12/15/21 A little update in case you are here checking for a new chapter: I got sick! Two days after I posted, my littlest kid brought home Covid from preschool, and I caught it. :((((( I am vaxxed, so it could've be worse, but it was still bad enough that I couldn't get any writing done. My brain was just in a total fog! I have only just started feeling better. So, the next chapter will be coming a little later than I'd been managing, but I promise, it will come! Stay safe and get your booster, if you can!

Chapter 26 — Merci

Dear god, it was finally happening.

The thing Erik had spent decades thinking about, dreaming about, fantasizing about, composing entire operas about — it was at last finally happening.

And…he had absolutely no idea what the hell he was doing.

Not in an existential sense, either, though that was also true — just what the hell was he doing?

Actually, that was a question he'd asked himself many, many times in the past, only in this case, the problem wasn't simply poor judgment, but a specific lack of some very crucial knowledge.

He wasn't completely clueless, obviously! He did know, well, the basics; the mechanics were fairly simple, after all.

In theory, he knew what to do.

But the truth was, contrary to Nadir's imprudent little barb about the mannequin, Erik's practical experience with women was so nonexistent, it did not even include experience with an imitation of one.

Where Nadir had even gotten that idea in the first place, deliberately absurd provocation or no, Erik could not begin to imagine; he'd been clear, quite clear, that the only purpose of the thing was to show Christine what a lovely bride she'd make. It just…hadn't gone over as well as he'd thought it would.

Oh, how very much Erik regretted sharing that particular detail when he'd finally been persuaded to recount the whole story of his failed plan to win her love, which he'd done half-drunk and fully, freely weeping onto Nadir's shoulder. Yet he'd always remained very, very clear: it was simply a romantic gesture! It was never intended to be used for vulgar purposes. Never would he defile Christine's likeness in that way!

Had he fallen asleep with her— no, no, not "her" — it — wrapped in his arms on a handful of nights when the loneliness had become too much to bear?

Perhaps he had, but there was nothing untoward about that.

Had there also been an instance or two where his body, completely beyond his control, reacted to the nearness of that alluring form?

Well, it was a long time ago, who could remember.

But if there had been, he would have spent hours — or a respectable number of minutes, at least — fighting that urge. If anything more happened, it was only because he came to the conclusion that he'd never be able to sleep if he didn't... Near her, though! Not...you know. Which didn't count. It wasn't the same at all!

Whatever, it didn't matter. The point was, though Nadir had meant to shock Erik into remembrance of that lack of experience, it had been a wholly unnecessary intervention. It was a rare day that went by without Erik despairing over that particular state of affairs.

But never had he despaired as he did now, with his hand raised to knock on the bedroom door, heart thudding in his throat, unable to make his knuckles connect with the wood.

Did she know? She had to know. He'd told her, back then, about how he'd…been denied. She knew.

Her husband, though, had assumed, which meant that she hadn't told him. At least that was what Erik had thought, with gratitude that brought tears to his eyes; she must have spared him the humiliation of sharing his shame with the man whom she'd chosen over him.

But…

A creeping tension coiled around Erik's shoulders, snaked up his raised arm, contracting his fist until the nails bit into his palm.

Was it possible they both assumed? If he thought about it — which he typically tried to avoid — it didn't exactly seem that she acted as if she knew…

No, no. She had to know.

Unless…

A trickle of tingling cold was running down his still-raised arm — this was getting ridiculous. He couldn't be standing at the door, with the clock ticking — quite literally, right on the other side of the wall — arguing with himself. And so finally Erik knocked, though it was not so much a deliberate rap, and more like his arm ceased to function and his fist fell against the door. But it worked just as well.

"Come in!" Christine called, her voice trilling in an octave well above her normal range.

Sucking in enough air to keep him supplied when he inevitably forgot to breathe, Erik opened the door.

The single oil lamp which sat on the dresser cast a small sphere of weak light in the otherwise darkened room, illuminating an angel, or a ghost, perhaps — whatever he was seeing could not be human, Erik was certain, not only because nothing real could be so unearthly beautiful, draped in diaphanous white, haloed in glowing gold, backlit by the lamp, but because there was no way a woman — that woman — would be standing in this room, in her undergarments, looking at him like that, waiting for him to…

Well, as established, he didn't really know what.

Christine was watching him expectantly, and how he wished she wouldn't, not when she couldn't expect anything at all from him, except for disappointment.

