This chapter is dedicated to LegoPhantom (of Instagram), as a late birthday/get well soon gift, who has been a wonderful friend and supporter. Best wishes for your recovery, I hope a little E/C action that includes a special reference just for you speeds it along ;)

Chapter 31 — Eighteen, Nineteen…

It really was a shame that Nadir couldn't be happy for Erik. It was also a shame that he never could leave well enough alone.

The last of the crew had been dismissed for the evening and Erik was almost finished gathering his things to go when he found himself cornered in his office.

"For the life of me, I cannot understand what it is you think you're doing." Nadir stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

Erik looked at the handful of pencils he held in his fist. He raised an eyebrow. "Packing up to go home? Really, daroga, and to think you were Chief of Police! Though I suppose that's nepotism for you."

"Don't play clever, Erik—with the Vicomtesse."

"Ah, well," Erik dropped the pencils into his bag and straightened up, smoothing his hands down his lapels. "I thought I was fairly clear, but if you need more detail, I'd be happy to—"

"Enough." Nadir's tone was unexpectedly sharp. "Enough. You must end this, now, before it's too late."

Erik pretended, rather theatrically, to consider for a moment. "No. No, I don't think I will. But thank you for the advice. You're always so…full of it, aren't you." He pressed his lips into a smile.

Barging into the office and inserting himself in Erik's way, Nadir shook a chiding finger at him. "I know you may not believe it, but my only thought is what's best for you!"

"Oh, is it?" Erik maneuvered around the red faced little man, then strode over to his desk and flung open a drawer. "Well, I've learned something from my time with Christine," he said, voice tight, shuffling through papers and stuffing them into his bag, "and not just how many horizontal surfaces exist in the fifth cellar. Although," he paused, "if you're curious—"

"I'm not."

"—the answer is…well let's just say I'd advise you to keep your hands in your pockets if you ever come to visit. And you may prefer to stand." He paused again. "Also, I'd suggest you not eat off…well, any of the tables or counters or…any other surface, actually. Though to be clear, that's not an invitation!" He snatched up a notebook and jammed it in his bag. "But to my point, I've learned that it's not for another person to decide what is 'best' for someone. Perhaps that's a lesson you need to learn as well. I understand why you've felt you must appoint yourself as my conscience, but I assure you, your service is no longer necessary. My conscience is clear. I have broken no laws. I have done nothing that wasn't asked of me—or begged, if you want to get technical—"

"I most definitely do not."

"—and do you think I'm really going to turn down a woman—that woman—begging me to— Well. I don't want to be indelicate." Latching his bag, Erik turned and addressed Nadir directly, his tone as stony as the look he fixed upon him. "My life, for once, is good. I am happy. Do. Not. Meddle."

"But your life already was good, Erik!" Nadir said, spreading his hands to encompass the whole of the oppressive little room. "You'd been doing so well these last few years—better than ever before, living an ordinary life, just like anyone else. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Oh yes, this was exactly what I wanted," Erik simpered, "spending my days fixing up buildings for people who can't even bear to look at me and passing my evenings getting drunk with the most sanctimonious prick I've encountered in the whole of two continents. And then going home, alone, to enjoy the comfort of my own hand." He pressed a palm to his heart. "A dream come true!"

"And whose fault is that, Erik? You could build your own buildings." From inside his jacket Nadir pulled out a few folded papers and smoothed them out on the desk. He jabbed a finger at one of the designs, a soaring tower studded with large, arched windows and crowned with a slender spire. "You choose not to."

Erik glared at the sketches, creased and smudged from their time crumpled up in the trash can, then glared at Nadir, and then, still glaring, stomped over to the window, took a fistful of curtain in each hand, and drew them together with a snap.

"And as for the rest," Nadir kept going, like he always kept going, like the presumptuous, overbearing, self-important fool he was, "if you weren't such a… a…"

Erik whipped around, narrowing his eyes. "A what? A hideous freak?"

"No," Nadir said, and he had the absolute gall to laugh. "Your face may well be the least of your issues. I was going to say—" he drew himself up "—if you weren't such a selfish, arrogant, immoral, cruel, dishonest, histrionic, and, above all, insufferable ass!"

