Rehearsal had left Christine in a foul mood. Carlotta had actually shown up at the opera house and tried to take the stage in Christine's role as though she hadn't been let go from the opera after Don Juan Triumphant's debut. Neither the cast, nor M'sieur Reyer had really known what to do. He delicately tried to remind her that she was no longer employed, but she ignored him, drowning him out with screeches that were meant to pass for high notes. She really hadn't been the same since Ubaldo's death.
Every time Christine tried to sing, there was Carlotta, trying to out-sing her. It was maddening. No one was satisfied after the rehearsal had ended. Christine changed into day clothes and tied her hair back, getting ready for her private lesson.
She and her angel - no, her tutor - had started using one of the practice rooms. She wasn't comfortable with the idea of returning to his underground abode. Christine had sought him out to resume his role of her teacher, but solely her teacher. After the disaster that had been Don Juan's opening night, he was well aware that their relationship was on thin ice.
Sometimes it was still hard to be around him. He had taken so much from her, turned her life upside down, tried to control and bend her to his will. One kiss had allowed her to take back some of her strength, but she still felt there was more of herself to reclaim from him.
She heard the piano before she arrived at the door. He was early as well, and she supposed that made sense. What else did he have to do, really? The idea that he still had nothing outside of her made her uneasy.
Christine opened the door quietly. His back was to her and, if he heard her, he didn't acknowledge her, his fingers still moving over the keys. He was impeccably dressed, though the image of him as he had been once, disheveled and devastated, still haunted her every time she saw him.
There were so many things she still wanted to say to him.
He truly was a beautiful man, though he'd scoff if she ever told him. He was slim and angular, with an imposing air that both frightened and thrilled her. He was masculinity personified, she thought, and that made her angry too. He had no right, after everything, to look so polished, so alluring, as though they both hadn't just been through hell. How had he recovered while she still struggled with everything that had passed?
She came to stand directly behind him, leaning over him to glance at the music he played from. He drew in a sharp breath but otherwise ignored her, his hands never hesitating.
"Hello maestro," she murmured. Her breath on his ear made him shiver. She found a small power in that little involuntary movement of his and she wanted more. She wanted her power back.
Christine rested her chin on his shoulder, her hand slithering forward to rest on his thigh. She felt his muscles jump under her touch.
"Christine…" He finally spoke, his voice low and warning.
"Yes?" she asked innocently, rubbing his leg. His thick, meaty thighs had always been particularly enticing to her and she delighted in dragging her palm up his thigh and the shudder it drew from him. Whatever he had wanted to say died on his lips, replaced by a strangled groan.
She wanted to hate him so badly. She wanted him to hurt the way that she hurt and ache the way that she ached. One kiss had undone him. Perhaps there was a way for her to bring him to the same internal turmoil that she struggled with.
Her fingertips ghosted over the bulge in his pants and his normally graceful fingers gripped the keys, creating a discordant crash. Christine pressed her lips to his neck, growing bold. He leaned back helplessly against her as she palmed his stiffening need. Her mouth nipped and sucked at his skin. His breathy moans were music to her ears. She'd never heard him make anything near a sound like this and knowing that she was the cause… It fuelled her boldness.
Suddenly, he tore away from her, rising with a speed that sent the piano bench toppling backwards. She jumped out of the way with a yelp.
Not saying a word, he strode from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Christine was left alone and stared blankly at the closed door in front of her.
When it came time for their next lesson, she wasn't sure if he would even come. She hadn't seen or heard from him since their abrupt encounter. It angered her. He'd given her so little choice. He had no right in walking away from her. She wasn't going to let him go so easily this time.
He was already there, just as last time, but he was dressed much more casually. His white linen shirt and black trousers reminded her of that night after Don Juan's premiere, when everything had gone so horribly wrong. When she came up behind him, he did not acknowledge her, but she felt him tense as she trailed her fingertips down his back.
"Just keep playing," she murmured. He almost seemed surprised, as though he hadn't realized he'd stopped when she'd drawn near. He resumed his song and she picked up where she'd been interrupted previously. She started by rubbing his thighs, enjoying how erratic his fingers became on the keys.
By the time her fingers plucked at the laces of his trousers, his breathing was heavy while his body began to tremble in anticipation. He had ceased playing. Her hand slid into his pants and wrapped around his cock and he groaned, his head lolling against her shoulder. Her body supported him while she stroked his need, her other hand coming up to slide against his chest through his thin white linen shirt.
He was completely at her mercy, she realized. He was exposed, and vulnerable. She was totally in charge.
Christine stepped away.
He twisted towards her so fast that he nearly tumbled backwards out of his seat. She started to move towards the door, but, even painfully aroused, he was faster and caught her against the door before she could open it.
"Not so fast," he purred. He ground his body against hers and pushed her into the door, which earned him a groan from her lips.
"Let me go." she hissed.
"It's only fair that you finish what you started." He continued to move his hips against her, desperate for the friction.
She whimpered, her cheek against the cold wood. "You ran away last time."
"I won't make that mistake again." He started to pull her skirts up but she suddenly pushed back against him and knocked him back several steps.
"Sit down at the piano."
He hesitated and for a moment, she was certain he was going to argue with her, but he obeyed and sank onto the bench without ever breaking eye contact.
She twirled her finger, motioning for him to turn around. He faced the keys and she came up behind him once more. "This is how I want you. I don't want you to look at me. I don't want you to touch me. You will play me something nice while I touch you."
She reached forward, stroking his length. He placed trembling hands on the keys, playing a slow melody. She kept a steady pace and he faltered several times. After a few quick pumps she had him playing absolute nonsense, desperate to keep playing from fear she'd stop but unable to focus enough to really play anything. He clutched the keys as he found his release and she found pleasure in the warm stain that spread across the front of his trousers.
She stepped away from him and he sagged forward, his breath coming in heavy pants.
"Until next time, maestro."
She left the room with a smile on her lips, knowing that he was still trembling and hardly sated. They still had a long way to go, but she finally felt like they were on even footing. She was determined to emerge triumphant.