Erik's eyes flicked from the dresser mirror's black cloth, still rippling after its apparently hasty replacement, to Christine's scrubbed-pink cheeks, to those luminous layers of white cotton and silk: a chemise, bound with an unembellished corset, and a couple of petticoats fastened around her waist, brushing over the tops of her stockinged toes.

As it turned out, she didn't need help with those buttons after all.

"You're, ah…" Erik's voice was dry and gritty as gravel. "You're ready?"

"I think so," she said. The sudden movement of her chest as she drew breath to speak caught his eyes, pulling them, irresistibly, to the neckline of her chemise, a wide V which ran from shoulder to shoulder, leaving her collar bones exposed, fine scalloped lace trim sloping down to meet in a point at the shadowed hollow between the swells of—

Christine's hand appeared at the spot where Erik's eyes lingered, her fingers twitching at the busk of her corset. "Only as much as needed, right?"

Erik blinked away his glassy-eyed gaze and darted his eyes up to her face to find she'd been watching him watch her; heat flashed down his neck.

He nodded in response, because that seemed the right thing to do — the only thing to do — though internally, disappointment and relief were wrestling for control. With those few words she'd made it clear: she would be following the rules, after all.

Not that he had really thought he would get to see...her. But, well, of course he would like to…see. Her.

But at least this meant he knew exactly what to expect: no kissing, no unnecessary touching, no...seeing.

"Unless…" She drew her hand down her corset, thumbing the closures. "You need me to take more off?"

"No!" Erik choked out — had she read his filthy, presumptuous mind? He swallowed, trying in vain to ease his dry throat. "That's— ah, that's enough, I should think. Don't you?"

She dropped her hand. "Oh. Yes. I suppose so." She ducked her head, looking down at her toes. "Well, then do you maybe want to…" Raising a trembling hand, she pointed behind him.

Erik looked over his shoulder, then down to his hand — and the doorknob he hadn't realized was still clutched in his fist.

"Oh yes, yes of course."

Gently shutting the door, Erik shuffled into the room, keeping a deferential distance. Uncertain what to do with his hands now that they were empty, he clasped them behind his back, praying that he came off as polite, rather than clueless as to what he should do next.

Of all the ways which he had imagined this moment playing out — of which there were many, very many, including several quite creative scenarios — not once had this particular scenario made an appearance.

And not without reason. Taking stock of the catalog now, it became clear that those many scenarios — like, for example, finding himself pinned, sprawled against the portcullis before he'd even finished his poorly executed attempt at seduction; or perhaps on the rooftop, holding tight to a wing of the bronze pegasus, while she rode out a desperate gallop on his lap; or, a favorite, small hands pushing him back onto a rough hewn table, its cloth askew, the floor littered with wax fruit, that stupid boy up in Box Five, witnessing Don Juan's indisputable triumph — all had something in common:

Some sort of distraction from Erik's mortifying lack of experience.

But now there was nothing. Just her, him, a bed, uncomfortable, total silence, and the expectation that he had at least some idea of what the hell he was doing.

"Are you…"

Erik started at the sound of her voice, then watched with unblinking eyes as Christine dragged her gaze pointedly down his torso. "Do you...need help?"

"Help?" The word came out slightly strangled.

"With your…"

"With my…?" Erik was blinking as fast as his racing heart.

She wasn't— She wasn't offering to— to, ah…prime the pump, so to speak?

Or…was she?

He didn't need— not that he wouldn't like— but she couldn't want to—

Following the path of her eyes, Erik shot a look down the length of his body.

Ah. Well. He was still fully dressed.

"No, no," he said quickly, smoothing his hands down his lapels. "I'll ah… I can take care of it."

The ticking clock chided him as he trudged across the room on dragging feet to a bulky old Louis Philippe writing desk. Without pausing to think about what he was doing, he loosened one arm from its sleeve, and then the next, then shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and let it fall to his wrists. He cut his eyes toward Christine and found that her eyes were fixed upon him, on his hands — watching, he had to assume, to ensure that they didn't work too quickly, didn't take off too much.

That watchful eye, he understood, meant he needed to watch her for guidance, so though his face burned until it hurt, the raw skin under the mask slowly roasting, Erik resisted the urge to turn away as he dragged the chair away from the desk and draped the jacket over its back, then bent over to loosen the laces of his shoes, taking his time as he stepped out of them, one-by-one, lined them up neatly, between the chair legs, side-by-side. Under her unblinking stare, his toes curled, digging into the thick wool of the rug; how could exposing such an inconsequential part of his body feel so vulnerable?