"Yes, well." After a pause, Erik ran his hands down his sleeves, giving the cuffs a crisp tug. "Christine did tell me something along those lines once, and yet, she seems to have come around on that. In fact, if one were to take a tally of all the different variations and permutations of 'please, Erik, more' she's come out with, one might find it easily reaching into the double digits—it's seventeen, actually—and so I think it's safe to say she goes quite a bit beyond simply suffering me."

"Sleeping with you doesn't mean—"

Erik took a quick step forward. "She wants me, Nadir!" he hissed through gritted teeth, towering over the insolent, ignorant little know-it-all. "She tells me so. She shows me. Nothing you can say will change that."

A deep crease appeared between Nadir's brows. "Wanting isn't enough, Erik. You of all people should know that," he said quietly, laying a gentle hand—a sympathetic hand—upon Erik's arm.

The muscles pulled taut and rigid under that condescending hand.

Yes, of course Erik knew that. He wasn't the idiot Nadir liked to think he was. But Erik also knew a great many other things which Nadir didn't know, and would never know, including how miserable and desolate life was for one who had never been wanted—how even a little taste of the joy that came from being wanted was worth more than anything. Anything.

And did Nadir not believe that Erik was deserving of that happiness? Was he so adamant that Erik pay for his sins that he would trap him here, alone, unwanted, uninspired and unfulfilled, tormented incessantly with reminders of his failures? Perhaps so! Why else hire a living, breathing, empty-blond-headed reminder of everything Erik was not and never would be—of everything he had lost and would never truly have—of everything he should not be so foolish as to believe he deserved!

The tension continued down Erik's arm, curling his hand into a fist, and yet Nadir had not removed his comforting hand. That fool might think that Erik wouldn't see through a pathetic, self-centered attempt to sabotage his happiness, sold under the flimsy guise of "caring" about him—but no, Erik saw it for what it was.

It was bullshit.

Calmly, Erik jerked his arm away from Nadir's caring touch; unhurriedly, he finished gathering his things and shoved them into his bag. A carafe of water sat upon his desk, and he snatched it up on his way to the door. Onto the remains of the fire he poured the water, until every hissing, smoking ember was extinguished—until all that was left was a pile of sodden ash.

Just before he strode out of the room, he paused in front of Nadir and gave him a tight smile. "Perhaps it's not enough. But I suppose we'll see."

He stepped only a single foot into the hall before turning. "I'm done here, I think. I wouldn't expect to see me back for a while. You can get by without me for now, and you know how to find me if you absolutely must."

Again he turned to leave—then paused.

"Oh, and Nadir, one last thing…" Squaring his shoulders into a resolute posture, Erik glanced back over his shoulder, making sure Nadir could see his cool, humorless smile. "Fire Emile. Immediately."

And then he left, humming to himself, carrying the memory of Nadir's stunned, wounded look of indignation with him all the way back to Paris.

…

The thing was, life really was quite good for Erik. Even back beneath the streets of Paris, waiting for the visits to recommence, he was happier than he'd ever been; not surprisingly, it was much easier to be content being alone when he knew it wasn't a permanent state.

To pass the time, he spent long, indulgent days by the fire, sketching Christine's wrists and nose and stockinged feet from memory, while sipping wine and taking note of his favorites to share with her at the next visit. Late at night, he snuck up into the opera house, revisiting the places where he could squint just a little and see her as she had been, arranging her hair before the mirror in her dressing room, or standing on stage to thunderous applause, luminous in the spotlight. And once, incredibly, he found himself drawn to his music room, where, hardly aware of what he was doing, he began plucking out a tune on the strings of his violin—a new melody, unfamiliar and intriguing.

He slept soundly, at last. Each night he all but melted into the bed, his body no longer taut and thrumming with torturous unmet need. And as he drifted off to sleep, his mind was free and easy and clear.

And filled with her.

