There was no denying the dull throb of the music running through his veins, matching the beat of his heart. It was still steady, languid, as if he had all the time in the world to savor every single stroke of his fingers along the smooth surface of the keys. Funny, they almost seemed… softer. Like flesh, pliant and malleable beneath his touch. All at once he recalled the stolen caress, and his voice locked up briefly. Nearly stopping the song, he cracked open his eyes and turned his head just enough to bring her into his line of sight.
Though alert, Christine was very much seduced by the power of the music's underlying throb, the melody inspiring passion where there had been none before. Poor Christine could never have given name to this emotion if not for Erik's music. Passion was the only thing it could be. Though it was a bit hesitant, there was no innocence in it. Smouldering, each tone melted into the next in a torrent of liquid fire. All of Erik's passion was echoed in her drooping shoulders and her tilted neck, her fluttering lashes and her moist, parted lips.
It hadn't been his intention, but there she was, drawn inexorably into that unknowing haze once more. The music from before had been nothing like this. Before it had been... almost solemn, aching for the slightest attention. And this... was simply aching. I love you so much my heart aches; I want you so badly that my body aches. It wasn't until his imagination started running away with him that his breath deepened, as did the lyrical croon of his voice. How he would love to see her play the part of Aminta - though it would be too much for her... She was the epitome of purity and innocence, while Aminta was a player of hearts, a harlot who teased and taunted an even bigger hedonist. Oh, but when the two collide, when they would sing this duet, there would be so much electricity it would sear the very air. He kept playing though he'd reached the end, not wanting to stop just yet. It was torment, watching her within the throes of Don Juan's seductive hold. So this must be auditory rape, he thought for a brief, cynical moment.
How beautiful it felt, to take possession of her body and mind through song. But would Christine have given herself willingly to this torment? Or had she done so already, by not asking him to stop when she had the chance? Her body certainly enjoyed every tender, tempting stroke, every musical thrill, and still her fingers fluttered over her breast, longing to trace down beneath the silk and lace that separated her from him. How every part of her ached to fall shuddering into the agonizing bliss of his melody! Quietly, a sound something like a low whimper tangled inside a moan escaped her lips as her breath caught roughly, chest heaving.
The soft sound raked a fierce chill up his spine, spreading over the rest of his body, and he had to bite back a low sound of his own. He should stop; he had to stop, but he just couldn't bring his fingers to still. He had once told her that this libretto burned, and this now was just the tiniest taste of its power. This particular song still wasn't finished - there was only Don Juan's section, and a part of Aminta's - but the combined voices were slowly weaving their way into the lyrics that had begun to form in his mind's eye. Along with the vision. There was no stage. There was but the two of them, pushing, pulling; giving no ground, yet gaining none either, until at last they succumbed to each other's will, clashing with such melting ferocity that it was dangerous. Stop. Just stop before you do something you're going to regret! You have already touched the forbidden. How far would you go, drugged as you are now? Did he truly wish to know?
She ached for his touch. Her mind began screaming at her: Why doesn't he touch me? Burning, raw... why doesn't he soothe me? The other half of her thoughts were trying to force her eyes open, but she was beyond such escape. And at last her fingers drifted, down over the swelling curve of lace-covered breasts, over her smooth stomach, then lower still. Oh, if he stopped now he could save himself, but Christine was past saving. Corrupted perhaps, less innocent than she would ever be again for realizing where her body needed her fingers, where the throb pulled the most; the reason her breath wouldn't come - and when it did, it was so dry it hurt.
Oh.. dear.. God... His eyes traced the path of her fingers as they drifted down, following an invisible path over her torso and beyond. He swallowed slowly, exhaling a breath that felt hot enough to melt steel, along with the growling thrum of his voice. Still wordless, there were no truly complete phrases, but the longer he played, the more secure the notes were becoming. He lifted a hand from the keys, intending to stop the path of her delicate hands - but instead his fingers threaded between her own, becoming one with hers, and leading - being lead? - in that descent. Right and wrong were slowly losing their distinction. In fact, they may as well not have existed any longer. One-handed, he was only playing the rhythm chords. His voice made up for the rest. Breathless as he was, he was somewhat surprised that he was able to sing.