With fingers held rigid to control their shaking, he pulled the pin from his cravat, carefully unknotted the tie — and pretended he did not see Christine's hand rise to her own throat as he slipped it from around his neck and drew the length of black silk through his hands. The hand at her throat shook, but she said nothing; soldiering on, Erik threaded the pin through the tie, which he folded into a neat square and set atop the jacket, then brought his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat — and hesitated.

Christine's lips parted.

Still, she did not speak, did not tell him to stop, and so, slowly, to give her time to protest if she changed her mind, Erik undid the buttons, top to bottom, pausing between each one, until none remained.

At last he peeled the waistcoat off of his overheated body, flinching at the sudden rush of cold prickling his skin beneath the last layers of cotton.

Christine, he noticed, was cold, too; even from where he stood he could see the goose flesh rising along her arms, saw how she shivered. Next time — if there was a next time — he would make sure to prepare a fire.

Swallowing hard, Erik opened a button at his collar, two, stopping before a third to consider — while it would relieve some of the heat that was burning up his skin, he was already beginning to feel far too exposed, and certainly, certainly, she didn't want to see…

With the third button twisting in his fingers, Christine suddenly turned away, and, well, there simply could not be a better indication that she did not want to see the unsightly body — lank and pale and sinewy, entirely unlike that of the man she'd fallen for — beneath the handsomely-made clothes which remained. The only thing handsome about him.

As quickly as he could, while Christine peered from over her shoulder, Erik hooked his thumbs beneath his braces and slipped them off his shoulders to let them fall loose against his thighs.

He cleared his throat. "Is this…?"

She didn't speak, only nodded, and god, how he wished she would say something, but she only waited there, breathing hard, still not quite looking at him, as Erik stood by lamely, his fingers fiddling with the buttons of the braces, the ticking of the clock hammering in his ears, until he felt forced to be the one to break the silence.

"Do you want…? How should I…?"

There was no real way to finish those questions, and so he let them dangle there, unfinished.

"Oh!" Christine finally turned toward him again, her eyes wide and darting. "I don't know, I'm not sure." She wrung her hands, her arms pulled in protectively against her ribs. "I'm sorry! I'm so nervous. I've only ever...with him. I don't know how you usually…how you usually prefer..."

As if they had been kicked out from under him, Erik felt his knees give way. Only by a miracle — and a small, hopefully unnoticed, stumbling step forward to grab onto the chair — did he remain on his feet.

Usually!

He clutched at the hard wood of the chair through the layers of his discarded clothes.

She didn't know!

And not only did she not know, but she believed it had happened often enough for there to be a usual — and with enough variety for him to have a preference!

Something was bubbling up in his chest, and from the hitching, heaving feel of it, the odds between tears and laughter were even.

Now would be the time to be upfront and honest, wouldn't it? She would understand; she was always so understanding. But how much more awkwardness would that add to an already inordinately awkward situation! And, worse, what if that information made her change her mind? No, no. Not that. Anything but that.

He could manage — how hard could it be?

Erik pulled his spine straight — as straight as it was going to get, anyway — and detached his hands from their support, gesturing faux-casually with an open palm.

"Well, ah, he said you should be the one to choose." His voice was surprisingly smooth for a throat which felt so tight.

"Yes, right...that's right." Christine's hands twisted into her petticoats as she looked about the room. "I think… Maybe…" Her fingertips raised to her lips. "Maybe if you just come over here…?"

And so he did, each unsteady step he took falling with a resounding thud, or so it sounded to Erik's ringing ears, until he joined her alongside the bed, smoothing the front of his shirt with damp palms.

"Do you want to…" Christine began — but she did not finish, only stared up at him with her dark eyes, her hands pressed to her stomach, to the rigid shield of her corset, as heavy breaths passed through her open lips.

Oh, Erik knew what he wanted to do.