What a gift it was to have memories to revisit, made near solid by their vividness and enlivened with the ghost of touch and taste and sound, rather than to be forced to rely on fantasy, intangible and fleeting. How gratifying it was to retrace the passage of those hours together—the frantic partial undressing, the roving hands and mouths—the grasping clasping friction of their lightly clothed bodies pressed together, rocking together, as her sweet voice filled what little space was left between them with her long, lilting sighs and effusive praise—the glorious wringing of his soul from him as, after increasingly longer and longer intervals, he reached bliss between her thighs.

And god, the feel of her hands, her insatiable little hands, still seeking out his skin even as they lay together in a tangle of limbs, sated and exhausted, her toes tracing and wriggling along his calves, her entire body squirming against him—wanting to be close to him—him! How sweetly she sighed as he rolled from the bed when it was at last time to go. And, oh, how beautiful she looked when, after Erik dressed and she did…whatever it was it took her so long to do in the bathroom, she returned to him, flushed and radiant, drifting across the bedroom like a beatific sleepwalker—how his heart swelled as he helped her with her clothes and she would lean against his chest, with a smile of drowsy contentment, and slide her arms around his waist, warm and languorous and—

Erik sprang up from the bed in a cold sweat.

Wait.

Wait.

He blinked into the unseeable darkness, heart racing.

How had he not seen it before?

The restless energy, the continued, needy clinging, the sated exhaustion which came only after she had been alone… He knew he was a novice, but was he a complete and utter fool, too?

How the hell had he not seen it before!

Though, really—how was Erik to know how long a lady needed in the bathroom!

Perhaps, he told himself, dabbing the perspiration from his neck with a corner of the sheet—no, no, more than perhaps—assuredly, he was mistaken. For she certainly seemed as if had been enjoying herself, hadn't she? No, not as much as Erik had been enjoying himself, but of course she wouldn't; he was making up for decades upon decades of lost time, and it was different for men, more obvious. The sounds she made for him—that she made because of him—those were not the sounds of a woman who wasn't well pleased! No, no, he was mistaken. He tried to lie back down and fall asleep. It wasn't worth thinking about. Clearly, she was appreciative of his efforts and she never gave any indication she wasn't fully satisfied. And yet…now that he thought about it, there never was quite that crescendo he experienced himself, the shuddering conclusion… And yet—and yet…

Obviously, he spent the rest of the night pacing.

A few facts were indisputable: He'd been obtuse. He'd been neglectful. And though she might have asked for "selfish need", how exceedingly selfish had he been not to notice that she'd been left unfulfilled—left to see to her own satisfaction as Erik took his own again and again!

And that wasn't even the worst of it. No, worst of all was a realization that curdled the blood within his veins…

It was true that Erik could not even hope to compete with the vicomte in most respects, and yet, if that boy—a boy so stupid that his idea of a brilliant trap had included detailing the plan down to the exact position of the marksmen within full hearing of the man it was meant to ensnare—if that unsurpassed idiot could bring Christine physical satisfaction, then it was downright mortifying that Erik had not.

Once this suspicion had taken possession of him, it was all he could think about. The urge to remain silent and hope he was wrong battled with the knowledge that if he said nothing, the uncertainty might consume him, tainting their precious time together and shaking what little confidence he'd managed to win. The wait until he saw her again was interminable, and only his immense shame—and that one little scrap of hope he was wrong—kept him from blurting out an apology the moment they were out of earshot of that smug little prig who'd lingered possessively by the gate. In fact, that shame almost kept him from saying anything at all. It wasn't until he found himself pushed back onto the sofa with Christine straddling his thighs that he finally found the courage to speak.

"Oh, I've missed this," she said, expertly making her way through the various buttons and ties of his clothing. She leaned in close and pressed soft kisses along the unmasked side of his jaw. "I've missed you."

"Have you? Have you really?" he said too quickly, cringing at the high, hopeful tone of his voice.

Christine pulled back and looked down at him, forehead wrinkled. "Of course I have. I've missed you more than I—" Her eyes dropped down to where her hands rested against his chest, fingers twisting at one of the little mother of pearl buttons half-undone on his shirtfront. "More than I should." She looked back up, frowning. "Do you doubt it?"

