"She may not remember me"

“F r i e n d l y reminder? —Raoul,” hissed Christine, unamused glare curling into that of half-parted lips, the thinnest lilt of a moan sliding from between her teeth. Her own hands, lithe though trembling, most aggressively snaked to his trousers; “Perhaps it is you in need of the reminder,” she murmured, eyes dark. 

His head fell onto her shoulder helplessly, but he still kept his hand steady, his own fingers just as aggressive in their conquest. “If you insist.” he murmured, lips tracing her jaw and collarbone. “I’ve no objections." A finger twisted and he moved to her earlobe, his free hand passing over her breast.

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Mm. Christine was not fond of his words, for the lilt of insecurity did not sound sweetly in a heart that cared so much for her husband — it was with newfound determination that she pushed aside his belt, hand snaking beneath a band of his trousers. “You shouldn’t, darling. You can see how much I —” a sharp intake of breath, hand finding her target and eliciting a knowing glance in his direction, “— adore you.” 

It was with a needy grunt that Raoul raised her skirts and slipped his finger under knickers. “Yes, dear, I can see that.” he cooed in response with a quirk of a blond eyebrow, voice shaking only slightly due to her actions. “But there’s no harm in a friendly reminder, now is there?”

“You misunderstand me, Madame.” Raoul replied offhandedly, his gaze dripping with lust as he watched her writhe beneath him. “I merely wish to remind you…” He removed his hand and instead pressed himself against her, already straining. “What you’d be missing.” It may have sounded accusatory, but it wasn’t exactly. It was more or less insecurity, unfounded or no, over her wanting him. He’d practically promised the world and they had had to flee and were living like peasants. And although he trusted her, he wouldn’t blame her if she had regrets.

"Misunderstand you? Ah, I — see,” replied Christine, words still hissed from between her teeth — a free hand fumbled messily for his belt, fingers shaking, far too distracted to accurately unfasten without difficulty. “You’ve nothing to, ah, prove.” And she believed that; still Christine was far too unraveled to form much of a coherent understanding. 

"Haven't I?" Raoul wondered, pulling back for a moment to examine her face. She was--well, certainly in no state to converse but otherwise sincere as far as he knew. He guided her hand as she reached for his belt, and kissed her neck fleetingly. "Sometimes I feel as if I do."

He smiled at the immediate affect the ministrations seemed to have on his wife, and his finger dared to move—ah, there. “What accusations?” he cooed, lips by now on her earlobe. “Speak up, darling, else I won’t hear.”

“You,” began Christine, teeth clamped so firmly upon her own lip that the word was terribly muffled, “— ah — if you think this will make up — make up for —” Again, the thought was lost, waist squirming uncontrollably beneath his touch; trembling hands swept up along his chest, legs crossing as if to urge him ever closer. 

"You misunderstand me, Madame." Raoul replied offhandedly, his gaze dripping with lust as he watched her writhe beneath him. "I merely wish to remind you..." He removed his hand and instead pressed himself against her, already straining. "What you'd be missing." It may have sounded accusatory, but it wasn't exactly. It was more or less insecurity, unfounded or no, over her wanting him. He'd practically promised the world and they had had to flee and were living like peasants. And although he trusted her, he wouldn't blame her if she had regrets.

Raoul laughed against her skin, dragging his lips across her jaw and then the corner of her mouth before kissing her again. Tugging her lip between his, his hands hooked under her thighs as her legs crossed around his waist. “Frustrating?” he breathed, leaning down to sink his teeth into her collarbone. “I’ll show you frustrating.” he murmured, slipping his hand down between them, rubbing slowly over fabric.

"—Raoul—!” exclaimed she, taken aback with the swiftness of his actions; with immediacy her hips did raise to meet the slipping of his palm, back arching, toes curling, and her frustration struggled to hold strong. Damn him — damn him and his hands. "Raoul, I am — am not over your accusation…" 

He smiled at the immediate affect the ministrations seemed to have on his wife, and his finger dared to move--ah, there. "What accusations?" he cooed, lips by now on her earlobe. "Speak up, darling, else I won't hear."

In moments he had lifted her, one hand steady while the other carelessly knocked away whatever had been on the desk. His tongue sought hers, his hands looped around her waist again as he set her down, though one crept boldly up to her breast, squeezing as he pulled away to bury his face in her neck, nipping the skin.

His hands elicited a surprised moan from her lips, head falling backwards when she broke the kiss only momentarily — oh, Christine was trying to maintain her anger, and between groans she found herself drawling “—frustrating, you — you are —” Though still it seemed quite impossible to do as such, what with her legs wrapping so fervently about his waist. 

Raoul laughed against her skin, dragging his lips across her jaw and then the corner of her mouth before kissing her again. Tugging her lip between his, his hands hooked under her thighs as her legs crossed around his waist. "Frustrating?" he breathed, leaning down to sink his teeth into her collarbone. "I'll show you frustrating." he murmured, slipping his hand down between them, rubbing slowly over fabric.

Damn her. Only she could so easily brush aside his questions, even make him feel guilty, to the point he couldn’t even answer her. Instead, he grabbed her and pressed his lips to hers, demandingly, as if trying to prove something to both her and himself—that it was him, perhaps, and only him.

He was so frustrating, so — so infuriating, and she absolutely—     —…oh. Christine’s lips met his in immediate reaction, hands splaying against his back with sudden, unadulterated desperation, breaths ragged as though without the ability to slow. 

In moments he had lifted her, one hand steady while the other carelessly knocked away whatever had been on the desk. His tongue sought hers, his hands looped around her waist again as he set her down, though one crept boldly up to her breast, squeezing as he pulled away to bury his face in her neck, nipping the skin.

“That’s good because that kiss made me ill, so I guess we’re even. You still haven’t answered my question.” Raoul looked down at his nails disinterestedly before lifting his eyes to meet Christine’s.

"You. You," she struggled to reply, words spat so thickly from her throat that she sounded nearly venomous — in her anger Christine stood up, kicked aside the chair and marched with determination in Raoul’s general direction. "You want me to answer? I don’t know, Raoul, and perhaps I never shall — but what I do know is that I love you, I love you, and if that is not good enough — well. You are frustrating me.” 

I>Damn her. Only she could so easily brush aside his questions, even make him feel guilty, to the point he couldn't even answer her. Instead, he grabbed her and pressed his lips to hers, demandingly, as if trying to prove something to both her and himself--that it was him, perhaps, and only him.

“Does it look like I’m joking? Madame de Chagny, I am quite serious. You didn’t need to kiss him twice, or even once for that matter, and yet.” He shrugged. “I had to watch it happen twice.”

Oh, yes — she rolls her eyes, words hissing themselves from between her gritted teeth, because the subject is so detestable that Christine can barely bring herself to reply; “Your words make me ill.” 

"That's good because that kiss made me ill, so I guess we're even. You still haven't answered my question." Raoul looked down at his nails disinterestedly before lifting his eyes to meet Christine's.

“What’s come over me is we need to talk about us.” he elaborated, crossing the room and standing in front of her, leaning over the desk. “I am still trying to understand why you gave him that second kiss.”

"Does it look like I'm joking? Madame de Chagny, I am quite serious. You didn't need to kiss him twice, or even once for that matter, and yet." He shrugged. "I had to watch it happen twice."