You had always wondered how his fingers would feel against your skin. Those long, spidery digits that crafted intricate melodies on the piano. You had watched the way his graceful hands moved against the keys, gentle as a lover. Precise, controlled strokes that made the instrument sing and soar.
So consumed was he in his compositions that he had not even noticed how closely you were watching him. Try as you may, you could no longer ignore the growing intensity of your need. You felt the warmth pool in your belly as you watched his every muscle flex and relax in time with his song.
What you wanted, you knew he could not give.
He was your maestro, your beloved teacher. And yet, what you felt for him went far beyond propriety. You knew it the second he emerged from that mirror. You felt desire coursing through your veins as soon as your hand made contact with his, as soon as you realized that your angel was nothing but a man.
Was it mere curiosity that drew you to plunge into this world of unending night? Even as every fiber of your being recognized the danger, you followed him into the darkness. You let him sing to you, touch you, tempt you. You let him draw out the secret desires of your flesh.
And now—oh, how you yearned for his touch again!
The feel of his gloved fingers on your waist had once been enough to send you reeling. Now, you longed for so much more.
You imagined yourself beckoning him to your side, letting him adorn your exposed skin with feather-light kisses. You pictured his skilled musician's fingers playing you like one of his instruments; his touch restrained as if handling something precious, but the hunger in his eyes barely concealed.
He would bow to you, worship at your feet, if you give in. You would see the way his hands tremored, the way the sweat pooled from his brow.
"Christine," he would plead, love and desire spilling from his dulcet tone. You would let the warmth of his voice embrace you, let his music fill and fulfill you. It was the very same voice that seeped into your dreams every night, that heavenly voice which permeated your every fantasy.
He would whisper sweet nothings in your ear, beckon you to lower your defenses. He would promise you the world if it meant that you would never leave his side again.
You would see the reverence in his eyes at the sight of your naked form. You would look down, bashfully at first, but he would pull you close to him and let you feel the proof of his arousal.
He would place his hand between your thighs, curling two of his fingers inside you, circling that spot that always made you squirm. He would bend you down and spread your legs further apart. You would hear his ragged breathing, feel his struggle to maintain control.
And you would let him take you, ravish you until the ache between your legs subsides. You would let him pleasure you, let him thrill and delight and satisfy you.
He would be your undoing and you would be his.
Yet you knew that the bliss would not last. The night will soon make way for daylight, and you will have to return to the land of the living. Back to that seemingly distant world beyond his orphic lair, beyond his underground lake, beyond the mirror in your dressing room. Back to normalcy and propriety and decency.
Back to longing.