He wanted to glide his fingertips up the length of her arms, from her wrist to the soft flesh just below her shoulders, and there he would grasp her, pull her to him — lower his mouth to the place where shoulder curved into neck and press his lips to the bare skin, tasting with tongue and scraping lightly with teeth until he reached her jaw, her ear, then back down to her throat — wanted to slide his hands around to caress her lower back, clasp her to him, leave her with no doubt as to the intensity of his need for her — wanted to hook his hands under her spread thighs and lift her up, lie her gently back upon the bed, wanted to strip every scrap of cotton and lace from her body, and between her open knees, he wanted fall to his and worship her, whispering his devotions into the crease between hip and thigh, before finally finally finally holding her close and crushing his lips to hers, with unbridled, all-consuming hunger, the way he had been too stunned and unworthy to do before, savoring the taste of her without the salt-flavor of her tears, drowning in her until he could hardly breathe, and then finally finally finally burying himself in her, losing himself in her, just as he'd always wanted.

But that was not going to happen.

That was for another reality, one that didn't involve husbands and rules and contracts and misconceptions about his experience.

Besides, she wouldn't want that. A dream was all it was and ever would be. For all she might say she wanted to do this, she still wasn't going to be getting any enjoyment out of it. She wasn't doing this because she wanted him, this was simply a means to an end.

Only minutes ago she'd told him that she wanted to get this over with; it was time to stop pretending it was anything other than what it was, and just…get it over with.

"You know," he said with a little cough, "we don't have, ah, an abundance of time left…"

Christine blinked up at him, the splashes of hot red on her cheeks draining away to leave chalky white. "Yes. Yes, you're right," she said, taking a few steps back. "Maybe we should— Here, why don't we just…" And all at once she spun away to face the bed, shoulders and back stiff as she leaned into the mattress, supported by her forearms, handfuls of bedding gathered in her fists.

Erik would have staggered back, only he found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle.

Oh dear god!

"Will this work?" Christine's voice was shaking as hard as Erik's own hands.

Reaching behind her, she roughly pulled up her skirts, until the ruffled hems bunched up over her hips, exposing sheer white cotton pulled tight over the soft curve of her backside, the wide lace cuffs of her drawers brushing against the swell of her calves.

Unbidden, a rush of heat raced through him, warming his face, his neck, his palms.

"You can...however you need," she spoke, low and raspy, into the rumpled folds of bedding. "I'm ready. Whenever. Just…you can go ahead."

A chill began to spread through Erik's body, starting behind his breastbone, cooling the blood that had just been pumping so hard through his veins.

She was...ready.

Was he?

Though his fingertips tingled with longing, his palms were cold and clammy; though he could feel his mouth grow wet, his throat was painfully dry; though his blood still pumped hard, that blood was now rapidly turning to ice.

Though he very much wanted to be ready, every part of him felt hollow, unreal...unready.

This...this was exactly what he had not wanted, wasn't it? An impersonal, mechanical coupling — the very thing he'd turned down once already.

But no, no, this was different. Before, she had offered herself in exasperation. Now she actually wanted to do this, she'd said exactly that…even if this didn't quite feel like want… But this was fine! It could work! Perhaps there had been some secret hopes — secret even from himself until this very moment — for what he might want, at least for his first time...

But that was Erik's own damn fault for clinging so stubbornly to any sort of hope or want.

So he wouldn't get to feel her arms wrap around him, her hands clutching at his shoulder blades, fingers digging into taut muscle. Or get to bury his face in her hair, breathing her in, her scent a substitute for the taste of her he was not allowed. Or get to hear her sweet sighs in his ear as he moved languidly within her. It was just as she'd said: we don't all get things exactly as we want, do we?

Right now he just needed to get this over and done with as quickly as possible — though maybe not too quickly — and that would be that, and maybe next time it would be better. All he needed was to ensure there would be a next time.

He could make it work.

He would make it work.

And so, taking a steadying breath, Erik positioned himself behind her — Close. So close.

Most definitely close enough to touch.

Except now, he was actually expected to touch her, and he half-wanted to run for the door instead.

Gritting his teeth, Erik tentatively pushed the petticoats up to reveal a bit more of the curve of one hip, a handhold to grip — though not just yet — then he leaned down, and with a hand which would not stop shaking no matter how hard he willed it to stop, he hesitantly ran his fingers up the fabric which rested against the inside of her thigh — Christine's thigh, an incomprehensible location for his fingers to be — to where the overlapping edges of the split in her drawers was nestled between her legs. He fumbled with the opening concealed within the folds of cotton, getting his bearings, mapping out the unfamiliar terrain of a woman's undergarments, until, more or less by accident, his fingers grazed the skin of her inner thigh; Christine gasped.

