Trigger warning: R*oul...a whole lotta R*oul.

Chapter 22 - Ride of the Valkyrie

Raoul wouldn't exactly say he was having second thoughts, but he was certainly having…thoughts.

Really, there was nothing wrong. In fact, Raoul could hardly believe that everything was going so right. Gone were Christine's extended afternoons doing…whatever she had been doing with Giry, and in their place were evenings out dancing and dinners over candlelight with overfilled glasses of champagne. No more solitary hours spent in separate rooms, two strangers living together in a too-large house; now quiet afternoons were spent side-by-side, reading together — newspapers for him, old classics like Romeo and Juliet and Faust for her — before the fire. And it was hard to even remember all those nights spent sleeping in a guest room, especially on nights like tonight, when Raoul had just a handful of minutes to undress and be ready for his wife when she emerged from the bath.

Yet, Christine seemed…different. Not in a bad way, though! No, not at all! Nothing would have changed for the worse due Raoul's plan, obviously; he'd thought it out thoroughly, the plan was foolproof. Their relationship was solid as ever — better, even! It was just...she seemed a little different, that was all.

At times, for example, her mind seemed to wander. Though that was hardly anything new. Mademoiselle Head-in-the-Clouds, that's what her father used to call her. And now that he thought about it, there was the reputation she'd earned back in her theater days, which, actually, was a bit of a coincidence given the location where… But it hardly even mattered! All it took was a subtle clearing of his throat, and she was quick to snap right back with a warm smile. Really, there was no problem at all — daydreaming is only a problem if the dream is preferable to reality, and what could be preferable to reality when their reality was this good?

Water gurgled through the pipes; the tub was draining — and Raoul was nowhere near ready! Somehow he'd managed to spend the better part of twenty minutes pacing the floor of his dressing room with his waistcoat half-unbuttoned. But of course it was hard for Raoul to focus when he was feeling so...damned...happy!

Buttons were undone with scrambling fingers, waistcoat and shirt tossed aside, as Raoul grinned like a fool to himself. There was another change, you see, one which he had kept note of with growing satisfaction...

Christine, he had noticed, had become quite...particular about a few things.

One: No more late nights! It was early to bed every night, without fail. Two: She worried constantly about catching a chill, so fires had to be kept burning, and an unseasonably warm scarf was tied around her throat whenever they went out. Three: Coffee was turned down in favor of tea, with extra honey. And, most notably, Four: She'd become rather sensitive to smells — cigarettes, in particular.

That was why after Christine had complained about the lingering scent of smoke on him on the carriage ride home, Raoul's three hours a week spent sitting in a bistro drinking coffee and smoking had become three hours in a bistro drinking coffee and fiddling with a box of matches — or spinning butter knives on the lacquered table top — or practicing the handful of knots he remembered from his navy days with a napkin twisted into a makeshift rope. He missed the distracting burn in his lungs, but it was worth it, because it all added up to one possible explanation: She was already with child.

Yes, it would have been quick, but it wasn't impossible! The first month was reaching its end, and as had been drilled into him when he was coming of age, it only takes one time. And it hadn't only been one time. No, that...man had had his wife no less than—

Bitter coffee lurched up into Raoul's throat; he swallowed it down. No! No need to count. It was enough, that's all that mattered. And if he was right, then soon all of this would be behind them, which was an unspeakable relief. Except...there was one thing he was going to miss...one last difference, and the biggest of all...

The funny thing was, Raoul thought as he wriggled out of his trousers, nearly toppling himself over in the process, had he allowed himself to consider what effect this experiment might have on their, ah, marital relations, he would never have guessed it would get him, you know...more of that. Within a couple of weeks, however, Christine had become simply insatiable.

Not that Raoul was complaining! But, the truth was...he'd never known hunger from his wife like this. And to be honest, he would be a little uneasy about this sudden explosion of desire were he not so confident of the reason for it, which hadn't taken him long to work out at all. It was as simple as putting together two plus two.

Christine was at her most amorous after the meetings, and of course she was! After enduring the wearisome attentions of that repulsive man, it was only natural that she would require the comforting arms and competent charms of her husband to drive away the memory and to finally get some enjoyment out of the act.

'Completely satisfied' my ass, Raoul laughed to himself as he pulled off his socks. He could hardly hold her off on the carriage ride home! But if Erik was going to leave his wife so completely unsatisfied that when she came back to him she all but jumped into his lap, well, you wouldn't hear Raoul complaining about it. He was more than happy to pick up that pathetic humbug's slack.

