Normally, she keeps her distance while he is composing and he is quietly grateful for this. The notes can be uncooperative enough without his being aware of her sitting so very close to him, a magnet for each and every fleeting thought, nudging the back of his consciousness. It is not that she is not his muse, does not inspire him. (She has inspired him to some of his very greatest compositions.) It is more that slight and beautiful as she is, his hands have a habit of wandering from the keys to seek adventures elsewhere.
But tonight, tonight she is fresh from her bath, wrapped only in her shift and dressing gown. The light fragrance of peach and tea rose drifts to him through the gaslight, stirring his heart and causing an aching desperation to have her near to overwhelm him. He is helpless to do anything but beckon her to his side at the organ.
She heeds him, and settles on the bench beside him, closer than she normally does so that their legs are pressed together and he is terribly aware of the heat of her leg through his trousers. Her body is so soft from the bath, breasts and hips and thighs and for a moment his fingers falter on the keys, finding a new rhythm. (To touch, to brush over that silky smooth skin but no, he cannot, he must play.) It was an elegy for his latest opera, coming together now at last, but at the slipping of her arm around his waist it transforms into a sonata, as-yet-unwritten yet springing forth fully-formed from his hands.
Her lips are so very silky as they worry the lobe of his ear, his throat dry. Her left hand slips, resting hot high on his thigh and he almost jumps at the light touch, trousers suddenly too tight, breath stirring.
Such a temptress, his little Christine.
The hand on his leg shifts, higher, and higher, reaching the crease of his thigh and the fabric of his trousers is now altogether too constricting. His member rubs tight against it, her lips slipping down his throat, a trail of sweet kisses. It takes such concentration to keep his fingers on the keys, the notes high and urgent.
The wandering hand reaches his buttons, deftly undoing them and now there is room but not for long because her fingers wrap around him and she strokes. Her arm around his waist shifts, hand creeping up beneath his shirt to rest warm, fingers swirling in the very faint trail of hair that leads from his navel down. He cannot help the whimper in his throat, her lips mouthing at his collarbone.
The music shifts again with the mounting tightness below his stomach, but he keeps playing. He has to keep playing as that hand strokes, up and down and up and down and it's not fast enough, needs to be faster, and the tempo speeds up, and so do the strokes and it's all he can do to keep his fingers on the keys, not to rip the shift off her and suckle her nipples and thrust himself deep inside their fingers entwined high above her head with her body laid beneath him her legs around his hips and -
He bucks into her hand, spilling over her, gasping for breath. Wave after wave, warm and buzzing, rushes through him. There is not enough air in the room and perhaps that is why the stars are dancing before his eyes, his lungs burning. All at once he can't help it, fingers stilling at last on the keys, body slumping over the organ, chest heaving. The arm around his waist tightens, ever so gentle, and still he twitches in her hand, leaving him boneless and weary. She kisses his cheek, a line of soft kisses, and murmured I love yous until he gets his breath back and inclines his head and her lips find his own.
Yes, he agrees, such a warmth of relief and wonder and mingled contentment, yes. I love you, too.