She was soft.

It was an odd thought to have, but it's the first one that always came.

Her skin was so soft, like satin beneath his fingertips.

It was always the same when she came back - and she always did come back, bringing with her soft skin and a gentle voice.

Everything about her was just so ridiculously, insanely soft.

And he wouldn't have her any other way.

This time there were tears. There usually were, but the last few times had been exceptions; she had seemed so confident, so sure of herself over the last few weeks.

But tonight there were tears; large, soft tears that befit her wonderfully.

Her lower lip trembled, pausing only as she formed the same words as usual; "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

It wasn't necessary, of course. She had been forgiven before her feet had ever darkened his door, before the thought of apology could even encroach on her thoughts.

He watched her as she slowly dissolved into sobs, her slender fingers attempting to cover her tears from his sight; even they trembled uncontrollably, the ring adorning her finger catching the candlelight and causing odd, flickering light to dart about the room.

"Come here," it was all he could bring himself to say, the only words he could force past his lips.

But they were enough. After only a moment of hesitation she was moving toward him, her steps small, faltering, nearly toddling as though she had lost control of her body as much as her emotion.

And as she came near to him he was standing, catching her arm and pulling her against himself.

"I love you Christine," he whispered.

It was a common occurrence; a scene that had been played over and over, but it was never quite the same. Sometimes she trembled, sometimes she returned the words.

Tonight she simply clung to him as though attempting to pull herself from the wreckage of some sinking ship.

"Where is he?" The same words were always spoken.

"Rome," the word was empty and hollow. "Only for the weekend."

His hand was gentle, smoothing her hair.

"We have the night at the very least then."

She nodded and shifted, pulling herself closer against him, finally loosening her death-grip on his shirt and wrapping her arms around his waist.

"I love you," he repeated gently.

And she was nodding against his chest. "I know," she whispered.

"You use me, yet I love you. Do you love anyone at all Christine?" These words were different, just the slightest shift in the ever-repeating scene.

"I love my papa," she sighed. "I love my husband," she whispered as she tightened her hug. "And... and I love you, too."

"You are selfish," he said as he shifted, pushing her away and forcing her chin up so that he could examine her face. "You are heartless and cruel." Her tears had subsided, leaving behind dried streaks and slightly reddened eyes.

"I deserve that," she murmured, sniffling.

"And I love you despite it all. We both do," he finished.

She closed her eyes against his words and he couldn't help it - closer and closer, he pressed his lips to her own trembling set. Her lips moved against his, warm; soft.

When he broke the kiss he allowed his fingers to brush over the side of her throat, lightly trailing them over her arm until finally he reached her hand, slipping the ring off of her finger with one hand - a carefully practiced movement. He always removed her ring when she came to him - she seemed much less reserved without it. Perhaps it helped to ease her guilty conscious, if he were completely honest he would have to admit that he removed it for himself as well. It made it far easier to pretend, to convince himself that the few darkened hours that they shared together actually meant something when she didn't wear his ring.

"I love you," he repeated again as he pressed his lips to hers.

And this time there was no hesitation.

"I love you too, Erik," and she said it with such conviction, such honesty that for a moment he almost allowed himself to believe her - a dangerous game if there ever was one.

She was a viper, a snake, some venomous thing that attacked without provocation. At times he felt guilty - surely he had caused this in her. She had been a sweet girl at the start of it all, but he corrupted her. He was sure of that - he corrupted everything he touched. To think that she would have been an exception was simply foolish.

His hands trailed lazily, brushing over her bare arms, the rich bodice of her dress and slowly upward, over the swell of her breast. There was no need to rush, he rather enjoyed savoring her erratic visits - and if her husband had traveled as far as Rome they had many hours to share.

Her breath caught and she pulled away just the slightest bit. She enjoyed playing coy, this game where she would pretend that they didn't both know the reason for her visits.

"Erik," she would say, drawing his name out as though in protest.

And he would silence her easily by pressing his lips to hers again, letting his hand pass over her shoulder and down to the ties of whatever ridiculous dress she happened to be sporting.