"Well, I…" Hard lessons had been learned about preparing a speech ahead of time, so Erik had not allowed himself to plan out so much as two words strung together—although he did imagine that I'm sorry would make numerous appearances—and so, for better or worse, he had no idea what it was he would say until the words came stumbling out of his mouth.

"It's only that I, ah…I was wondering… " Erik floundered for a moment; if somehow he was wrong, asking directly would only further reveal the depths of his humiliating inexperience and ineptitude. "You—you are enjoying yourself, are you not? During these visits?"

The frown on Christine's face evaporated; with a laugh, she settled herself more fully onto Erik's lap, gathering her skirts around her hips, and leaned into him again, burying her face in his neck.

Erik cleared his throat. "That is, you find them…" He cleared it again. "Satisfying?"

"Oh, yes," she said between nipping kisses just below his ear. "It's been very good."

"Just…good?"

"No." Christine's hands traveled down his torso. "Very good, I said."

"Ah. I see."

But Erik didn't see, actually. Though, to be fair, it was hard to see much of anything when her hand was— Oh. Oh.

Still, very good, he was fairly certain, wasn't the same as…well, a night that didn't end with her forced to see to her own needs alone in a bathroom. And while—ah, god—he shouldn't complain about very good, especially given his inexperience, the thing was, when it came to a skill, any skill—Jesus!—Erik never had much use for "good", or even "very good". He only wanted to be the best.

Or, at the very least, not worse than the competition.

"But when you—" Erik paused to bite back a groan. "When you say 'very good', does that mean—"

"Erik." Christine sat back, once again frowning down at him. "It's very good. I enjoy myself immensely. Are you not satisfied?"

"I am! You know I am. But I wonder if you are…quite as satisfied, if you understand my meaning."

"Oh," she said, and she flushed very pink, which struck Erik as rather funny, considering that only seconds ago she'd been wrist-deep in his trousers. "Well…it's different."

"Is it?" he asked, perhaps a touch too abruptly, as his stomach hardened into a knot. "It's different when—when you're with him?"

"No, I mean that it's different for women, I think," she said, her tone as soothing as the hand which smoothed down his wrinkled shirt, and Erik swallowed down the burn in his throat. "It can be good without, you know, reaching quite the same…resolution? It can feel good—" she leaned back into him, her hands sliding over his shoulders, her mouth seeking out his throat "—very, very good—and be satisfying—very satisfying—without being as intense as it is when I do—" She froze, nails digging into his shoulders.

"When you do what?"

"You know, it really doesn't matter!" Swiftly, Christine brought her hands down to his waistband—but the heat rolling off her face was proof that whatever it was she didn't want to say was exactly what Erik wanted to hear.

"No," he said, taking her hands in his, "I think it matters quite a bit. Are you saying that you can achieve a similar satisfaction, but only when you…" He wet his lips. "Do so yourself?"

Christine dipped her head, looking away. "I'm not sure that's really something…"

He hadn't meant to laugh, but the sound felt warm and reassuring and genuine. "Christine," he said, dropping his voice low and comforting. "Look at where you are—look at who you're with. We're far past concerns of propriety, don't you think? There's nothing you can't say."

Still looking away, she grimaced, unconvinced.

Erik sighed. "And please, until last month…I… Well. You must know that I am not a stranger to this practice, by any means."

"Oh, fine then," she snapped. "Yes, that's what I'm saying!" And she buried her flaming face against his shoulder.

Slowly stroking his thumb along the hollow of her neck, Erik let a long moment pass before he asked, gently, "Have you never…during?"

It took her a long time to answer.

"Well, sort of? It's not…" She extricated herself from his hold and sat back, hands worrying at each other. "It can be close? But it's not exactly the same. But that's fine! It doesn't need to be—to be quite that intense for it to be…very good."

Erik swallowed. "But not even with…him?"

The corner of her mouth pulled down in a stricken expression. "I…" She looked away. "It's been very good..."