Raoul no longer bothered with his nightclothes. Just a dressing gown was plenty, loosely tied, ready to be flung off the moment his wife finished bathing and returned to the bedroom, burning for him, as she would any minute now. He adjusted the robe so the lapels framed his lean muscled chest, providing an alluring glimpse of the young, gently-tanned skin with its light dusting of golden hair. And why not give her a good view, after what she'd had to experience?

It wasn't vanity to acknowledge that his wife admired his body, the thick, tanned arms with strong, square hands, the well-built legs — and of course the shapely, swelling manhood resting heavy against his thigh.

Not that size mattered, but Christine had always assured him that he was the perfect size, and that, actually, any bigger would be too big. And even if these little trysts had given her the opportunity to test that claim, she evidently had not come to the conclusion that it was incorrect — not judging by the enthusiasm she displayed for what Raoul had to provide, which, again, was more than adequate. Besides, despite Erik's height and the unnatural length of his legs and his long, limber hands, and that inexplicable arrogance, that didn't necessarily mean— it couldn't mean—

Raoul was plenty. More than enough. Almost too much. And if, by some unlikely chance, Erik was any bigger, that would actually be a bad thing, according to Christine.

So, you see, Raoul really had no reason to worry about any comparisons.

And obviously Erik and whatever he was endowed with and whatever it was that happened between him and Christine down in that dank cellar was the last thing on Raoul's mind when Christine appeared before him now, with fresh, scrubbed skin, dressed in a crisp white cotton chemise and drawers which were trimmed in pink ribbon and lace, delicate and flirtatious, not like the utilitarian garments she'd left the house in earlier. Raoul stood.

"Just a moment," she said. There was a shy smile on her lips, but her cheeks burned red. "Let me take my hair down first."

With her back to him, she stood before the oversized gilded mirror of her vanity, arms raised, looking just like one of the scantily-clad dancing Greek ladies in that one old painting that Raoul used to blush at when he was a youth studying the classics in school. The long lines of her arms, the delicate hollow at the back of her neck, the sheer cotton flowing over her hips — Raoul's heart raced. He could not resist. In a few steps, he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, body pressed to hers, his cheek resting at her temple, breathing her in.

"Oh!" she cried, going stiff in his arms with surprise. She dropped her hands from her hair; a silver hairpin clattered to the vanity top. A few curls slipped from the pinned-up pile atop her head to fall coquettishly over her face.

"Oh," she said quietly. Her eyes fluttered closed, her breathing deepened. And then she melted into his embrace. "Ohhhh..." she nearly whimpered, and tilted her head to the side, exposing a long, graceful neck with a visibly quickening pulse. Raoul's lips tingled at the sight, and he pressed them to the soft-as-silk skin below her ear. Christine pushed her hips back, grinding her softness against the rapidly growing hardness between them.

"Well!" Raoul laughed against her neck. "Aren't you eager!"

"No, no — don't talk," Christine whispered, eyes still closed. She took up his hand and placed it just below her breasts, where bone met belly. "Just...touch me."

Raoul was only too happy to follow her orders, dragging his hands down her ribs, over her waist and hips, under the chemise to take a handful of the soft, round flesh there, squeezing and pinching. She squirmed. "No, not like that. More slowly...more gently."

Ah ha, that was right! Tender breasts! That was another sign of success, wasn't it? Raoul smiled to himself and softened his grip, kneading gently, and he must have done quite a good job of it, he thought, judging by the look of bliss upon her face.

As she sighed and writhed, Raoul worked along the side of her neck with lips and tongue, and she pulled the pins from her hair and let the curls tumble down over her shoulders, until they made a curtain over him. He breathed in, focusing on the spicy floral scent — ignoring the others which still lingered in her unwashed hair — and groaned deeply as she brushed aside his robe and wrapped her hand around him.

She'd always had a skilled hand, hadn't she? It had been an invaluable skill in the days when they'd made frequent, studious attempts at procreation — far more frequently and studiously than Raoul's body, at times, was up for. Not now, though! He had no trouble at all. He was eager, raring to go, a virile young man, ready to give her all she was missing, and more.

And, likewise, she needed no assistance either, Raoul discovered when he reached down and dipped his hand between her thighs, right through the split of her drawers, and found her ready for him. His breath hitched in his chest. How quickly she responded to his touch! She leaned into his hand, fingers of one hand reaching up to caress his face, then sliding down to hook around the back of his neck, while the other stroked him into urgent readiness. How much she wanted him!

