Chapter 30 — And Again and Again and Again etc.

The saying is true: practice does indeed make perfect.

Long ago, Erik had accepted that certain aspects of himself would never reach adequacy, let alone perfection, and there was little if any way of improving them. For what remained, though, there was opportunity. He dressed himself as finely as possible, spent his life creating beautiful things, and never settled for less than complete mastery of every skill he set his hand to.

To be a student of the pleasures of the flesh was not unlike learning any other skill, as it turned out, and Erik committed himself to the pursuit of perfection the same way he always had: with rigorous study and relentless determination. And, of course, lots and lots of practice.

But having such an enthusiastic teacher certainly didn't hurt, either.

The visit following the night of Erik's breakdown and Christine's confession, the trip down below was impossibly slow and stomach-twistingly awkward, but once they made it through the door, it became a mad scramble to get to the bedroom, shedding cloaks and gloves and shoes along the way, where they fell upon each other with feverish need. Christine's hands were swift and nimble, and she had Erik's cravat unknotted and tossed aside and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned before he'd even shrugged off his coat. And when, midway through fumbling his way down the fastenings of her bodice, Christine's lips found his bared throat and his own hands suddenly lost the ability to function, she took over, and was not only down to her underthings but had also made a good start on his waistcoat before he'd fully recovered his senses.

Though neither of them had acknowledged it explicitly, there were still rules…at least in theory. And those rules were being observed…technically.

All of these acts—the dragging of her lips along his neck; the skimming of his hand over her irresistible bottom; the hurried untucking of his shirts followed by the delicious slide of her warm palm up his bare stomach—really did seem quite necessary, given how achingly hard Erik was already and how necessary it was that he relieve that ache as expeditiously as possible. Perhaps a few times.

And the rule which insisted that they 'only take off as much clothing as needed' was quite easy to follow, for one would be hard pressed to argue that Erik, after so long of nothing at all, didn't need to see and touch and taste as much bare skin as she would allow, ravenous as a starving man at a feast, and so there was really no need to bother with justifications when Christine pulled away abruptly and turned, presenting Erik with the laces of her corset. Nor did he need any convincing—or even to be asked at all—to start tearing at the things as if her life depended on having them undone as quickly as possible.

In seconds, the corset was loosened enough for her to unhook the busk, and at last that barrier fell away, leaving nothing but a thin layer of cotton loosely draped over the soft swells of her breasts and hips. Erik held his breath as she tugged at the ribbon tie at the neckline. Oh, how very, very long he had dreamed of seeing her, all of her, of feeling that velvet skin beneath his hands, of running his—

But, once again, he was getting ahead of himself. Christine had made no move to undo the tie. She worried the ribbon between her fingers; she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

"You needn't," Erik nearly sputtered.

As much as he wanted to see her, there was little he wanted less than being forced to hear her explain that her unclothed body was a gift that belonged to her husband and her husband alone.

And Erik understood, truly. Bare skin was intimate, vulnerable—revealing.

"That is, I think it best if I don't…" He gestured at his remaining clothing, the unbuttoned shirt and exposed undershirt and the trousers, and of course the mask and wig—more or less the minimum needed to keep him tolerable to look at. "So you—you really needn't..."

No, it was hardly fair in the first place to hope that she should expose her lovely body entirely to his devouring gaze when he had nothing to offer in return. So even if Christine frowned in response, in an expression which, under different circumstances, could have been taken for disappointment, Erik hardly felt any disappointment himself. For really, what was there to be disappointed about when he opened his arms to her and she folded herself into his embrace, pressing full against him, arms twined around his neck, so soft and warm and supple, the fleshy curves of her body cushioned against the hard, fleshless muscle of his.

"I haven't been able to stop thinking about this." Christine's voice was husky, lips brushing against his collarbone as she spoke. "I'm a terrible wife."

Erik wondered if she could feel his heart begin to race beneath her lips. For her sake, he knew he ought to object, but he just couldn't get his lips to form the words. What value was there in encouraging her devotion to that foolish boy? The worse a wife she was, the better for Erik. And she couldn't have felt too terrible, really, because as she'd spoken, her hands had slipped down to make quick work of the fastenings of his trousers. Heat flooded his belly.

"Tell me," he said, sliding his hands over her shoulders and down the length of her arms. "What is it that you've been thinking of?"

"I—" Christine brought her hands up to fiddle at the hem of Erik's open shirtfront. "I don't know if I could say…" She shook her head, blushing intriguingly.

"No?" Erik grasped her by the waist, pulling her flush against his hips, leaving her with no doubt about his eagerness to indulge whatever she had in mind. "Of course you can. Tell me what it is that you want."

