Welp, I wrote this almost a year ago as a prompt fill on Tumblr and am only now getting around to posting it here. Title from "Rose of Sharon" by Mumford & Sons, because I am predictable.
She woke to find him at the piano, pen scratching across a sheet of staff paper, fingers of his right hand absently mapping out a diatonic scale as he composed. D major, she thought, and he lapsed briefly into a melody she recognized from La Nozze di Figaro before returning to the scale. Illuminated by fluttering candleflame, he seemed spectral, as though he might vanish between blinks.
"Forgive me for waking you," he said without turning, still hunched over his score. His lithe fingers wandered an octave higher.
"It's all right," she said, leaning against the lintel of the music room. "I love waking to your music."
"Hardly music," he scoffed, fingers depressing the keys more emphatically, as if to illustrate his point.
"You could play 'Au clair de la lune' and it would rival the greatest sonatas," she said.
He scoffed again, but the taut line of his shoulders relaxed. The pen halted its movements, leaving a chord incomplete, and his fingers slipped from the keys to press into the soft leather of the bench.
Her eyes swept over him, his midnight dishevelment - mask discarded, jet hair curling over his forehead, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. His fingers flexed, the corded muscles of his forearms tightening. He had turned, and she had the impression he was assessing her as she was him.
"Come to bed," she said simply. His shadowed eyes blazed, and he stood.
"I'm afraid I have no patience for sleep," he said, bearing down on her, lissome and slinking.
"That's fortuitous," she said, "for I don't, either."
If his eyes had burned before, now they were incandescent, and she trembled when he came to stand before her. He traced a delicate line down her arm before taking her hand in his, raising it to press malformed lips to the ring on her finger.
"Madame," he said, "shall we retire?"
She slid her hand from his grasp, and this time she was the one to advance on him, walking him backward until he stood pressed against the piano, hand falling back against the keys, a dissonant chime of mismatched pitches sounding harsh through the room.
His chest rose and fell, erratic, gaze flicking from eyes to mouth and back to eyes and then lower down, lips parting on a silent plea.
She flattened her palm to his breastbone, and he shuddered and his heart raced at her touch. "Are you quite well?" she asked, skimming her fingertips up to his throat.
"Infernal woman," he gasped, broad hand coming to settle low on her waist, gathering the lace and silk of her nightgown. His eyes had slipped closed.
The first sweep of her lips across the maimed flesh of his cheek drove the air from his lungs, his hand tensing on her waist, using its grip on her to haul her flush against him. His other hand came up to gather her hair, and he knotted it in his fist and leaned her head back so that he could chart the dips and ridges of her neck with teeth and tongue. A sigh escaped her throat, and he clutched her closer in response.
His hand on her waist drifted lower, catching at the hem of her nightgown and rucking it up, bundling the fabric at her thigh; the graze of fingers against bare skin was enough to rob her of her balance, and she let him take her weight. The hand in her hair moved to cup her head, and his fingers circled soothingly against her scalp and his cheek drifted against hers and she inhaled through her nose, digging her fingers into the meat of his shoulders.
He hummed, an easy melody in three-quarter time, and the hand beneath her nightgown shifted, deft fingers finding the core of her, slick and damp and ready for him. She shifted against him, shoving him more firmly up against the piano, raising her knee to rest on the ledge of the keyboard, canting her hips against him in time with the crook and slide of his fingers. He tugged her head to the side to nose at her neck, and she whimpered and ground herself against his hand, and then she was falling forward because he had dropped to his knees.
"Erik," she said, bracing herself on the music rack.
"Let me," he replied, hands full of silk and lace trim, and he drew his lips up the inside of her thigh, and he shifted her to drape her leg over his shoulder, and he put his mouth to her.
His tongue lapped and stroked and teased and she bit her lip to stifle a cry, fingers tensed white against the music rack, and his hand caressed her backside, drawing her tighter to his mouth. She grasped at her nightgown, jerking it up and fisting it against her belly, watching as he worked at her, heel digging into his back as she moved her hips, breath shallow and gasping. The sight of him, flesh twisted and pure, mouth devouring, wet with her, gaze unwavering -
He hummed again, a prolonged reverberation against sensitive flesh, and when she suddenly reached her pleasure, crying out, he surged up to swallow her cries, bringing his fingers back to her. She threw her arms about his neck, hoisting herself up, and his hands moved to catch at her waist, and she tasted herself on his tongue, deep and sweet, and she scraped her teeth over his lip and drank down his groan.
"To bed," she said, and he nodded.