"Should we take these off?" Raoul murmured into Christine's ear, letting his other hand slip under the waistband of her drawers and give a little tug. He couldn't wait to get her out of these clothes, stripping her bare, a feast of flesh laid out before his hungry eyes. Succulent curves, all peaches and creams, and just as sweet, a feast for one, for him alone…

Right? That was right, wasn't it? Only as much clothing as necessary, he'd been very clear.

Hadn't he?

"Or...do you want to keep them on?" Raoul asked lightly. Christine's hand stilled on him, but she said nothing, and he felt compelled to fill the void. "They're really so convenient, aren't they? With this opening?" Through the split panels of cotton, his fingers tentatively traced the contours of her. "It makes it so easy, you don't even need to take them off — really, you wouldn't need to take anything off to...do...it, would you? Maybe just the bustle?" He pushed his hips against her experimentally. "Though maybe not! But certainly everything else — underclothes, corset, petticoats — those could all stay on, easily, couldn't they?"

"Raoul…" Christine opened one eye to squint at him in the mirror.

Heat flooded his chest, but it wasn't from desire. "No, no! I don't mean you, specifically, I just mean, you know, in general. I was just thinking."

With a sigh, she pulled away and turned to face him, brow furrowed and lips pursed. "Well stop thinking and help me with these."

In well-choreographed movements, she raised her hands over her head and let Raoul pull the chemise up over her head, then skim his hands down her body to push the drawers down off her hips to fall to the floor.

God, she was beautiful. Erik had no idea what he was missing. A quick session of copulation under piles of petticoats was nothing compared to this. She hadn't answered, no, but she didn't really need to, did she? The answer was obvious: Erik had seen nothing.

A warm buzz of gratification flowed through him. Yes, thanks to Raoul's carefully composed list of rules, the act that took place between the two would be discreet, impersonal, and frankly, quite boring, and nothing at all like a husband and wife's passionate, satisfying love-making.

But then her arms were around his neck, her mouth on his mouth, and she was pulling him with her as she stepped backwards, and the last thing on earth Raoul wanted to think about was exactly what it was the two got up to under the opera house.

Helpless to resist, Raoul followed along, bare feet shuffling against the carpet until, abruptly, she stopped and hoisted herself up onto the vanity, sending jars and little boxes toppling over with a clatter. Raoul was about to tell her that she should be careful, some of that was breakable, and if they made too much noise, one of the servants might hear, but then she pulled him to her until he was nestled between her spread thighs, and reached for the tie of his robe and the words fled.

Raoul pulled away, eyes wide. "Not here, surely!" he whispered harshly, looking around as though someone could see — and judge — them. "Christine! The bed is right there."

"Yes, but I'm right here," she insisted, hooking a leg around his hips. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders. "Don't you want me?"

Sweat beaded on the back of Raoul's neck. This was yet another difference — she seemed much more assertive in bed than before.

Raoul hesitated, digging his bare toes into the carpet. Of course he wanted her, but this didn't feel...proper. A man might take his mistress in a carriage or on a vanity covered with perilously-placed perfume bottles, but Raoul was a gentleman, and Christine was his wife, and this was not how a gentleman should make love to his wife. Certainly there was an appeal to letting passion carry you away, but it wasn't how they'd usually done things, and you could be passionate without behaving like a boor.

He cleared his throat. "I...don't think I'm the right height," and Raoul knew it sounded like an excuse, but, you know, it might have been true.

"Oh alright," Christine sighed, shoulders slumping as she slid off the vanity. "Lie down then."

That, Raoul could do. Dropping the robe into a heap beside the bed, within moments he was flat on his back, arms behind his head, ready to be of service. The bedside clock ticked out mere seconds before she was beside him on the mattress.

Then, without preamble, she was on him, hands on his chest, bracing herself as she rocked herself deep — deeper — eyes closed, lip bitten in concentration, body on full display and God, she looked so good — she felt so good — this wanton little goddess of his, who had gone from a passive participant to a hard-riding valkyrie — at least, Raoul assumed valkyrie was the right comparison? They were bold, beautiful women with streaming hair who rode in on horses, and did…well, he wasn't exactly sure what, but she was Swedish, so it seemed right — aggressively seeking her own pleasure from his willing body.

And who could blame her? Enduring what she had to endure with that repulsive man, getting nothing out of it whatsoever, of course she was desperate to feel some kind of desire, some kind of pleasure, to take control of it. It must be why she'd recently come to prefer this position over any other.

Wait…Raoul's grip on Christine's rolling hips tensed. She really did seem to prefer this one, didn't she? Did that mean— No, no, didn't matter! He blew out a sharp breath.