"I'm sorry!" Erik pulled his hand back as if stung.

"No, no, don't be," she said, though her voice was strained. As if to reinforce her point, she shifted, repositioning her feet, moving them to either side of his own, her legs slightly spread.

Dizziness clouded Erik's head as the room swayed under his feet. She was offering herself to him, open, ready, waiting. All he needed to do was release his throbbing erection and plunge himself into her and at last they would be one, the deed done.

But for that to happen, he would need an erection.

Any erection — throbbing or not.

And there was…nothing. Not even the faintest stirrings of…of…ah— Goddamn it! Surely by now...

With numb fingers, somehow Erik managed to unfasten his trousers and took himself in hand; the thing laid lifeless in his palm, useless.

His insides turned to solid ice.

What the fuck! The damned thing was always springing to life at inopportune times, and now, when it was finally his chance to use it, it would betray him like this? Humiliate him?

Within his frozen chest, Erik's heart surged and sputtered and, actually, maybe if it gave out now, it wouldn't be so bad; he would have an easy out.

What was wrong? This was what he'd always wanted, right? Or, close enough to it. It should be close enough!

But...with her head hanging between tensed arms, her eyes screwed shut — not that he could see her face, but he just knew it, just felt it — it could be anyone, any woman just…letting it happen, enduring it, the one thing he had very deliberately avoided through years and years of temptation.

But that wasn't what this was! This was fine, this was more than he even deserved! That was the belief he had forced his mind to accept — but his body…well it seemed his body had other ideas.

But, goddamnit, he would make it work.

One benefit of this impersonal position was that at least Christine couldn't see as he vigorously rubbed and pulled and filled his head with images of her taking his hand, of her smile, of her lips on his, and pushed away the unwelcome, intruding feeling of how oddly lonely it was to have her just waiting there, like that, while he was burning in his own private hell.

And still, nothing.

It was entirely possible at that moment that, if given the choice, Erik might have chosen death, but still, his heart kept hammering, with no sign of giving out.

Oh god.

What if—

What if he just...couldn't? Would she be disappointed? Would she pity him? Would she laugh about it someday with her husband?

Would perhaps simply faking heart failure be an option?

Sweat began to soak the back of his shirt, dripping between his hunching shoulder blades.

With a rustle of fabric, Christine shifted her weight; the heel of one stockinged foot pushed against his toes, making Erik jump — and not subtly.

"Is everything all right?"

No. No, nothing was right.

He was a failure. A disappointment. Pitiful. Worthy of nothing but derision.

And now it was time to admit it.

Now mercifully feeling numb enough that whatever happened next no longer mattered, Erik stuffed himself back in his trousers.

"I can't do this," he muttered, closing the fastenings.

"Oh no, you can!" she said, pushing her hips back a little — though, still, her face was turned toward the bedding. "I want you to!"

"No, I—" Erik stepped back and away. "I can't. It's ah..." His twitching hands smoothed and straightened his shirt, his trousers, his mask. Nausea twisted his stomach. "It…is not working."

Christine went still. "Oh."

"Oh god…" Erik groaned. As his stomach lurched, his eyes snapped to the door; in half a dozen steps — or just a few running strides, if he decided to fully commit to losing his dignity — he could be out of this room and out of this nightmare and maybe, since she was so forgiving, they could pretend that this had never happened, just like they had pretended so many things had never happened. Worse things, even.

Well…maybe worse; at the moment, it was hard to think anything could be worse than this.

Erik took a couple quick steps toward the door, his feet pulling him along even as he could feel his heart crumbling. Any scrap of respect she might have had left for him had now been obliterated; he'd exposed himself as inadequate, impotent, incapable, lesser in every way to the one she'd rightly chosen.

"No, Erik, come back!" In a whirl of fluttering fabric, Christine was standing, pushing her skirts back down over her legs — and extending her hand to him. "Don't go! Let's just talk for a minute."

The door still beckoned…

But it couldn't compete with the sight of Christine's outstretched hand, waiting, open, for him to once again place his heart — and every last scrap of his pride — into.

"Please?"

Well, there was no better place for it, he supposed.

Slowly Erik turned back, though he could not quite face her.