There were so few things in life which had the ability to fill Erik with a burst of pure, glorious joy, potent enough that he felt he could sprint to the top of the building, climb up the tallest statue he could find, and laugh, hysterically triumphant, into the night—and this was certainly one of them. But Christine looked so distressed that he said, "Yes, yes, of course it has," though the taste of those words in his mouth made him want to retch. Then he pulled her close and she relaxed into his arms, and he hoped she didn't realize just why it was that his heart was racing.

Six years of marriage, and the vicomte apparently hadn't figured out what it had taken Erik less than a month to discover. It was incredible, it was laughable…and it cooled the burn of hearing that what went on between her and that boy was "very good". For now, anyway.

It also helped that her arms were around his neck again, her lips at his ear, her hips canting eagerly against his, ready to resume where they'd left off.

It was an unfamiliar, wondrous feeling, to not be the lesser of the two men for once—and yet Erik knew he shouldn't feel too pleased with himself, for while he may have identified the issue, that was not the same as having addressed it.

He slid his hands around Christine's waist. "But surely you could, no? With…help, from someone else?"

"I—" Christine went still, tensing beneath Erik's hands. "I'm not— Please, can we just forget I said anything?"

"Yes, of course—if that's what you want," he said, sliding his hands down to cup her rear.

If, however, was the critical word.

If that was truly what she wanted, then Erik would respect that.

But Erik, well…Erik had his doubts. Was there not often a gap between what she said she wanted and what it was ultimately revealed that actually was? The truth, though, almost always came out—eventually.

Erik could be patient. It was only fair, when she had been so patient and giving with him; she deserved to have what she wanted—what he knew she really wanted if only she could be made to feel comfortable enough to ask for it. And she couldn't say it was selfish, because it was something Erik very much wanted, too; for her sake, yes, but of course there was quite a bit in it for him as well: the pleasure of seeing her pleasured, the satisfaction of mastering a new skill, and, well, perhaps more than anything, besting the one who had taken Christine from him.

And she hadn't, Erik noticed, even responded to the question of "If". But actions spoke much louder than words. If she truly wanted him to forget it, would she really be grinding against the rapidly swelling bulge in his trousers as insistently as she was? Would she really pull down her bodice just enough to allow him to graze a cotton-covered nipple with his teeth? Would she moan like that when he closed his lips around it—would she rock her hips against his lap all the more hungrily? No, he thought not.

But while Erik might know what she actually wanted, there were, once again, lessons he had learned—he would not tell her what she wanted.

He would show her.

So he let a few minutes pass, and then he asked Christine if they wouldn't be more comfortable in the bed. When she agreed, he led her to the bedroom, where he took his time as he helped her undress in the dimmed gaslight—took small pauses to press his lips to each new bit of bared skin, until, at last, she was down to her stockings and chemise—then took her hand and helped her up onto the bed.

There was no need to rush, so he moved slowly, deliberately—and yes, perhaps a bit seductively—as he removed his waistcoat and his shoes, slipped off his braces and let his hands continue to slip down his body, letting her eyes follow the suggestive path they took, then slid onto the bed alongside her.

No, hurrying things along would never work, which is why he devoted a long, luxurious amount of time to letting her get comfortable, letting her take the lead as she ran her hands over and around and down his body, as he kissed her fingers and wrists and the inside of her elbows, before he at last positioned himself over her, so he could part her thighs beneath him, could touch her, tease her, make her writhe until she began pulling at his hips—oh now, Erik, please.

And it was so incredibly difficult to resist, when she was so ready for him and he was so ready for her…but he knew he had to be patient.

And she would have to be patient, too.

Erik brought his lips to Christine's ear. "No, my dear, not yet." Across her cheek he brushed the backs of his fingers, then cupped her jaw in his palm. "Tell me. Tell me how you do it. Tell me what to do."

Her reticence to answer was expected; the swiftness with which she pushed him off of her, sending him toppling over onto the mattress, was not.

"I told you, forget it!" she gasped. She scrambled her way to sitting, glaring at him all the while. "It's really—it's really not necessary!"

