She comes to him wearing one of his shirts. It hangs down past her knees, the white silk setting off the golden glow of her skin from the candlelight. She is soft from sleep, eyes heavy and little hands so very warm.
He is sprawled on the divan, enjoying a peaceful half-doze now that he has soothed the music in his blood in a composition of roses and light. He would have crawled into bed beside her, if he had not been afraid of waking her. She looked so young and innocent in her sleep, curled up in a ball with one hand resting lightly on his pillow, face half-hidden behind her golden curls. Leaving aside the morphine - he is content enough to sleep peacefully without it tonight, even away from her side - he settled on the divan, only the candles and fire for company.
Her warm hand against his cheek wakes him from a hazy dream of dancing with her in his arms, her head against his chest and their fingers entwined.
And now she takes his hand, as in the dream, lacing their fingers together and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. Her bare legs are so very warm against his clothed ones, and even at her touch there is a tingling in the pit of his stomach.
"Come to bed, my love," she murmurs against his forehead, breath warm and words vibrating through him, the tingling growing. "You'll hurt your back sleeping out here."
His lips curve into a wry smile, one long-fingered hand coming to rest on her warm thigh. "I would, my darling, but I am not quite certain that I can move." It is not a lie - his legs and back are stiff as it is. He shifts to alleviate some of the growing pressure in his trousers, an aching warmth in his stomach just at her presence.
Her eyes twinkle, a shining glint, and she kisses the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps, then, we ought to free you up." The murmured words hold a promise that goes right to his heart.
He has no time to contemplate, before her fingers slip to his waistcoat, gently flicking open each button. A nauseous wave of hesitation mingled fear washes through him, a cold shiver down his spine, and he wraps his hand around hers a moment to slow the path of her fingers. She has seen him. He has no reason to fear her revulsion, he knows. She's kissed his scars and bathed with him, and held him when he could not stop the tears trickling from his eyes. It will be all right, and her words are soft in his ear, echoing the ones in his head. It will be all right.
She acquiesces to his need to wait, as patient as ever, and nuzzles his throat, slipping one hand up under his shirt to tease his nipples. Her fingers ghost over the scar they encounter on the way, and a hot thrill shoots straight to his loins, his throat dry.
And he needs her, suddenly, pressed against him skin on skin, her soft breasts warm in his hands and her lips there and there and there, kissing a trail. His very body demands it, knows that he is safe, here in her hands, and he takes a shaky breath.
"My darling," his voice is hoarse, and he has to gasp a breath when she twists his nipple just so, and he can feel her smiling against his throat.
"Yes, Erik, dear?" Her words are so sweet, almost innocent and it's maddening.
He releases her fingers, guiding them to a button and opening it. "Could you continue?"
"It would be my pleasure." Still ministering to his nipples, she works his waistcoat open one-handed, her mouth sucking a trail down his neck. He flicks a button open on her shirt – well, his shirt, but it hardly matters now – and slips a hand inside, cupping her breast. A surge runs from the palm of his hand to his heart. She is so soft and warm in his hand, her breast a gentle weight, and he massages it, moulds it between his fingers, her skin satin and her lips nuzzling the scar high on his side. His trousers have never been so tight, manhood rubbing up against the fabric and instead of stifling the burning ache simply drives it on, and he can feel himself dripping and he should be ashamed but he cannot bring himself to be, not when her fingers are so light, a tingling trail along his stomach brushing his open shirt away until they reach his waistband and slip slowly under.
A whimper slips from his throat, those tantalising lips reaching the long scar slashing from under his ribs, mouthing slowly. Her fingers snag on his trousers button, and he needs her touch, needs it now like a balm on this ache that he cannot escape no matter how he shifts and doesn't really want to anyway.
She gets the button open, her lips below his navel now, tingling warmth spreading through him at his new-found freedom as she slips his trousers down. And her fingers, those sweet travelling, roving fingers wrap themselves around his shaft, tips grazing over his leaking head and he gasps on the air, eyes snapping open though he can't re-call closing them and it doesn't matter, not with her lips so soft that too-sweet ache spreading through him that he can do nothing about.
Her lips seek out the crease of his hip, the corner of one scar and her tongue flicks out, warm and wet, and his heart just might beat its way through his chest if she keeps on like this, licking along to his inner thigh. He withdraws his hand from her breast, fingers twitching too much to properly feel her as they snake into her tumbling hair, twining tight through the silk-soft curls.
A string of words reach his ears and he cannot make them out through the sighs but they do not matter and it is his voice though it does not sound like his voice, muffled and hoarse, all command lost. And he is so hard now, cannot possibly hold on much longer, not with her lips pulling at the base of his manhood.
Hardly the thought crosses his mind when the lips are gone, her warm tongue slipping into his mouth, hands woven beneath his head. She shifts, straddling his hips and he is seeking her out, that hidden space between her legs in its thatch of hair, so hot and wet now and it is so easy to push himself inside, her teeth biting his bottom lip and she is so tight around him as he thrusts once, twice, as deep as he can into her and she whimpers into his mouth, begging him to keep going, an aching knot beneath his navel, growing and growing, driving the air out of his chest and he can't breathe, breaths stuttering and the fabric of his shirt rough against his chest because she is the one wearing it and she is wrapped up in him just as he is wrapped up in her and he thrusts again, hips bucking and her breath hitching.
He spills inside of her, the weakening wave of relief washing over him, eyes rolling so all he sees are stars. She collapses against him, lips slipping so that she is gasping against his cheek as his hips buck again, and again. His chest is heaving, lungs burning as he fights to breathe. All he can do is lie there beneath her, boneless and spent. His eyes slip closed as she nuzzles into his throat, and he sighs, the burning easing as he gets a full breath of air. She holds him tighter, as if he might fall off of the divan or otherwise slip away on her (and how they did not fall off before he does not know, and besides, she is the one lying at the edge.)
"Thank you." His lips form the words, unknown to him, and what he is thanking her for he cannot be certain except that it seems the thing to say, after that. And she was not revolted by his scars, instead kissed them and is kissing him again now.
"You're welcome, my love." He hears rather than sees her smile, and it enough. A smile graces his own lips, and she kisses them, too, again, the mists of sleep bearing him away. But it does not matter, not with her tucked up warm again. Nothing matters now, except for her.