"I don't want you to think me unladylike, or…" she said, keeping her eyes on his collar, "or…indecent…"

"I could never."

She seemed to consider this for a moment. And then, raising on tiptoe, arms curling around his neck, pulling him down so her whispered words teased his ear, she told him—in blunt, rather…forward terms which caused Erik first to blanch, then burn with wicked heat—that what she really wanted was for him to take her—just take her—right there, right then, with, ah…a bit of forcefulness, and without any concern other than his own selfish need.

And as she spoke, Erik could feel his palms begin to sweat, for it was difficult—and rather startling—for him to believe that that was what his sweet, gentle Christine would actually want…

But not so difficult as to prevent him from complying straight away.

So—right then—he scooped her up and dropped her onto the edge of the bed. Quickly, he slid off her drawers and fell to his knees on the floor—right there—between her legs, and pulled her chemise up around her hips so he could run his hands over her stockinged calves and press hungry kisses to the naked skin of her inner thighs. And though what Erik really needed was to continue upward, to taste and see and savor her, when he reached the gathered hem of her chemise where it draped over the shadowed place between her legs, she began to squirm and gently push him away, and so he stopped at once. If he felt any dismay, however, it was fleeting, because she was saying his name in a low whine, begging him, pleading for him, please, Erik, please, and so—with a bit of forcefulness—he pushed her back upon the bed and climbed atop her.

His hand shook, just a little, as he aligned their bodies, then swept a bit of loose hair back from her face. This was all still so new, and while the thrill of it should have been enough to propel him through, Erik could feel his nerve wavering as the worry of disappointing her loomed over him, of doing things wrong, of not measuring up to— to that other, perfect—

But he was being ridiculous, because she certainly didn't seem to be thinking of anyone but him as she slid her arms around his neck and looked up at him with dark, entreating eyes—or as he cradled her flushed face in his hand and pushed into her, easily, with a shared groan.

After the frenzy of their last encounter, Erik had wanted to take his time, but it only took one long, deep thrust to know that was simply not in the cards; she felt too good and he was too unpracticed and so he had no choice but to quicken to a greedy pace. And it wasn't really selfish if it was what she'd asked for, and there wasn't any doubt it was what she wanted because her fingers were clutching at his straining back, her curling toes were drawing him in deeper, urging him on faster, harder, yes, Erik, yes—and then her hips were raising to meet his as, with a violent cry, he spent himself deep within her.

When it was done, she stroked his back and told him, thank you, Erik, yes, it was exactly what she'd wanted.

But it was not all she wanted.

Once he could breathe again, she told him she wanted for him to lie with her, face to face, and touch her—to slide his hands beneath her chemise, to run them over her soft belly and curved hip, up to her ribs, up to her breasts, to their sensitive tips which he gently pinched and tugged, making her gasp.

And she told him she wanted to touch him—to slip her hands under the barrier of his remaining clothes and explore all the skin that she could reach, to stroke and knead and caress until the ever-present tension in the muscles of his back and shoulders and arms began to melt away under her hands. And her touch was so soft and so warm and so gentle—so gentle he could have wept, could have broken down completely—if she hadn't right then, just as the tears began to rise, brought his face down to hers so she could whisper in his ear, telling him secrets she'd been keeping. Some even from herself.

It had been, she told him—as her small hands found the sharp blades of his collarbones, the hollows of his hips—an illicit dream come true when her Angel had first revealed himself to her as a man. She told him of the awakening she'd felt as the dark seduction of his voice penetrated her very soul, reaching deep within her to extract her most hidden desires—of the thrill she'd felt at each touch of his careful, elegant hands—of how she was left desperately wanting more, and how if…

But then she trailed off as Erik put his mouth to her neck and his hand low on her belly, and she never got to the part, or rather, the parts—the mannequin, the mask, the…god, so much of it—where he'd gone and ruined everything. Which was for the best, really.

Then there were things she asked for without words, with just the meaningful touch of her hand. Like how she wanted him to touch her there, where she was slick and swollen; how she wanted to feel him grow hard—or, rather, harder—in her palm. And though she didn't say so, she must have wanted to listen to him groan in agony, for over and over she whispered in his ear how good his hands felt on her, how good he'd felt inside her, how much she wanted him again.

It was so much, almost too much, and yet it wasn't enough—no, he couldn't get enough, not even when she slung a leg over his hip and took him inside her again.

Nothing else existed then. Breathless, they gripped each other's shoulders as he pressed in deep, until he filled her completely—until they both exhaled in long sighs of relief. With the urgency and clumsy timidity gone, Erik could at last truly savor the sweetness of their connection; he found a slow, rolling rhythm, and they rocked together like that, his hand gripping her hip, her fingertips at the back of his neck, languid and teasing.

