Hand slipped inside her bodice, cupping her breast, fingers teasing her nipple. He flicks his thumb and she moans hot into his ear.
His other hand slips under the skirts of her dress, trailing lightly up her inner thigh. She whimpers, shifting against him, back warm against his chest. Gently, ever so gently, he caresses her soft skin, ever-hidden from the light of day. Her mouth brushes the side of his neck, kissing him softly, begging for more.
She is so hot, in the hidden place between her legs. Hot and wet, slick for him.
He kisses her cheek, her forehead, lets his lips slip down to her throat, sucking and licking. And his fingers under her skirt, his rambling fingers find the soft nub that makes her whine, hidden in its thatch of hair. They tease it, pull at it, one long finger rubbing it until she moans, head thrust back, riding his leg. He flicks it, lips at her collar bone, hot with the flush that has crept over her, other hand still at her breast, fingers tweaking her nipple.
(He cannot enter her as he wishes, not with the morphine lingering in his veins, but this he can do, this pleasure he can grant.)
A whimper, soft, low in her throat. He feels it against his forehead, one finger still stroking her nub, another two slipping inside of her, thrusting deep, sliding out, a rhythm over and over. So warm, so wet, so tight, breaths coming in pants through clenched teeth. He grazes her neck with his teeth, sucks her skin, nuzzles as deep into her as he can, his fingers working all the time, stroking, massaging, thrusting.
A shudder runs through her, and she groans into his neck, hips bucking into his hand. He murmurs softly to her, tender words of love, as her body sinks boneless against his, rocking her gently.
"I love you, Erik," she whispers, eyes starry as they slip closed, kissing his throat. "I love you." Her voice is tired, heavy with sleep, and he kisses her forehead, brushing away a blonde curl clinging to her cheek.
"I know, my darling," he says, or thinks he says, he's not quite certain, actually, "I know. I love you too." He rocks her, holds her close until her breathing evens out and she slips into sleep. And then, as gently as he can, he slips out from behind her, and scoops her into his arms, her head to his chest, and carries her to bed. With infinite care he strips her of the dress and dresses her in her nightgown, laying her down on the bed. For a moment he lingers, eyes tracing her, absorbing her – her blonde curls splayed beneath her head, her long delicate eyelashes, the soft parted lips. His heart throbs painfully, and he swallows against the threatening tears. She is so beautiful, so very beautiful. What has he ever done right in his life to deserve her?
Sighing, he rolls his sleeve, and takes the morphine from his pocket, stinging pain buzzing in the back of his head. He measures the dose, and wraps the tourniquet around his right arm. The blue veins pop, and he slides the needle in, depressing the plunger. The first sting of morphine is cold, rushing through his blood, and before it can take effect he kicks off his shoes, crawling into bed beside his darling little wife, dress suit, wig and all.
(The mask he has abandoned, at her request, and it is a relief not to have to take it off, fingers already clumsy.)
Covers drawn tight around them, he takes her in his arms, holding her as close as he can. She is so delicate, like a porcelain doll, so very young and innocent in spite of all she has known. Yet she is no doll, her fingers warm entwined with his, legs shifting so that one curls between his own. His dear wife, his little Christine. Tears spring to his eyes at the wonder of her, unable to fight them now, and she nuzzles into his chest like a child. What he would not do to protect her… Pull the stars out of the heavens if he could, and give them to her as if they were sparkling jewels. They would glitter so beautifully around her throat…
He nuzzles her hair and sighs, already borne away on the misty haze.
(At least he cannot hurt her like this.)