Aaaand shockingly, the more... intimate chapter gets a longer segment. Funny how that works! And look! I'm not late!

So, quick note for anybody younger, or... yeah. This is your heads up. Somebody decided to change his mind...

Onward!

xxiv

Erik felt like a fool. Christine was offering to share the most personal of joinings with him, and he had dissuaded her. It was only another reminder of how little he deserved her. She should be with a man that would sweep her into his arms and lavish her with affections until she could not possibly consider that not making love was even an option.

But even knowing that, even telling himself that it was worth the risk, did not assuage his reservations.

"You are too good, Christine."

She shook her head. "No. I want you to be happy. And when we... when we're together, I don't want you worrying that at any moment I'll regret it, that I'm going to think it was all a mistake." She looked at him, her eyes wide and earnest. "I won't, you know. I love you. All of you."

Erik nodded. "And you will not mind terribly if it is awkward and fumbling in the beginning? I have not... I have no experience in these matters."

For some strange reason, Christine relaxed. He eyed her speculatively, and she gave him a rather sheepish smile. "Sorry. I just... I was worried that someone had... maybe tried to hurt you that way. And that's why you were so nervous."

Erik scowled. "As if someone would have wished to."

Christine shook her head. "We're not going to argue about that. I'll just say that I'm glad you were not hurt by that, and that... I'm not unhappy that I'll be your first." Her cheeks had yet to quiet from their initial blush, and Erik reached out and touched the brilliant color gently, and was rewarded with one of her smiles. "Do you begrudge me not having experience either? I might have been more helpful in... making things easier if I had some."

Erik stiffened. "Of course not." Not when it meant that she would be entirely his, in every way. No boy in her past would know the sweetness of her sighs, the way her lips looked after he had kissed her thoroughly, the way her eyes would slowly blink at him as she seemed to return to her senses.

"Good. Then that's settled." She leaned over and brushed her lips against his. "Now I get to do that any time I want," she whispered to him conspiratorially. "You are my husband."

Warmth settled in his chest to know that she evidently felt so much pleasure at such a fact. "I am. To do with as you will, my sweet wife."

She eyed him plaintively for a moment, before kissing him again, her fingers teasing over the seams of his mask. He willed himself not to shy away, not to react negatively to her exploration—all the while highly aware that for the sake of his dignity they would have to retire to the house if she wished to continue.

His heart beat a bit faster at the thought.

Perhaps this would not be so difficult after all. Not when she was pressed close against him, his body obviously willing to surrender to her caresses. If only his mind would quiet, would leave him be so he could enjoy his beauty...

Christine grimaced against his mouth as the console apparently bit into her hip, and that was enough to remind him that they were not ridiculous teenagers who pawed at one another in a vehicle. He would take her inside, and they would... know one another. In whatever capacity felt right in the moment.

"We should go inside," he told her, and he hoped she could see his regret at the necessity. Despite his doubts, his fears, he did not wish for her to feel unwanted. Unloved. He knew the feeling of both, and he most assuredly never wished to subject Christine to such emotions. Not when nothing could be further from the truth. She was everything that was lovely, everything he wished to treasure and adore.

And he did not want her to ever believe otherwise.

And perhaps that meant surrendering his own troubles so he could enter their marriage bed unencumbered. To learn how to give pleasure and to receive it. The former was what troubled him. He wanted to show her that he was capable of caring for her in every regard, that he could learn and perform adequately to her needs. He would be a good husband to her—or at the very least, he would try his best. He had taught himself to read, to draw, to design, to create.

Surely he could learn how to please his Christine.

Hopefully without embarrassing either of them too significantly in the process.

He walked around the car and opened her door, helping her down to the wet pavement below. It was not raining now, but the puddles marring much of the street indicated that the storm had only recently abated. While he would do anything she asked of him, he could not help but be a little grateful she had not requested another sojourn on the beach, the clouds overhead still dark and thick, heavy with moisture.

He kept his hand at her waist, enjoying the feel of her as he guided her toward the front door. If she claimed his kisses as her prize as his bride, then he would take this. The right for his hand to settle against her waist, to draw her close and hold her tight. And because he was so very happy, when they neared the front door and he had settled the key in the deadbolt and twisted it, he went even a bit further so as to draw her fully into his arms as they crossed the threshold.

She was not in a gossamer dress of ivory and tulle. No veil adorned her head. But she was his bride, and in that moment, in the briefest, most tantalizing moment, he felt as any other man bringing his new wife home.

He had meant to take her to the kitchen, giggling and smiling as she was at his treatment of her, thinking at the very least he might make for her a cup of tea.

But instead he found himself heading toward her bedroom. And this time, he did not ask permission before entering. He was her husband, and the way her laughter stopped, the way she looked at him with confusion and, there was no mistaking it, a little bit of hope, he knew of his welcome.