Touching Christine like this was unconscionable. And yet she said nothing, only started with a frightened flinch before calming again. Beneath layers of concealing white, her pale legs parted slightly, thighs quivering delicately as their entwined fingers nested in the thick ruffles of fabric, warm against her skin. She moaned again, unable to press their hands any further, but oh, she wanted to. Her thoughts were half-coherent, frantic. God in Heaven – why doesn't he touch me? and Help me pull away - My God, I'm too frightened to stop! warred in her thoughts, as she pressed their fingers more tightly against the maddeningly, blessedly obstructive fabric.
He'd worked up the courage to caress along her the top of her torso, but to go so far as this? He must be insane. Insane from the torment he was going through. And later would come the guilt. Or maybe even her hatred when she realized what he'd done… or nearly done. He drew his hand away slightly, bringing hers along with it... but it did nothing but slip liquidly back to its original spot, drawn by her own unconscious hand. Did she know what she was doing, that his hand was along with her own? No... no she didn't. She couldn't. She'd never let him do something so deliciously forbidden. He really needed to stop thinking so much and just... do. Swallowing slowly to dampen his dried throat, he closed his eyes as their combined hands drew down, skating over her left thigh, then centering. Nearly dizzied, he interrupted his song briefly to pull in an extremely slow breath, exhaling it with a near growl.
With a deep arch, their hands were smothered between layers of rustling fabrics. Her thighs, once spread, clenched firmly against the pressure with the sudden tightness of every muscle in her slender body. With a gasp, she felt every part of her burning. She turned her head aside away from him, almost convulsively throwing her body against their mingled caress. More. It wasn't enough. For the first time ever, Christine wished to demand something more for herself. It was not fair to be bound by the lace, wanting to rip it apart but lacking the strength to do so. Breath coming so fast she might have been gasping for air, her body shuddered with a wordless sob of frustration and maddened desire.
I'm going to hell... If I wasn't before, I definitely will now. There was no denying that, at all. He almost snatched his hand back at the reaction of her body, thinking that he might have somehow hurt her, but something kept his arm locked in place. It was curiosity that made him clench his fingers against her own, and press closer to the apex of her thighs. Blocked by cloth or not, it was enough to bring a low, muffled groan to his throat. Heat, undeniable heat. A thick swallow and he tipped his chin down, his eyes closed still as he lingered within that sensation. Dear God, if just this 'simple' touch could cause such a response, how would her body react with other touches? Thinking about that now wasn't the best thing to do; he already ached so badly that it was painful. It had to stop; he had to stop. But, oh, he didn't want to. Setting his jaw firmly, he pulled his hand up, giving resistance to her clenching hold, testing it. He had to retreat, and retreat now before he really did do something he'd regret later.
With a wild motion, Christine meant to hold Erik's hand trapped, but gave up with an uncontrollable sob nearer to a moan, letting him retreat. She trembled, breathing heavily as her thrashing eased without the pressure of their hands to build it. What she wanted was to grind against her own hand, to press her fingers to places she had never touched, and finish what his terrible, aching, loving song had started. Didn't he know it was maddening? How could he just…stop… after all that?
Just how could something sound so pitiful, yet enticing at the same time? His hand hadn't gotten far when that pitiful, tortured sound escaped her lips, and he glanced over her again, shifting his throat in another swallow. It was so dry, there was really no use in trying to dampen it - no matter how many times he attempted it, his deep, panting breath did nothing but make it worse, burning as if raw. He had already gone too far once - and he wanted to do so again. The feel of her skin had become like a drug to him, intoxicating, addictive. Curling his fingers loosely, he brought them slowly back to hers, slipping beneath her hand this time. Closing his eyes he allowed instinct and the seductive tenor of the song guide him. He tried to imagine himself as the great Don Juan, conqueror of the female body, an expert in the realm of caress and touch. He sought out the softness of her skin and, with some skilled manipulation of cloth, he was rewarded.
His hand had moved, leaving hers behind for with just the barest graze of his fingertips against her knee as he rustled the fabric of her petticoats. Erik... he tried to warn himself, but he truly didn't want to listen. He had gone this far... there was no going back now. If his fingers had ever been cold, they were scalding against the cool satin of her flesh now. He was nervous – nearly terrified – but to her, his touch seemed confident, assured. Her thoughts locked in a spiraling mantra, she trembled violently against the sensation of his bare skin, unencumbered by the leather gloves he so often wore. Take me, take me, don't stop, Erik, please, don't stop… And unlike the last time, she was awake. Vividly so. Feeling everything, yet saying nothing to stop him. It would take but a single word to put him from her, a simple 'Erik.' would keep his touch from her.