As gracefully as he could, Erik righted himself and adjusted his mask back into place.

So much for seduction.

Still…she hadn't said no. She hadn't said stop. Heat flushed his face, but it wasn't only embarrassment; there was a thrill in a challenge, and the need to see this through was every bit as strong as the need now throbbing between his legs

"What if I find it necessary?" he asked, his voice low and warm and compelling. He placed a gentle, undemanding hand upon her own. "What if I couldn't imagine carrying on in such a—a selfish manner?" She didn't pull away, and so he took her hand and slowly, slowly, lifted it to his mouth. Turning her hand over, he pressed a kiss to her palm. "Teach me?" He tried another kiss. "Please?"

"I'm just not sure that…" Christine protested—weakly, to Erik's ears—as he continued to kiss his way up her arm. "It feels wrong…"

"Does it?" he asked, letting his lips brush against her ear; she shivered in response.

Truly, this wasn't wrong, it was only following another rule to the letter—why, yes, Erik would be very careful about where he put his hands.

Besides, how could it be wrong to give Christine what she desired? And there was no doubt of what she desired when she tilted back her head to expose her throat; that her breath grew ragged and whimpering as Erik licked and sucked and bit at her shoulder, neck, and finally, throat, was only a confirmation that he was right. And there was no doubt she wanted more, for when Erik stroked the tender skin just above her stockings, lightly, lightly, letting his fingers travel higher and higher, teasing, working their way up and up, toward the place he knew she most desired his touch, her hands clutched at the hem of her chemise in frustrated fists. Yet still he caressed and teased, slowly, slowly. Much too slowly.

"Maybe…maybe just this once," she said, grasping Erik's hand and dragging it between her thighs.

And oh yes, she had desired his touch; he could feel the truth under his fingertips. But Erik bit down on his smile. He could not claim victory, not yet. Touching her like this, while she clearly enjoyed it, wasn't enough—not if he hoped to master this skill. For that, he needed to be taught, to be guided. Not unlike the way once, so long ago, he'd learned to position his hands upon a keyboard.

By watching.

But first, he continued to touch her in his own unpracticed way, until her entire body was wonderfully warm and pliant, and then he pulled her to him and settled her between his legs, stuffing an extra pillow behind his back before leaning against the headboard. Stockinged toes squirmed needily against Erik's calves as he brought an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to lean back against his chest, head against his shoulder. Instinctively, he cradled her as he would a cello, one hand resting by her hip, and the other lingering at her throat. He only needed a little instruction, he was confident, and soon he would play her as skillfully as any instrument he had mastered.

He lowered his lips to her ear. "Teach me," he entreated. Over her throat, across her bare shoulders, down her arms, Erik trailed his fingertips—slid his palms over her hands to clasp them tight, fingers interwoven. Gently, but insistently, he guided her hand between her legs. "Show me."

There was only a brief hesitation before she acquiesced.

It was incredibly difficult to keep a clear head once Christine's hand dipped beneath the chemise gathered in her lap. Never, never had Erik dared imagine such a thing…though if he had, it would have only been while watching from the other side of a mirror, as she reclined on her dressing room settee, parting the skirt of red and green ropes, her eyes fluttering closed, a blush delicately rising from beneath the gold trimmed bodice, moaning and whimpering, writhing and panting, until at last she cried out for her angel.

Something like that.

But never like this, never with her in his arms, pressed so close, never after she knew him for the repulsive man he was—never waiting for him to replace her hand with his own, to bring her himself to the pinnacle of pleasure.

When she released a long, tremulous sigh and relaxed against him, Erik knew it was time. Gingerly, he lifted the hem of the chemise, bringing it above her hand, the better to see, as he'd never gotten to see before; a deep groan escaped him.

Using every last shred of his already strained self-control to keep his breathing steady, he slid his hand down to cover hers, memorizing the rhythm, the angle, the subtle twist of her wrist. Again she sighed, and Erik slipped his hand beneath her palm, let his fingers take over for hers, and she was hot and slick and dear god, he was certain he'd never been so hard before in his life. And it really wasn't so different than what he already knew to do, only with the added help of being shown how to position his hand just right, how to slow the stroke of his fingers to a pace that drew breathless moans from between her lips, the encouragement of a gentle press of her hand urging him to keep going, don't stop, more.