He was grateful that the days had grown longer. Mid afternoon had given way to dusk, the clouds offering an additional shield of light—something he would need to grant him courage for what was to come. He was willing to try, wanted to try, but darkness had become his friend. One could not stare in the dark.

A hand was on his cheek, a reminder that he wore his most normal mask. He waited tensely for her to insist that he remove it. "Would it help you if it stayed? This time?"

His loveliest Christine.

"Yes," he gasped out, his voice low and raspy. He was not nervous. Not exactly. He could not deny how right it felt for her to be in his arms, to have her so near.

Unbelievable, but right.

She nodded, and he was glad, but apparently she felt the need to offer him more assurances. "Just so you know though, it wouldn't make a difference if it was gone. I would still love you. Still want you."

He inclined his head slightly to indicate he had heard her. "I would prefer it remain. For... for this time."

He loved her all the more for saying it did not matter—she would be the same woman he loved if it mattered so very much to her. But the thought of baring both his body and his face, while the room clung to even the smallest semblance of daylight... it proved too great a hurdle to even consider.

He eased her down upon the bed and knelt before her, perhaps hiding a bit as he ducked his head and helped ease off her atrocious boots. They were garish, and had only the slightest practicality to them. And yet his heart softened toward her every time he saw her in them. Her socks were next, and he swallowed thickly as his fingers skimmed the smooth flesh of her calves on their descent. From this moment forward, her insistence upon wearing them would be for warmth alone, not modesty. The thought pleased him. It was safe to be bare with her, for they were one. The officiant had said so, had said it with conviction.

Erik glanced up at Christine to ensure she was well. Her eyes were slightly dark, an expression he was unused to, but that stirred his blood and made it all the more important that he move forward so he could place a kiss upon her waiting lips.

There was nothing quite like the sweet surrender that followed their kisses. The way his soul seemed to sigh, to settle, to urge him to hold her closer, to fuse them together so the moment should never have to end.

And this time, she had made it very clear that she had no objections should he attempt to do so.

They were one.

She was his, and he was hers. And no man would ever put them asunder.

With some regret, he pulled away from her lips, beckoning her to stand. Her breath was a bit shaky, her pupils overwhelming her irises as she seemed to watch him with anticipation for what he would do next.

It made him feel... powerful.

Not in the way he was used to, when the Shah had given him the pretense of authority.

This was... intoxicating.

It made him feel capable, feel wanted, as his fingers drifted first to the tie of her coat, then to each button, as he noted the way her breath hitched as each was undone.

"Why am I the only one being undressed?" Even her voice was different, a little lower, a little breathless, and he relished the hearing of it. That was for him. Because of him. And he had very nearly denied them both the joy of experiencing it.

What a fool he was.

"Because I like to look at you, Christine," he murmured softly. The last of the buttons were conquered, and he eased the coat from her shoulders. At any other time he would have taken it to join their other offerings on the coat tree in the entry. But the thought of leaving her in that moment was unbearable.

He quite deliberately allowed it to drop to the floor, and waiting to see if she would protest his carelessness.

She did not.

"You do?" As if she even needed to ask.

"Yes," he breathed, leaning closer in what he hoped would be a pleasing fashion, his arms coming about her as she stepped quite willingly into his arms. In truth, he was peering behind her back to see how her dress was fastened—the nicest she had brought, she had announced shyly when she had emerged from her bedroom that afternoon, adorned for their wedding. It was the palest pink, silky and beautiful, and so perfectly Christine as it both clashed and complimented the boots covering her feet.

She was perfect.

A zipper then. His fingers grasped the little metal pull and eased it downward, waiting for her to protest, for her to tell him that she had changed her mind. Her fingers gripped his coat a little tighter, but she made no move to stop him. Yet the way she clung was interfering with the dress dropping to the floor, and now that he was faced with the prospect of a nearly nude Christine, he very much wished to see it.

He smoothed his hands over her arms until he could extract himself from her hold, never quite releasing her.

Only for her to catch it and hold it to her chest before it could leave her body completely. She was blushing, her eyes somewhat apologetic. And while he thought her absurd—that she could possibly think that a single part of her might be undesirable when at last he was free to peruse all of her—he knew that vulnerability well.

So when she looked at him with those eyes, reached forward and tugged at his coat and whispered, "You too, please," he knew he had to either quit the room entirely, or acquiesce.

He began with his own buttons. She did not stare, not exactly. She... watched. The way his fingers curled around each fastener, the way he at least folded each article before allowing them to join her own clothing upon the floor. He made to sit upon the bed so he could undo his shoes, but Christine shrugged her dress back onto her shoulders, kneeling before him so she could tug at the laces. He was going to pull her upward—tell her quite plainly that she simply must cease in her determination to sit upon the ground. But she succeeded with removing one of his shoes, and he was distracted by her little gasp, her eyes flying up to meet his.