Shoulders shifting, muscles moving under pale flesh, her fingers hovered hesitantly over his own, then suddenly shoved his hand clumsily - though which way she wanted him to go was a mystery - torn between farther up her pleading thigh or away entirely. It hurt and it felt good. His touch burned, yet she knew it could so easily soothe her pain if only he went on. She should stop him. She should stop. Stop it, Christine, don't let him go on… But it burns!
He knew he should stop himself. He had paused as her hand hovered over his, stilling to see if she would press him away, or closer, but when she didn't move, he was the one that took that initiative. The piano forgotten, his left hand lay still upon the keys, yet the music was still in the air, wrapping about her senses, drawing her deeper and deeper still. It was almost blasphemous, the way the soft, white cloth bunched along the side of his wrist as his hand ascended. Only the tips of his fingers touched, gliding along inner thigh while the thumb caressed over the top. At first he had believed that she stopped him, finding his hand unable to go elsewhere, until he felt the undeniable heat so close to the side of his hand. He was almost too afraid to look at just how intimately close he was. While his eyes cracked open... they closed a split second afterwards.
He was almost hoping she would stop him, to give him a reason to force his hand away. At least he'd be able to blame it upon the power of the song. He still could, couldn't he? He'd warned her that he wasn't going to play anything from his libretto for this very reason. Not only did it burn - it corrupted, luring the soul to indulge its basest desires. Yes, he had warned her, but she was so naive. How could she have known that it would end up like this, with Erik's fingers climbing the length of one smooth, virgin thigh? She was so weak, how could she control herself against the primal pulse of his music? However intimately close Erik thought he was, he was miles farther than where he should be.
Panting wordlessly, Christine's head was spinning, her mind trapped in this moment, and as much as she wanted to pull him away - to pull herself away - all sensible thoughts flickered away, and she was left with a throbbing emptiness that grew harder to bear the more he hesitated. She was burning, damp, and frightened. Even her thighs quivered, as her hips yearned to roll forward, the skin prickling deliciously at his touch.
The urge to go further was just as strong as the urge to pull away. He did neither. His hand was frozen - and yet burning – at her inner thigh, subtly trembling with the strength of his restraint. He was surprised to be able to keep the song within his throat, though it had changed now, a growled pitch left reverberating in the air. The forward roll of her hips dizzied him still more, and he clasped a hand against the edge of the bench to keep from tipping backward. His fingers curled, nails raking firmly against her supple, sensitive skin, drawing a soft whimper from her full, parted lips as his touch moved again - first in retreat, sliding a few inches back down toward her knee, then changing his mind, drifting higher. With the elevation of his palm came that of his heart, until he could barely breathe, could barely even hear his own voice. He had been so close and yet so far moments ago, yet something akin to instinct stopped him and, to his dismay, his hand couldn't go any further. Slick, moist and warm; he held his breath briefly, only to release it in a low, throaty groan.
There had been a time when he'd believed she didn't have the passion to play his Aminta. Perhaps he had been wrong in for that assumption. Months ago, before their lessons, she would have likely fainted – or died! - at the first caress of those chords. Some progress! But finally, finally, she seemed unable to take it any longer.
Everything happened quickly. First, her fingers seemed to fly to his, pressing them hard where they had been hovering. At the same time, her head drew back with a wordless cry. Double the warmth at his fingertips. Double the intensity of her heartbeat. But somehow she had torn herself from him but a second later, sliding off the side of the bench, her dress flowing around her as she slipped onto her knees on the cold floor. Bracing herself with one hand, the other still between her legs, she arched and sobbed and almost sang each musical gasp and moan.
It was the sudden warmth then cold that snapped him out of the spell. With her no longer in his reach, he took ahold of the bench's edge, clasping it tightly before he lifted his fingers to the keys. All was silent then: the keys; him; only their heavy breathing broke the still air. Dragging in a slow breath, he swallowed thickly as a scent - her scent - was captured. So close... So painfully close. The tension in his shoulders betrayed his restraint, the need to get away. Blazing, molten eyes of gold shifted toward her, and he shuddered at the trembling sight before him, her hand pressed flush, hidden beneath the voluminous white cloth. She arched, groaning in despair - and something more.
It was that agonizing sound that was his undoing.
With a sudden lurch of form, the heated weight was surrounding her, his mouth impossibly hot against her throat, his fingers digging in a play of surging chords upon ivory.