He loved her, that much was true. And while he knew that she didn't love him as she claimed - wasn't capable of loving him - he was aware that he held some sort of power over her. He gave her something that her husband didn't, that he couldn't. What exactly it was he wasn't quite sure of, but he knew that it was there, constantly drawing her back to him like a moth to flame.

And, fool that he was, he contented himself with it.

He always enjoyed the sound that her dresses made as they fell to the floor, the odd swooshing sound of yards of fabric collapsing atop itself. It was an oddly satisfying sound, but not quite as satisfying as the sight of her, decked out in flimsy undergarments, her cheeks flushed and lips slightly parted, an animalistic glint in her chocolate eyes.

He pressed an off-center kiss to her, only just catching the corner of her mouth before his greedy lips made a trail down her throat. She made a breathless sound, allowing her head to fall to the side as he brushed her hair out of the way.

"I killed a spider today," she murmured. "It was scurrying across the carpet and I - it was just out of instinct. It made me think of you and I - I felt terrible."

He hummed again her skin. "I killed a man because he reminded me of your husband," he lied against her pale throat. "I felt nothing."

"Erik," she breathed, ending in an odd cry as he gently bit at her pale, soft, sensitive flesh. "Erik," she said, trying again. "You promised me -"

"I will not hurt a hair on his head," he rebuked. "I did not promise the same for anyone else."

The truth was he hadn't killed anyone in a long while. These days he spent most of his time sheltered in the darkness and the warm embrace of brandy, simply waiting for her to come back. His life had grown stale without her - nothing much brought him pleasure. Even music had seemed to lose its color. And so he simply waited for the few short hours of life that she gave him.

He still remembered the first time she came back, prompted by a single line printed in the obituary of the daily paper; "Erik is dead." There was no explanation, no surname, no photograph. And it was completely untrue, of course. His defiant heart continued its steady beating, his lungs drew in air just as easily as they had in previous years.

It had only been a few short weeks after her wedding that it was published. He thought it was for the best - that she could forget him, her and the boy could stop living in fear, perhaps even be happy. Despite everything that was truly what he wanted for her - happiness.

He hadn't expected to find her crumpled on the stone floor of the catacombs in front of the lake the next morning - of all the things he had expected when his alarm began to ring that was the only one that hadn't even dared to cross his mind.

She had looked at him as if she'd seen a ghost, wide-eyed and frightened yet unable to mask her tears and tired eyes as she scrambled away from him.

"I'm mad," she had gasped.

"Perhaps," he replied. "Why are you here?"

"The paper said -"

"I know what it said," he cut her off impatiently. "That doesn't explain why you're here."

"I was afraid," she admitted. "I was so afraid."

"Of what?" He asked shortly. It was painful, seeing her like this again.

"That you had died before I got to tell you that I loved you. I - I came to bury you."

He found himself frozen by her words, unable to rebuke them or come up with any sort of response. Helplessly he watched her stand, taking tentative, slow steps toward him.

And then her hand was pressing against his chest and she gave a sigh of relief. "You are real," she had whispered, smiling softly up at him.

And thus began their long-standing, secret affair.

And here she was again, her soft skin under his lips, her fingernails gently raking against his scalp as she slumped helplessly against him.

He allowed his hand to slip beneath her thin chemise, surprised to find nothing beneath it - wicked girl that she had become it should have been expected, but he still held this odd illusion of her, the innocent, sweet thing that she had been at the beginning of it all.

Her chest was heaving, her breathing quick and shallow under his touch. And when he slipped his hand only further upward and allowed only a single digit to slip inside of her she gasped.

"Erik," and his name was spoken breathlessly, her eyes had closed, her grip tightening on him.

She was so warm and wet, so soft that he could hardly contain his own lust. He didn't understand it - how she could desire him like this, how anyone could really - but her body made it clear that she did. It was a comforting thought, he supposed. She could lie to him all day with her voice, the teasing whispers of love. She didn't love him, but she did desire him; the evidence was clear enough in that regard.

And he was walking her backwards slowly, never removing his lips from her skin, continuing the gentle stroking of his finger inside of her. It was a slow walk, her legs shaking and uncertain with each step.

And when the back of her knees finally hit the love seat it was a small relief.

The bedroom, oftentimes he would whisk her into what had once been her bed, a much more comfortable arrangement. But not tonight - tonight he needed her, just like this.

