Unconventional

The Sixth Month

Lately, she had taken to napping on my couch whilst I played music and sang for her, for them both, really as our child by this point could indeed hear sounds outside of the womb.

"Erik."

"Yes, Christine?"

"Erik..."

"Yes? Are you quite alright, my dear?" I asked, worriedly coming to kneel beside the couch. But she was still asleep. She was asleep and dreaming of me! But not nightmares, no, she seemed contented in her dreams.

"Erik, please..."

"Please, what?" I whispered to her slumbering form, hardly expecting an answer.

"Touch me."

"Oh," I replied, inching back a little, flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. As soon as we had discovered Christine's pregnancy we had ceased all intimate contact (aside from that stolen kiss) for obvious reasons. Privately, of course I had wanted to continue, but knew that it wasn't the noble thing to do. Now, she reached for me as she hazily opened her eyes.

"Please, Erik. I need you."

Those sweet words! How I had longed to hear them! "Christine, we shouldn't, not now." But then she pulled my lips down to hers and kissed me fervently, weaving her arms about my neck. I was undone. Anything she wanted from me would be hers in that moment.

I tried to lean her back on to the couch so that she wouldn't be uncomfortable, but she wriggled out from under me and pulled me up to standing.

"No, this way." She led me over to the piano and pushed me down on to the bench, straddling my hips. "This was my dream. Now you'll think of this moment whenever you play," she said in between kisses.

I did not know this Christine! But I had read that pregnancy hormones could have this effect. And so, dropping all barriers of right and wrong, I let her take what she needed from me.

Once it was done, I feared the look in her eyes. Had I taken advantage? But no, she cuddled in to me, trailing her fingertips across my jacket.

"You smell nice, Erik. I always liked the way you smelt."

"Thank you," I replied, taken aback by her compliment. I had assumed that I must surely smell of death, what with living in the dank catacombs. I found myself inquisitive and asked; "What is it that I smell of?"

"Candle wax and manuscript paper. You smell like home, you comfort me."

Oh, Christine...why must you say such things that only make me love you more?

A few days later, Christine returned, carrying a basket and that ever-present glow she had taken on recently. She really was an angel...

"I need to purchase a few things for the baby. I haven't bought anything yet but I have been longing to. I was wondering if you would like to accompany me, perhaps choose a few of the items yourself?"

"You would allow that?"

"Well," she said, looking around my parlour then eyeing me up and down, "you are known to have exquisite taste."

She was making light of the situation, but I felt a lump in my throat and had to turn away so that she could not see the tears forming in my eyes. She really did want me to be part of this whole process and I felt humbled.

"I would enjoy that, Christine, thank you for asking me." I proffered my arm and took the basket from her as we made our way up and on to the street.