Christine exhaled heavily. "I can only imagine how much pressure this must be. I—" She paused, smoothing a loose curl away from her face. "I know this isn't how it usually must—"

"Well. So." Erik straightened his shirt cuffs, pulled his shoulders back, held his chin high. "That's, ah…that's the issue. There is no 'usual'. Not for me."

"You mean…" Her brow furrowed. "You still haven't…" She was shaking her head. "Even now?"

"Never."

Christine's eyes were widening, her brows rising up her forehead. "But I thought— It's been so many years!" Tears were welling in her eyes and her hands were clasped at her chest like a plea, and oh god no, the last thing he'd wanted was to make her feel guilty about his failure. "Why would— why would you have agreed to do this?"

Erik closed his eyes and sighed. "How could I ever deny you anything?" he said simply — though perhaps the whole truth of it was not so simple.

Collapsing against the bed, Christine covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Erik, I'm so sorry. This isn't how it should be for you!"

"Well, it doesn't seem like it will be anything at all, so no need to apologize," he said, trying hard to muster up a tension-breaking smile, though inside he wanted nothing more than to cry.

At least Christine no longer looked like she wanted to cry, though; she leaned against the bed silently, hands in her lap, picking and twisting at her skirt as she chewed at her lip.

Erik took the opportunity to creep his fingers up his shirtfront, to his throat, and began to slip the ivory button at his collar through its hole; the sooner he could put himself back in order, the better — and he'd certainly prefer it if he could manage it without her eyes on him this time, watching him admit defeat with every button.

"You know…" Christine said slowly, glancing up at the clock. "The rule is only acts that are 'necessary'…"

The breath hitched in Erik's chest. He watched her, silently, not daring to speak.

"Will you trust me?"

Erik dropped his hands from his throat.

Of course he would, he always would, and yet…he could feel himself begin to tremble. The uncertainty of what, exactly, she was implying was an entirely new kind of discomfort, but was not enough to stop him from nodding—

Yes — Yes.

She shook out her skirt and ran a hand across it, smoothing it over her knees. "Come lie down," she said, and turned, tugging at the coverlet behind her, flattening out the wrinkles.

Oh god.

Despite her calm, determined demeanor, Erik couldn't help but think— Actually, no.

No. Erik wasn't going to think anything. Not anymore. Not right now.

Thinking wasn't doing him any favors tonight, and who needed to think when a woman — that woman — was patting the bed next to her and smiling so patiently?

So without thinking, Erik let his feet take him to the bed, to her, to…god only knew what she had in mind. She stood and moved aside, and now all that was left was for Erik to do as she said, but first, he knew she would want…

"Can you leave it?" Christine said, very quickly, stopping Erik as he leaned over the little tabletop oil lamp. "It's so dark down here, it would be impossible to…see."

Actually, Erik would prefer that it was too dark to see a thing, or even try. But what did he know about what she needed for…whatever was happening? So he did as she asked.

And then, as gracefully as he could with wobbling limbs, he climbed onto the bed and laid back, just as she asked, just as he would've done anything at all that she asked, though he left himself propped up on his elbows — because while, yes, of course he trusted her, he was not quite ready to leave himself so unguarded, not after a life where almost all of the touch he'd received had been the kind that hurt.

Besides, were he to have laid all the way back, he would have missed the unbelievable sight of Christine's pale hand trailing up his black-clad thigh, her fingertips just barely skimming the fabric of his trousers, until they reached there. He would have missed seeing the way she bit her lip as she gently brushed those fingertips over the wretched thing, then pressed them to it, tentatively.

"Is this all right?" Christine asked gently, flattening her hand over him.

Erik could do nothing but nod in response, not that he needed to; the answer was swelling beneath her cupping palm.

With a confident hand — rather perturbingly confident, actually — she caressed him, traced the contours of him, and oh god she was touching him there, where there had never been another's touch before, and quite beyond his control, he began to shake, shaking too hard to hold himself up any longer. His arms gave out and he collapsed against the pillows.

"See? Necessary," Christine said with a little half-smile. She moved her hand to his waistband, slipping her fingers inside. "May I?"

Another nod was all Erik could manage.

Deftly, the fastenings were opened and her hand disappeared beneath the black wool.

Erik held his breath.

And then…

And then she took him in her hands — those gentle hands, so much smaller, so much softer, so much warmer than his own — and began to stroke him with breathtaking delicacy and skill. Such skill, in fact, that Erik might have been consumed with bitterness thinking about how she came by that skill, except those clever hands worked such delicious magic upon his flesh that his mind could no longer form the word 'husband' let alone conjure jealous images of one.