But...now that he was thinking about it, Raoul realized that it must be quite an exhausting position for her. Perhaps she'd appreciate it if he took the reins and saw to her pleasure himself. It was a thoughtful thing to do!

"Here, darling," Raoul said, grasping her shoulders and pulling her close so he could roll her onto her back. "Let me." He buried his face into her neck as his hips pistoned between her thighs, vigorous, industrious, and thoroughly pleasurable, whispering to her, "Is that good? Does that feel good? Is this a good position for you? Do you like it?" He reached down to — gently — squeeze one breast, never slowing his pace. "Or...do you prefer another? Do you have a preference? Would you say that you prefer to be on top?"

"Raoul," said Christine, gritting her teeth. "Are you really trying—"

"What?" His hips stilled. "Of course not! I just wanted to make sure this was good for you. Because it seems like maybe you prefer being on top these days, and I wondered if there was a reason you didn't want to do the old way—"

"No, no, this one's nice," Christine said quickly, so he resumed his efforts and Christine sighed — with pleasure, of course. "This one's always been nice." And then she took his earlobe between her teeth and gently tugged, which wasn't fair, because she knew that always sent him over the edge and sure enough— just like that, Raoul was spent.

And Christine surely was, too. Because when she came back from her subsequent trip to the bathroom — which took a little longer than normal, likely because he'd so thoroughly exhausted her — she collapsed in his arms, glowing.

"That was wonderful, Christine," he said, holding her close.

"Mmm-hmm," she replied, half-asleep.

"So satisfying! It's hard to believe that was only about seven and a half minutes! I can't even imagine what we'd do with an hour."

Raising her head, Christine frowned at him. "Raoul…" she warned. "Not this again. No details!"

"I'm not fishing!" he said, raising a defensive palm. "It's just, I've been thinking, purely for logistical reasons..."

Christine rolled over with a disgusted sigh, and sure, he'd earned it, but Raoul wasn't about to let that stop him, now that he had an in.

"I'm only wondering…do you find that the whole hour is really, ah, necessary?" he asked, his whole being the very picture of nonchalance. "Not that it matters to me at all how long it takes! If it takes a whole hour, it takes a whole hour! Though that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it?" He forced a laugh. "I was only thinking that, you know, our evenings together have been so nice, if we could spend less of them, ah, dealing with that situation, then that would mean more time for us. So how long would you say you really need? Ten minutes each way, so, twenty total, plus, what, say...six minutes? Seven at the most? Does that sound about right?"

Christine's muffled voice came from under the pile blankets she'd pulled over her head. "Good night, Raoul."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Raoul rubbed at his eyes. God, he was so tired. He'd been tired for months, so tired. "I'm trying, Christine. I really am."

Shuffling off the layers of bedding, Christine rolled back to him and cupped his cheek in her gentle hand. "I know," she said, with a tired half-smile, "I know. And thank you, I know it's hard." She kissed him softly. "And Raoul...I want you to know that...well…" She dropped her hand; her fingers worried at the trim of the duvet. "Whether this works or not, it's going to be alright. And I love you. You know that, right?"

Raoul nearly laughed— Not work! When they both knew it almost certainly already had! — but he was just...too tired. Besides, he was used to that sort of thing anyway, Christine and her superstitious ways...of course she wouldn't want to jinx it.

So he pulled her close and kissed her sweetly and promised her that yes, he knew, and he loved her too, and if nothing came of it, at least they'd tried. And then they fell asleep in each other's arms, the most happy, most lucky, most in love — and most satisfied — couple in all of Paris.

How's about that subtext! Sex...subtext... Subsext... I don't know, like Raoul, I am currently very tired, I have no idea what I'm saying right now. All I know is that I believe Christine's POV of that chapter might be just the slightest bit different than Raoul's...don't you think? I think so, personally.

Thank you again to Aldebaran for helping me with this! But I can't give all the blame to her this time - I got reckless and posted after she'd only given feedback on one small section of this, so the good part is her, and the rest, that's on me.

Thank you for reading! And special thank yous to Badpixie06, cxe128 (who is right, I DID need a Raoul chapter), rscoil, Phanma, Capenoires, FleshofMidnight, His Midnight Music, blubird2021, TMara, kastef, Mominator124, Benjamin Lynne, and anakinpadmeforlife for your wonderful comments - I appreciate it so much!

Up next: We either find out that an immaculate conception has occurred, or Raoul has his boundless optimism tested.