And she told him even more secrets.

She told him how, even after all that had transpired, she'd still felt drawn to him, had dreamt of him, couldn't stop longing to see him again. She buried her face against his shoulder and told him how much more complete she felt with him back in her life, how fulfilled by their music and their physical connection—while at the same time, she'd never felt more conflicted. How confusing it was to feel so inextricably connected to someone who had once deceived her and terrified her and had nearly killed her husband. How difficult it was to reconcile the man she knew he could be—passionate and brilliant and tender—with the anger, the threats, the extortion, the death, the manipulation, the lies, the chandelier, the—

And, well, Erik never found out what else, because just then he slipped his hand down between them and put his fingers back to work—it was so important to take any opportunity he could to practice, after all—and it was fine, really, since the sounds she made as he touched and stroked her just above where they were joined were so very nice to hear.

And then, before long, there was no talking at all, only their sighs, their gasps, their quickening breath—and then, at last, Erik's low groan of satisfaction.

…

After that, his entire home became their practice room. Though at first, they'd managed to wait until they reached the bedroom before falling upon each other, now, more often than not, they hardly made it through the front door. And why confine themselves to a bedroom? There were countless options, if only one had enough imagination.

Up against a wall, with an armful of her gathered skirts held away from what was perhaps an excessive number of candelabras, though it could never be said he didn't know how to set a sensual mood—her bottom scooted to the edge of the kitchen counter beside a bottle of wine, the cork half-removed, while he stood and tried very hard not to finish the moment she wrapped her legs around his waist—her thighs straddling his on the piano bench, his bracing hands crashing against the keys, creating a discordant masterpiece, a perfect new ending for Don Juan Triumphant—each corner of his home was suddenly full of new possibilities.

And then, of course, if even the front door was too long to hold out…

One shoe, a pair of drawers, and a few of the boat's cushions had been lost to the lake, but it had been, unquestionably, worth it.

…

It was a relief, this time, when the letter came.

It was also a bit of a shock.

Swept away in a deluge of physical pleasure and thinking of little else besides making up for lost time, Erik had quite forgotten the ostensible purpose of the visits. The realization that he'd dodged a bullet despite all but standing in front of a target at a firing range sent a trickle of cold sweat down his neck and made him reconsider…nothing. Absolutely nothing.

There are some things in life which are simply too good to allow something as insignificant as consequences to get in the way, and what Erik had going was very, very good, and those consequences seemed even less likely, given that a month of vigorous effort toward that goal had proven to be unsuccessful.

And, really, what was life without a few risks to keep things interesting?

Still, it was an immense relief—though the price of this reprieve was that he would have a week without Christine, which would be an entirely new sort of misery now that he had become so used to having her in his arms. And on his lap. And over the side of his sofa. But at least it meant that there would be another month—a month to keep learning and exploring…and calculating how to get the most out of their time together and perhaps…keep it from ending at all.

…

It was mid-afternoon when Erik strolled through the church, raising a hand in greeting to the workers, idly noting the progress which had been made in his absence, thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation of lightness and warmth and ease which he assumed must be happiness—and not even the gruff, staccato grumbling which rumbled down the hall from the direction of Nadir's makeshift office could ruin it.

Bent over an open ledger on a desk crammed with piles of papers, Nadir's head snapped up as Erik opened the door. He squinted at Erik, unblinking, for several long moments, then leaned back in his chair.

"Well. Back after three weeks, after all." He gestured to a towering stack of papers. "And here's three weeks of work that's been waiting for you. No, stay, take my pen, it's mostly signatures," he said, motioning for Erik to sit. "You'll understand if I'd rather not have you leave my sight until it's done—we're already behind on the permits for the Admiral Willems job. It might interest you to know," Nadir continued, shuffling through the papers, "that I've been here since dawn, I've taken three meetings already, I've missed lunch, and since I had my doubts you'd show, I'll be spending the rest of the day rearranging appointments, because—"

Nadir broke off, interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Sir, I—" A blond head popped in the door, pencil behind the ear—and immediately withdrew. "Nevermind, sir!" Emile's voice echoed from the hallway. "It can wait!"

"Oh, get back in here." Rolling his eyes, Erik rose and went to the door and gestured for the boy to return—though he was prepared to drag him back in by the collar if he must. "I'm not here to yell at you. Just go do whatever business you have with him and be on your way."

The boy scurried past and exchanged brief words with Nadir, then turned and fled for the door.

"Wait." Erik put out a hand to stop him, then reached into his jacket and withdrew a billfold. "Would you be so kind as to go down to that shop at the corner and pick up something for Monsieur Khan here to eat?" He peeled off a few francs, and then several more. "And something for yourself, too—and the rest of the men, will you? No, no, don't thank me, just be quick about it." Erik shoved the notes in a sweaty, trembling hand. "Monsieur is clearly suffering."