He pushed her slowly, coaxing her into laying on the far-too-small piece of furniture, pillowing her head on the arm rest. And when that much was accomplished he set to work, slipping the chemise up, over her knees, up around her waist before he climbed atop her, pressing his lips to hers, swallowing her gasp as he allowed his fingers to trail between her legs - teasing, ever teasing.

"Erik, please," she whined, tilting her head to the side to escape his lips.

"Please what?" He murmured wickedly, letting only the tip of his finger to breach her body, enjoying the way her fingernails dug into his arm with the action. It was yet another of their well practiced games - truth be told he wanted her to admit it. In some way it made him feel as if the guilt didn't rest on him - not if she fully admitted what she wanted.

"I need you," and her words were breathless, shaking. "I need you to take me, please."

That was all it took for him to make his move, pushing his trousers out of the way with his free hand and supporting himself with his knees.

And when he finally pressed inside of her it was like sweet relief, causing a groan from him and a gasp from her. She bucked her hips upward only the slightest bit, imperceptibly meeting him thrust-for-thrust.

He pressed his forehead against the edge of her throat, his mask chaffing against him uncomfortably with the movement, but he couldn't bring himself to care; not when she was so close to him, not when she was so warm, so tight, so soft around him. Not when she breathed his name in such a wicked whisper - not when she was his. Perhaps only for a moment, but she was his all the same.

"You are wicked," he gasped against her throat.

And her leg moved upward, her foot resting against his lower back and forcing him only deeper inside of her.

"You are mine," she breathed.

And it was true enough he supposed. It seemed that regardless of what she did he was always there, constantly willing to drag himself through the pain of losing her again and again.

"Christine," he whispered helplessly. She helped him; she hurt him, but in some twisted way she helped him. In these moments she let him lose himself in her, cast himself completely at her feet. And for a moment he allowed it to feel right.

Her nails were back against his scalp, her other hand tightly grasping his bicep as they moved together, a mess of gasps and cries and sweat.

And he couldn't hold it off any longer - he was pressing as deeply inside of her as he could and her leg tightened around him as he gasped, filling her with his seed.

"Christine, Christine," it was the only thing his mouth could form for a brief moment.

Then he was collapsing atop her, his breath uncontrollable.

"Run away with me," the words were no more than a breath ghosting over her damp, warm skin.

She sighed, her fingers soothingly petting his hair. "You're a madman."

"An optimist," he argued.

She simply laughed. "Since when Erik?"

"Fine, then I am a fool," he said with a huff.

She gave a breathless laugh, cradling his head against her breast as though he were only a child. "We've discussed this Erik. You know that I can't."

He finally gave in to the emotion simmering just beneath his surface. "I don't want you to leave," he admitted brokenly.

"We have a few hours yet," she whispered, pressing her lips to his scalp. "And when I do go I'll be back so soon you'll hardly have time to miss me."

"You know that's not true," he murmured.

She sighed, pulling him close against herself. "Sometimes I wish you never would have sent me away," she admitted. "It would have been so much easier - so much simpler."

"I wanted you to be happy," he said simply.

"What would we do," she murmured, her fingers stroking his hair, "if we ran away."

He nuzzled against her. "I'd take you somewhere far away," he said. "In the country. You would sing in church on Sunday's, and I would be an architect."

She hummed in the back of her throat.

"There would be two children," he continued. "A boy, Charles, and a girl, Annabelle. The girl would be the youngest of course - Charles would be a great big brother. And - and it would be a simple life."

"It sounds lovely," she said encouragingly. "Would we be happy do you think?"

"Exceedingly happy," he answered softly. "And all of our friends would be jealous of us - wonder how two people could ever find such happiness."

"We can be happy," she said softly. "We can be happy just like this."

"I want you to be mine," he admitted. "I love you Christine."

"I am yours Erik."

He sighed. "But you'll have to leave."

"I will," she agreed. "But I'll come back - you know that. And when I am here - when I'm here I am irrevocably yours, completely yours."

He sighed against her breast. "It is a lovely dream though, isn't it?"

"It is," she agreed sympathetically, allowing her fingers to continue their gentle stoking of his hair as silence enveloped them.