Hello, my lovely readers! I'm mostly publishing this to prove that I'm alive and well. It's an old piece that I cherish, and it was time to dust it off. Enjoy, and please leave me your thoughts!

The water beat down on her head, scalding at first. It caused her to gasp, and for angry red splotches to appear on her chest. But within moments, the heat began to work its way beneath her skin. The calming sensation that had flooded her mind for a while now further increased; she'd never felt quite so relaxed, even after an intense bout of lovemaking.

Georg was asleep in the tangle of sheets on their bed, but Maria hadn't been able to do so, feeling too perfectly sated to waste the luxurious afterglow of sex on sleep. Certainly it was something she'd never expected to feel; for all her preconceived notions, intimacy with her husband always brought her to some new dangerous, pleasurable precipice, more intense than before. She relished it, in every way. In the last few months, she'd truly come to understand the power of her own womanhood, and she found a pride in it, knowing that it was something only Georg would fully know and content in the fact that she could do things to him that she'd never dreamed could happen to a man.

And, she supposed, as she reached around to grab shampoo, judging from the slight aches in her body, that he felt very much the same way about himself in respect to her. Tonight had been different; it began with a passion that Maria felt could be cut with a knife, but instead of spiraling out of control, the pace had slowed. It had almost been like a dance, in a way. Steady, flowing, smooth, resilient and beautiful. Akin to the Ländler they both enjoyed, she mused. Akin to the way it felt to her to scale through a piece by Prokofiev. It was most exquisite, and ever so enjoyable.

Her fascination with the Russian composer had been a source of great amusement and surprise for her husband, for somehow he'd imagined her to be more inclined toward Beethoven, Bach, and other long-dead classical composers. He himself favored a darker flavor, or those of a deceptive nature, such as Haydn or Tchaikovsky, where the music was a game of give and take, of passionate explosion and expression where it was least expected.

Maria snorted back laughter; if anything described their love life accurately, it was that. Of course music would do perfect justice to their passion. Reaching for a washrag and soap, she trailed her hands across her skin, her fingers retracing the paths her husband's hands had made only minutes before, and for hours it seemed. The memories of his touch burned fresh in her mind, and she could have sworn it imitated itself on her body, for she shivered in spite of the stream of hot water over her.

It was true, really, that Maria never felt more loved, safe, warm, and cherished than she did when she was entwined in the arms of her beloved, with nothing between them but air and their bare skin. It was true that the looks they shared, the moments they stole, the tender touches throughout the course of the day spoke volumes for what words could not, but when they were alone at night, every moment was generously turned over, whether they simply fell asleep in each other's arms or made love into the early hours of the morning.

There were times when she still blushed profusely at his bold requests and even her own, but there was nothing that she could deny him… or herself. She simply couldn't, and was constantly filled with a desire to push the limits. Maria smiled when she heard the last strains of the second movement of Haydn's Symphony No. 94 through the slightly open bathroom door leading into the master bedroom. It was fitting, she decided, for everything she was pondering.

That was another thing they'd discovered together. As much as they both loved to sit down at a piano or pick at the strings of their guitars, there was something erotic in the sound of music in the midst of their lovemaking that struck them both to the core. And to think it'd been a completely accidental discovery.

In Paris, they'd become distracted in each other while out on the terrace one night, and in their rush to the bed had left the French doors wide open. It was comfortably and surprisingly warm that night, and even if it hadn't been, Maria doubted they would have noticed. Their neighbors on the floor above had been playing a Victrola, perfectly audible with the French doors open, and consequently, Maria had found herself in a level of comfort she'd had yet to reach at the time, and it sparked something in her husband that was equally original, something he'd never felt before himself.

Maria groaned at the memory, her recall of every movement, kiss, bite and feeling sharp. The thoughts alone were enough to arouse her again, and thoroughly absorbed, she swore she could feel her husband's hands massaging her shoulders, moving down her arms, around her midsection to hold her fast. Slowly, painstakingly traveling up the soft flesh of her stomach, tickling her ribs, kneading her breasts. And then, nothing, until a hand, lathered in soap, dared to touch her most intimate part. But not only touch it; no. To tease and to cleanse and to set her on fire until she was reduced to incoherence and wanton lust.

Maria opened her eyes to find herself quite alone, and the water growing cooler. She was backed against the wall, her hands buried in her hair, fingers pulling on it so hard her scalp hurt. Sighing, she slid down and twirled a razor in her hand. She really preferred to shave her legs in the bathtub, but there was nothing wrong with the shower, and she wanted every excuse to stay awake…

Lazily, she lathered her legs and began the task, taking her sweet time. It was strange, she supposed, but this particular bathroom ritual was one she found most calming, and she liked it even more right now as water beat directly onto her back. It wasn't as warm as she would have liked it, anymore, but it was sufficient. Subsequently, she was reminded of yet another incident from Paris.

She'd been in the tub, a foot propped up on the edge while she shaved, when her husband had decided to walk in stark naked, except for his sock-clad feet, and start his shower. The invitation had been an open one, as the door was propped open with a washrag jammed under the door, but she'd been startled, fascinated, and amused all at once, and as a result of her distraction, had cut herself. He came over, concern on his face at the sound of her "Auch!"

"Why must you women mess with such frivolous things as shaving your legs," he teased gently, sloshing water over her shin. "I find it entirely unnecessary."

"I did too," was her answer. "Until I was engaged to you and forced to wear that ridiculous hosiery underneath floor-length dresses."

"Then… isn't it still unnecessary?" The boyish, devilish grin on his face was so full of mirth, she recalled.

"Well, yes… I… I don't know, that's just it!" she stumbled, flustered. "I suppose I prefer it now that I've started, though my legs get cold at night."

"Mhm, I've noticed," Georg agreed, placing his thumb over the cut on his wife's leg to stop the flow of blood. "I should fetch a bandage for that," he murmured.

"Wouldn't you rather just… fetch me off to bed?" Maria suggested, staring straight at her husband. When his gaze turned away from her leg and to her face, their eyes locking, Maria had felt her stomach lurch and flip flop. "We're going home in a few days," she said softly.

"My, my, you've turned into quite a little devil!" he'd purred. "So unashamed!"

"That," Maria whispered, leaning in to kiss him, "is entirely your fault."

"You've just bathed, though," he reasoned even as he lifted her frame easily into his arms.

"No matter," she'd assured breathlessly. "I can shower later."

"With me?"

"Do you have any better suggestions, Captain?"

Symphony No. 22 was playing now, Maria noticed, and her legs were perfectly smooth. Halfway through the first movement, it was beginning to lull her. She scrambled to her feet and shut off the water, wrapping herself in Georg's bathrobe. Her intent was to turn off the turntable before the more rousing second movement was reached; she was perfectly content to sleep now. She flipped off the light in the bathroom and quietly went to remove the needle from the record.

Turning from their practically sacred music maker, Maria smiled at what she saw. Hair quite disheveled and him quite asleep, Georg looked so peaceful. The lines that creased his face in daylight hours were gone; she was looking at a man that only she knew. Tenderly, she brushed the stubborn lock of hair from his eyes and kissed his forehead, whispering, "Ich liebe dich."