Nadir said nothing during this exchange, only watched with narrowed eyes as the boy said a thank you which, understandably, sounded more like he was questioning the reality of what had just happened rather than a statement of gratitude and ran off down the hall.

And Nadir continued to say nothing as Erik sat back down and got to work, though to call it work was perhaps a stretch, because it quickly became apparent that not much in that pile seemed as if it actually needed Erik's attention, and he had to wonder how much of this was being given to him for the principle of it, if not outright spite. Yet, for once, Erik found that he didn't have it in him to care one way or the other, really. And with a signature here or a few notes there, the pile of paper began to shrink, as Nadir watched with eyes narrowed far past the point that he should have been able to see much of anything.

"You're humming," Nadir said, still squinting aggressively.

Erik completed another signature, adding an extra flourish to the end. "So I am."

"It's been years since you've had anything to do with music."

"Has it really?"

"It has." There was a creak as Nadir sat forward in his chair. "The timing is curious…"

"Hm." Erik flipped through a thick packet of documents, letting the silence stretch long enough that an outsider who was not familiar with how meddlesome Nadir could be might have believed the subject had been dropped.

"And you were…unusually kind, just now, to Emile," Nadir continued, of course.

"Was I?"

"Yes. You seem to be in quite a good mood."

"Ah." Erik shrugged as he dashed off a last signature and handed him the packet. "Well I suppose I am."

"Erik."

"Yes?"

Nadir placed both palms on the desktop. "What is going on?"

"Is something going on, daroga?" Erik frowned.

A ruddy flush had begun to creep up Nadir's face. "You know there is! You've been seeing her, haven't you?" He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "Have you been sleeping with her?"

"No, I wouldn't say so."

"Oh no? Then what would you say?"

Erik put down the pen and intertwined his fingers, inverting his arms in a long stretch. "I'd say there's hardly time for sleep with all the sex we've been having."

Nadir, to his credit, was truly becoming quite creative with his curses—at least the ones Erik could decipher from the jumble of Persian and French and…was that Italian in there, too?

"I do hope at least some of that was congratulatory, my friend," Erik smiled, reaching for the pen and a new set of papers.

"Why should I congratulate you for making the biggest mistake of your life?"

"The biggest…?" Erik tapped the pen against his chin. "Really?"

"It may well be! I tell you, this will end terribly!"

"Ah," Erik arched his brow. "But for whom?"

The sharp slap of Nadir's hand slamming down on the desk nearly made Erik flinch. "All of you! And possibly the child, most of all."

"What child? There is no child, she's indisposed. Why do you think I'm here?"

"I suppose I should have known it wasn't because you had any thought for me or your responsibilities," Nadir scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "What will happen when it works? You're going to let her go again? Leave your child to be raised by the man you hate?"

Erik raised a finger. "If it works. Who's to say I can even father a child? The fool didn't have me checked out. If it didn't work after that many attempts, I have my doubts it ever will." He scribbled out another looping signature. "It would serve him right."

"And her? She won't be upset if she doesn't end up with the child she wants this badly?"

"Christine is getting exactly what she wants, I assure you." Gently, Erik blew on the wet ink. "And plenty of it."

"Good grief, Erik, that's enough!" With a gratifying mix of exasperation and disgust, Nadir pushed away from the desk and stomped out of the room.

"Enjoy your lunch!" Erik called out over the slamming of the door.

Once he was finally alone, Erik sighed. Really, it would be so much easier if Nadir could just be happy for him. But unfortunately, judging by the ridiculous number of documents still before him, it seemed Nadir preferred to see Erik suffer.

He finished just as his hand was beginning to cramp. Perhaps, he considered, as he flexed his fingers and stretched out his legs, he might head back to Paris a little earlier. It did feel much nicer to be close to Christine, even when she was being kept from him by that unwarrantedly, it turned out, cocky tyrant of a husband.

And with the thought of her now filling his mind, the memory of her flooding his senses, Erik rifled through the wastebasket till he found a piece of scrap paper with enough blank space, and began to sketch—not a house for some Admiral, not a new facade for another church, but buildings new and beautiful and inspired, driven by nothing but the pleasure of creation, bound to nothing but his own imagination, humming all the while.

Heyyy everyone! So many thanks to everyone for such kind words about the last chapter. They have meant so much to me, truly, and I'm so happy you're enjoying the story, it really keeps me motivated to finish. And thank you to Deb for checking this one over for me and all her support!

Up next: Believe it or not, STILL MORE ERIK.