She was so beautiful and this was so beautiful, and most beautiful of all was the red flush rising from beneath the neckline of her chemise, up and over her breasts and chest and throat, blushing across her face and deepening the color of her full, parted lips. Her fluttering hands came to rest on his knees, tried to slide up his thighs, but one by one Erik gathered them up and placed them back upon her own body. As tempting as it was, as much as he craved her touch, for once, this wasn't about him and what he needed—this was only about her.

And it wasn't much of a sacrifice, for it meant he got to watch as her hands roamed her body—her belly, her thighs, her shoulders and breasts, the hardened nipples showing pink through sheer, sweat-damp cotton—as Erik continued to drive her toward that elusive peak, steady and determined. And then her feet were tensing, pushing against him, her breaths coming quick and shallow, her hands scrabbling down, clutching blindly, digging into Erik's fleshless thighs. She was close, so close, he could tell, yet she remained suspended in this tortured state, muscles taut, brow creased, lip bitten—resisting.

She was so close to tumbling over the edge, into the ecstasy that she both desired and deserved, and perhaps she would find her own way there eventually, but perhaps…there was nothing wrong with a little push.

And, really, what good was a compelling voice—one of so few boons he'd been granted—if he couldn't put it to use?

Not by singing! No, that would unequivocally be breaking a rule, and besides, he didn't want her the least bit hypnotized, as he may have done on occasion before, one or twice, long ago. No, he would give just a slight melodic lilt to his words as he poured them into her ear, as he told her how beautiful she was, how much he enjoyed this, how good she felt beneath his fingers, how hard he was right now, how much he wanted to…well. This time he was a bit indelicate.

But she seemed to enjoy it. For as he spoke, she began to moan and then whine and then gasp, and then, suddenly, her thighs clenched around his hand and she let out a cry which sounded as if it was ripped from her very soul. Erik held her tight as convulsive waves of pleasure rocked through her, gritting his teeth to keep from following her over the edge, and truly, it was a miracle that Erik didn't finish as she did; the rolling of her hips as she ground against him had been more than enough. There would have been no shame in it, either; never had he experienced anything as arousing as the sight of Christine in ecstasy, brought about by his own hands and voice. And while he had managed to resist, the pride bursting inside his chest was every bit as satisfying.

At last she collapsed in his arms, and Erik brushed away the damp curls from her forehead and the few drops of tears leaking from her eyes, then blinked away his own tears, because of course he felt as if he could cry, he was always crying, and usually for much less pleasurable reasons. But he could save his tears for later—and certainly would—for right now wasn't the time—they weren't done, not just yet.

Gently, he shifted Christine down and moved on top of her, and it took but a moment to release himself and slide so easily into her, as she wrapped her arms around his neck, sighing his name.

Yes, Erik's name—his—not that boy's, who had never given her what Erik just had, who had never seen her as Erik did now, flushed and glowing, gazing up at him with a dreamy look of wonder as he pushed into her steadily, while small, jolting aftershocks rippled through her body, drawing groans from between his gritted teeth.

Erik buried the unmasked side of his face against her hair. "Have you really never…with…?"

"Not like that... Never like that," she said, and then she pulled his face to hers and kissed him—not on his horrible lips, no, just on the corner of his mouth, but it was close, so close, and it was more than enough to send him over the edge as well.

Afterwards, in the last few moments they had before it was time to drag themselves from the bed, Erik held Christine to him, pressing his lips to her hand in a gesture he hoped conveyed gratitude and contentment…and other feelings which he dared not put words to but hoped she felt all the same.

"Erik…" she said, quietly, "this is so terrible of me, but I—I was actually relieved this time, that I wasn't pregnant. I…wasn't ready for this to end. I don't know how I'll ever be. I just…" She turned her face up to his, and Erik felt a brutal squeeze in his chest at the pained expression she wore. "I need more time."

