had happened.

She stared at him, lying there, and her eyes would not close. No matter how tired her body was, her mind remained fitful and restless, and her senses were on high alert. She still shivered inexplicably though the bed was warm and the covers were heavy. She could not shake those images from her head. Every time she dared to close her eyes, she saw his face - the perverse beauty of pleasure etched into his brow as he thrust into her. When she felt herself on the edge of slumber she was startled awake by the echo of his longing cries. Would this haunt her forever? Her memory served her well; this had been her plight many months after their dance at the Baroness's ball. Back then she had waded through feverish dreams of his hand holding hers, the way their arms brushed against each other while dancing, the intensity of his gaze, the attractive smile on his face, the rich aroma of his cologne that had clung to her clothes after the night was over . . . Her feelings had been different then.

She'd had no idea the depth of love she would one day have for this man.

Her heart was hard to tame at a time when she felt such revelation. Maria wished for the endless expanse of her grand green mountainside, longed to race the wind and run barefoot through the tall grass. Though her joy was insurmountable, her mind was wrought with persistent confusion. Before she had become a governess, the world had been defined by crystal clarity. Now, nothing was clear. Nothing was black and white. There was only an infinite spectrum of gray, which plagued her with its beauty.

Author's Note: As I'm proofreading this chapter, I realize the ending sounds a bit final, but this is not the final chapter. I truly appreciate all the feedback and encouragement that my readers have offered with each new update. I understand it is a bit of a risk to write a honeymoon scene where things are not fairytale-perfect, so it brings me a lot of joy to know others have appreciated my approach. I have not yet read any Maria/Georg fanfiction, so I'm not sure how this account compares to what else is out there, but I think I will continue to restrain from reading anything until I have finished this piece so I'm not swayed one way or the other.

xox, Mackenzie