He wasn't sure when her eyes had closed, but it gave him an opportunity to really look, and all at once it was much too much: her firm, knowing hand, her lowered lashes brushing over her flushed cheeks, the pink tip of her tongue held between her teeth — Erik opened his mouth to cry out for her to stop. But before he could make a sound, she released him suddenly, expertly, just before it might have been too late, leaving him gasping and panting and unable, again, to answer beyond a nod when she asked, also once again unnecessarily, "Ready?"

She slipped off the bed, and after a brief hesitation, reached beneath her skirts and slipped off her drawers, kicking them to the side, her eyes never leaving him.

Her hands were on his waistband again, slipping behind the wool of his trousers, wriggling further down, past the cotton garments beneath, brushing against skin. "Yes?" she asked.

"Yes," he breathed.

Raising his hips to aid her, she quite confidently pulled everything down, down, to the tops of his thighs and god, how exposed he felt, but at least there was no doubt of the efficacy of her touch, his readiness, his ability to finish what she had started.

Erik was half-afraid to look, but couldn't resist a quick glance at Christine's face as her eyes swept over him. Though he would never go so far as to say she was pleased with what she saw, he could at least feel confident that she wasn't too disappointed, not judging by her dark, shining eyes, by her long, low exhale of breath.

Then, without time to think about what was actually happening — not that he was thinking anymore, not that he was even capable of thought — she was back on the bed, gathering up her skirts, knees parting to straddle his hips, lifting those skirts high enough for him to catch a flash of bare thigh above her stockings with their ribbon ties. Then one hand disappeared beneath the pile of petticoats, and then all at once it was on him again — though her eyes had closed again — guiding him between her thighs, settling herself so the now painfully swollen tip of him was pressing into slick heat and already Erik could feel a tightening low in his belly, so he held his breath and prayed that he could avoid a second humiliation and at least last long enough to get the whole thing in.

And slowly, sadistically slowly, punctuated by small pauses and sharp breaths, she sunk down onto him until he was engulfed completely, until he could feel no beginning or end between the two of them, and that sweet, heated connection was a sensation beyond imagination — yet it couldn't compare to the sight of her face in that moment, of the flushed cheeks and bitten lip and eyes closed in concentration. And then…those eyes opening, fixing him with a hazy, heavy-lidded gaze, which did not waver, even when he returned it.

Nothing could be better.

But then she braced her hands against his chest and started rocking her hips against his, her body gripping him more sweetly than he'd ever imagined when all he had was imagination and his own hand, and Erik realized that he'd been wrong: this was better.

Far too much better, actually.

Her eyes were closed again and her flush was deepening and the rocking was deepening and it would be finished in just a moment, but had there ever been a sweeter moment in his miserable life?

His hands, lying useless and heavy beside him, began grasping at the bedding, searching for something to tether him to this world. She must have noticed the movement, because, never pausing, she reached down to take his wrists and guided his hands to the top of her thighs, just below the gathered petticoats. Gasping, he slid his hands up under the layers of cotton and lace, clutching blindly at her heated skin until he could feel his fingertips sink into the soft flesh of her hips— And it was all over for him then.

He shuddered and spasmed gracelessly under her as she held tight, riding the waves of his release, the involuntary cry caught behind his gritted teeth escaping as a long, low, and thoroughly undignified groan.

And then it was done.

And no, it had been no triumph.

It had been something much better.

It took almost as long as the act itself for the room to stop spinning, for the haziness begin to clear from his eyes. But the clear view of her, rising gloriously over him like an angel, did not last but a second or two before Erik's vision again started to blur — this time with tears.

As he let the tears rise, breathing deeply to catch his breath, waiting for his heart to stop its pounding, only one thought filled his head, repeating over and over, in time with his slowing pulse: thank you, thank you.

Thank you.

Yes, when Erik was capable of speech again, he would thank her.

Thank her for showing him compassion at one of the most humiliating points in his life, when she just as easily could have let him walk away in shame.

Thank her for being so kind and so beautiful — so, so beautiful — in every way a person could be kind and beautiful, but also in ways others could not be, never had been, because she had shared her kindness and beauty with one so ugly, so undeserving, in such an intimate way, and by doing so, she had for this brief moment raised Erik up, not quite to her level, no, that simply wasn't possible, but pulled him up, out of the black, lonely depths he inhabited, and given him a taste of bliss he thought he'd never know.