As Erik waited for his swelling, pounding heart to calm enough to allow him to speak, he stroked her back with a trembling hand. Then he took a deep breath to steady his voice and answered, simply and sincerely,

"I understand."

…

And he did, truly.

For Erik needed more, too. More time per visit, more visits, more Christine. He just never could have imagined she wanted the same.

And no, perhaps wanting a thing wasn't enough, as Nadir had said—as even Christine herself had said, that first night they were reunited. But it wasn't a matter of want—this was need. And when one had grown as adept at finding creative ways to meet one's needs as Erik had, crafting a solution—or at least a preliminary solution—for this particular need was no challenge at all.

The only real difficulty, unfortunately, might be in convincing Christine that there was nothing wrong with a little…creativity. But surely, Erik reasoned, there was no better time to try than now, after all they'd just shared.

"What are you doing?"

Erik glanced up from his seat at the desk; Christine stood behind him, fresh from the bathroom, face scrubbed clean and hair pinned back into place, peering over his shoulder.

"You said we need more time." He finished scratching out the final line and then blew on the fresh ink. "I've had an idea how to make that possible."

Christine took the letter from his outstretched hand and read it, frowning.

"I won't lie…"

"You're not lying," Erik said, plucking the letter from between her fingers. "I'm lying." Swiftly, he folded the paper and stuffed it into an envelope, then presented it to her with a smile. "You're just delivering a piece of paper."

"I…" Christine stared down at the envelope in her hands, one thumb tracing its black-trimmed edge. "I suppose I…"

Erik stood and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him so that her back was flush against him.

"You want to sing, yes?"

She nodded.

"Then we need more time, if there's to be both," he said very reasonably, dipping his face down to the space where her neck and shoulder met in a delicate curve.

"That's true…" She leaned into the slow slide of his lips up her neck.

"You miss singing, don't you?" Erik asked, bringing his lips to her earlobe.

Christine shivered. "I do…"

"I miss your singing. Such a beautiful voice, Christine—we can't let it go to waste. I need you to sing for me. And you—you need that, too," he crooned gently into her ear, which was not the same as singing, no, it was only that slight musical inflection which sounded so nice and made her head loll against his shoulder and a smile appear upon her lips—and caused the envelope to slip from between her fingers.

Erik caught it easily, snatching it right out of the air. He held it up before her half-opened eyes. "All it takes is handing him this, and we could resume your lessons while still leaving enough time to ensure that the terms of the arrangement are, ah, fulfilled. You wouldn't have to choose. You don't want to choose, do you?"

"No," she agreed, as he knew she would. "I don't." She hugged Erik's arm to her chest. "I don't…"

"And you won't have to," he said, tucking the letter into the bodice of her dress. "See, Christine? There's no reason you can't have everything you want."

And, perhaps now, Erik thought, as he took her warm, willing hand and led her back up to the surface…the same just might be true for him.

The thing about red flags is they look really lovely in the candlelight, right?

Thanks everyone for your patience with updates. Summer has not left me much time for writing, but I'm hoping that I will be able to pick up the pace once it's over! Thank you also for the encouragement you've given in the form of comments, kudos, Tumblr reblogs, and just plain taking the time to read. It's meant so much to me and kept me going!

Bonus: If you're looking for some more spicy, but very angsty content, I mayyyy have written my first LND fic AND my first E/M. You can find Did He See in my profile, if you're into that kind of thing.

Thank you to Deb for your all your assistance in getting this from Time for Sex! to Awww yeah, time for sex.

Up next: So there's this other guy...

...

I have a treat! This gorgeous art was a birthday gift from one of our very best fandom artists, Snows, which you may recognize as a scene from Chapter 29. It's perfect, it's beautiful-I'm obsessed. But I cannot share it here. Please come to flora-gray on Tumblr to see! And, if you don't already, please go follow the artist on Tumblr (drreallyreallystrange), where she has SO MUCH beautiful art, including a particular fave set on the rooftop pegasus, which I made a sneaky little reference to back in Chapter 26. Thank you so much, friend!