"It seemed appropriate," he muttered quietly, suddenly regretting it.

"You kept them. I... knew you did, but part of me thought you threw them out." She touched the ridiculous sock—the one she had insisted he wear after his interlude in the ocean to retrieve the very scarf that now lay upon her floor—her eyes wide and wondering. "Why are you wearing them?"

He shrugged, even though he knew the answer perfectly well. Honesty. There must be truth between them, here of all places. So instead of his dismissive response, he conjured his willingness for openness. "They meant more than my other pairs. They came from you. They showed your care. Even if they are perfectly ridiculous."

He had not meant to relay the last part and hoped she would not be insulted—she had made them after all. But instead she worked all the more resolutely on his other shoe, before rising to her feet.

And promptly settling in his lap. Her arms were about his neck, her fingers smoothing through the strands of his hair, and his body seemed all the more aware of the intimacy of the position. He swallowed.

"You are the sweetest man," she told him, her voice merely a whisper as if she was confessing some great secret. "You think that you don't deserve me, but you constantly amaze me with your thoughtfulness and care. I'm... I'm very fortunate."

And then she rose, moving to the side of the bed that was apparently her preference, and pulled back the bedding. And with one last glance his direction, a little nervous, a little unsure, she allowed the dress to first pool at her hips, then shimmied it all the way off.

Erik's mouth was dry, and he wanted nothing more than to study her. To learn every curve, to kiss every freckle—to persuade her that the undergarments should most assuredly join the rest of her clothing and no longer occlude the rest of his perusal.

But instead he forced himself to stand, to give her a moment's privacy to become situated, while his own trembling fingers worked on his own clothes. He could not feel her eyes watching him, and he was grateful for the respite. Never did he think he would find himself in this position. But Christine... she made him hope for things. Long for things. And maybe, just maybe, believe that these good and perfect things could be for him.

She had pulled up the sheet to cover herself, and belatedly he realized there were no longer straps pressing into her lovely shoulders. It was an acute awareness of her nakedness that made his steps forward all the more strained. He wanted nearer. Nearer to her.

And then when she raised the sheet, her eyes still a little nervous, but so warm and welcoming all the same—a refuge for him to hide, to join her, to be with her...

There was no question of him refusing her.

Though with long fingers he bade her close her eyes until the very last of his clothing was removed, not quite ready for her to see that particular part of him. It still seemed too unbelievable for words that soon she would be feeling it. Touching it. Surrounding it.

He forced himself to breathe.

He felt a bit awkward, his long frame coming to cover her own beneath the thin, white sheet. He felt all elbows, uncertain if his weight was too much for her, if she would find his presence a bother. But her eyes closed briefly, her smile soft, and soon he knew that all he would very much like, all he was so very sure of, were her kisses.

Only this time there was the strange, foreign, delicious feel of naked flesh rubbing against his, of soft curves and delicate breasts that seemed to react so sweetly when he brushed his slightly too-cold fingers against them.

And never did his Christine seem to think his attentions, his explorations a burden. Every sigh was a balm to his troubled soul, ever muffled whimper when he found which parts seemed to bring her delight, a gift.

And when at last he felt he might burst, when the need for oneness proved too devastating, she was the one urging him closer. "I'm sure, Erik. I promise. I love you."

Who was he to ever refuse her?

Bliss like he had never known, never imagined, nearly overwhelmed him.

And when she stiffened, begged for a moment to adjust, he only felt a moment's regret. Which perhaps later would shame him, but in the moment...

The satisfaction that came from knowing they were truly man and wife, truly married, truly lovers... it made him feel sure enough to lean forward and kiss her all the more, to coax and soothe until she felt ready enough for him to continue.

And he knew love.

And gave love.

And now that he had experienced making love...

His wife was all the more precious. Her compassion had changed him. Had found some hidden part of himself that he had long since denied.

And when it was over, when he lay beside her, holding her close and whispering his love as she fought for breath, her smile so sweet and genuine as she nestled closer to him, he knew that he never could let her go. Knew he would do anything in his power to keep her safe and happy so she would never wish him to.

They would move. He would coax her into a warm bath to further soothe any tender muscles, but for now... now he wanted simply to lay here, to hold her, to know that it was real.

But he must have drifted off to sleep— a shocking reality in its own right—for he awoke with a start some time later, the room fully dark. Christine was still beside him, seeming to cling to him for warmth as the blankets had long since been shoved toward the foot of the bed.

He knew she would be a distraction. Too lovely and tempting to think of other things when she was near.

So belatedly he noticed the shadow move along the wall.

Too slowly did he react to cover her body with his own as the gun was raised.

And too late did he realize that the pain in his neck came from it being fired.

Sooo... that devolved quickly... Thoughts? I'll just be over here... Hiding...