And he'd thank her for the way she looked at him now, her hands still resting upon his chest, her eyes so full of tenderness and understanding and wait— also so…full of tears?

Oh god, they were! And they were not the tears of joy which still filled Erik's own eyes, because the good kind of tears did not come with brows pulling together and a trembling hand lifting to a gaping mouth.

A fresh wave of nausea turned Erik's stomach. The weight of her resting on his hips above their still-connected bodies began to feel suffocating, when a moment ago he would have given anything to stay forever like this; now, as the first tear slipped down her cheek, he wanted nothing more than to flee.

Blinking down at him, her breast began to hitch with suppressed sobs. "I have to— I have to…" she was saying, and then all at once she scrambled off of him, leaving cold and emptiness in her wake, and, giving him a look of pure anguish, she choked out "I'm sorry!" and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom he'd once prepared just for her.

And then…

And then there was nothing left but for Erik to clean himself up as best he could and take his clothes and go.

…

Erik's eyes did not leave the clock as he stood by the fireplace in his parlor, watching the minutes tick by until the time to leave had passed, by one minute, then two, wondering vaguely if the night would take another unexpected turn, and end with a dozen or so gendarmes raiding his home and hauling him off to jail. Though he seriously considered that he might choose that fate rather than go in after her, luckily it did not come to that: just a minute later, the bedroom door opened and Christine stepped out, and with her tidy, tightly buttoned-up dress and her inscrutable, freshly-washed face, one could hardly tell she'd just experienced what was surely the biggest regret of her life.

They didn't speak on the journey back, which was just as well, because Erik was close to out of breath as he poled the boat as quickly as he could across the lake — but also because what could he possibly say to her to make it better? Better for her was for him to stay quiet, undemanding, unobtrusive. And at least that meant he could spend the journey lying to himself, telling himself that this wouldn't be the last time he ever saw her.

Even before they arrived at the gate, even over the sound of rustling cloaks and clicking heels as he and Christine rushed along the stone walkway, Erik could hear the sound of the vicomte's pacing steps, just outside on the street.

How Erik wished he could find the words to express all that he wanted to say — needed to say — but he felt so tired, so defeated, and there just wasn't time, and perhaps it was best that he let her go without the theatrics that would surely follow if he tried to open his mouth to speak, judging by how he'd comported himself the last time he let her go with the certainty he'd never see her again, that night many long years ago.

But as he reached for the gate, his fingers numb and cold to the bone even inside a leather glove, Christine suddenly reached for his hand and pulled him back into the shadows.

Placing her other hand upon his shoulder, she gently pulled him down until his face was level with hers, then leaned in, her lips just brushing his ear. "It will be better next time," she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. And then she pressed her kind, compassionate, beautiful lips to the cold, sculpted cheekbone of his mask and squeezed his hand. "Thank you," she said, very quietly. "Thank you."

As she walked off through the gate, Erik raised his fingertips to his mask, certain that he could still feel the heat of her lips upon it, warming the tender, ruined flesh beneath that she hadn't quite kissed.

I mean, I hope you didn't think he was gonna be great right off the bat.

Alright, well that's done! Up next: Raoul cries while jerking off- Ah, just kidding again! At least for now, I make no promises about future chapters. But next, more Erik and more Christine, and hopefully much less performance anxiety and conflicted emotions - but still enough to keep things interesting.

I wanted to have this done earlier, but I was busy this last weekend in NYC SEEING THE SHOW ON BROADWAY, TWICE! (With a full orchestra - bad info there, Lakecari! Even in London, which did reduce the orchestra, it's not just a few musicians and tapes.) Ahhh, it was so good to see my boy again! Thank you all so much for hanging in there for almost 100K words before getting to The Good Part, and for all the support and encouragement. As always, you all are the best!

Also, hello and and an extra thank you to BlueBoxFive, Capenoires, EmeraldHeather, MarilynKC, rscoil, FleshofMidnight, Alkahest (hello again!), AnotherSilentObserver (who has me pegged on a person level haha), Phanma, sharp52092, blubird2021, and Amelia Mariee!

And thank you to the lovely Aldebaran (who I got the pleasure of meeting IN PERSON!) for the spot-on suggestions and invaluable feedback. Merci!