"Why are you lighting the fire, Salieri?"

"I want to see you."

I want to see you.

I want to see you sprawled out on the bed, propped up on your forearms, head falling back a bit, blond-brown curls draped across your face, your legs spread naughtily, needily.

I want to see you arch back against the sheets as I climb over you, see your fingers move dexterously to the buttons of my waistcoat and the ties of my shirt and the fasteners of my breeches, see you remove my clothes, slowly but expertly, a practiced lover and a practiced whore.

I want to see the way your cheeks flush with need, the way your mouth parts just a bit, as if welcoming mine.

I want to see your breathing catch. I want to see your eyes close, eyelashes quiver. I want to see your chest rise and fall with each breath, each breath that becomes more and more difficult as my mouth moves lower and lower.

I want to see you yield to me. I want to see you trust me enough to draw my head closer to your chest with your hands.

I want to see that trust broken when I bite your nipples, hard, hard enough so that I see you cry out. Hard enough so that maybe you feel at least a little of what I feel.

I want to see you shake when I touch you, shake from need and desire and maybe a bit of fear, now.

I want to see you harden under my touch. I want to see your legs spread more, any sense of shame gone. I want to see you look like a slut, so I can keep that image in my mind at the premier of your next opera.

I want to see your hips thrust towards my hand as I stroke you.

I want to see you beg for more when I pull away, words spilling out of your mouth with none of the eloquence that your music contains.

I want to see your eyes widen and your breath quicken when I move back over you, rewarding your pleas with a kiss that leaves you weak and yielding.

I want to see you moan, whether in pleasure or pain or both, as I move back between your legs and prepare you. I want to see you realize what's about to happen. I want to see you not care.

I want to see you whimper when I first push in, trying to say my name between each little noise that your lungs force out of your mouth.

I want to see you underneath me, see you cry out and scream out with each thrust of mine.

I want to see your legs over my shoulders, your flesh so close and so pretty. I want to see your face when I bite it and leave little marks that will hopefully last, so that afterwards you will still know that you are mine.

I want to see you beg me for more.

I want to see you under me, moved by me, pleasured by me, transfixed by me. I want to see you moan the music that I compose each time I move my hips.

I want to see you when I stop moving just before the very climax of your pleasure. I want to see you squirm and beg for more.

I want to see you when I deny you that pleasure, the only pleasure you truly want, the only pleasure you truly need at that moment. I want to see the anguish on your face when you realize that it truly is all you want and all you need.

I want to see the tears in your eyes.

I want to see the words spill out of your mouth, the words that tell me that you would do anything, anything at all, for what I can give you, for I am the only one who can give you this. I want to see you utterly desperate.

I want to see you succumb to me, succumb to my power, when I finally grant you that thing which you want so much and begin to move my hips once more. I want to see you give me everything you have. I want to see you scream my name, like it's the only name you truly know, like it's the name of your almighty god.

I want to see you come all over yourself.

I want to see you when I pull away. I want to see you when I clean myself up and get dressed once more. I want to see you when I leave you alone in the room, the fire now having burnt into ashes in the fireplace. I want to see you still sprawled on the bed, dirty and spent. I want to see you, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the prodigy, the genius, looking like nothing more than a common whore.

I want to see you.