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ordinary - william x aurelia

day after day, we'll make the mundane our masterpiece. oh, my, my, oh, my love, i take one look at you and you're takin' me out of the ordinary. i want you layin' me down til we're dead and buried. on the edge of your knife, stayin' drunk on your vine, the angels up in the clouds are jealous knowin' we found somethin' so out of the ordinary. (ordinary - alex warren) based on the first episode of 'the muse' on quinn, narrated by tom blyth. aurelia's point of view. tw: um? a little bit of smut?? they are both perpetually horny?? also please note this is very long and i only skimmed once or twice so if there's mistakes i am sorry 😭

I have always loved the piano.

Even the instrument itself is beautiful — graceful, curving lines of ebony wood, shining like silk shot through with starlight, a perfect complement to the ivory keys. I adore, too, the way they feel beneath my fingertips. The sensation reminds me of a river, cool and soothing, inviting — no, imploring — me to sink in and forget all else.

Then, of course, there is the music itself. All of nature lives in it. The crash and boom of thunder, the chuckle of a stream, the dancing, delicate step of a fawn or flutter of a butterfly’s wing. The touch of a hand, the lilt of a question, the swell and cry of anger. The warmth of desire, nestled in the lower notes, or woven into the sweeter, higher sounds.

It is right there, waiting for someone with enough dedication and artistry to draw it out.

The problem is, that while I do not lack for the former, it is the latter that seems to elude me. The notes I want to coax from the piano remain as distant as the stars, glittering and fine, tempting me with their beauty while remaining infuriatingly out of reach. No matter how hard I try — and I do try — it seems as though I can only climb so high on my own.

Only a few days ago, I did not really think my father accorded my musical malaise any real concern, but he surprised me. I can’t remember now the exact chain of friends and acquaintances that led me to this, something about a man named Benedict and his violin. The end result is that I have my very own piano tutor. Something…Lewis, I think. Or perhaps his first name is Louis. I’m not entirely sure.

I shall get his name right once he introduces himself to me, certainly.

There is no doubt in my mind that Father is less concerned about my creative frustrations and more focused on simply getting me to cease waxing on about it. It would be offensive if not for two things — one, I rather enjoy getting what I want, and two, I believe he means well. He just does not understand.

He never has.

One of the few things he and I really have in common is a love of art and literature, but even there, our feelings diverge. For my father, it’s enough to acquire art, to fill your home with its borrowed glory. But I want more. I want to create it, or at least be a part of it. I want it to fill me up with its own fire, a heat and a light entirely separate from me, one that is at once ancient and ever changing, growing.

I am no composer, but I would like to be. To do that, though, I feel I must become a better musician first.

And so, here I sit in the parlor, waiting for my tutor to arrive. I at first perch in a chair by the window, but soon I am drawn to the pianoforte like a bee to a blossom. I sit on the bench, lifting the lid from the keys and laying my hands the ivory.

I have only pulled a few notes from the instrument when I hear a knock at the front door. I jump up, nearly sending the bench flying in my haste. I scowl at myself, smoothing my hands over my skirts and moving to stand beside the piano, facing the door of the music salon.

As I hear footsteps getting closer, I wonder what this man is expecting. No doubt my father either made me sound like a child still anticipating her debut, or a hopeless case who is no more than a year or two away from adopting far too many cats at one time. I don’t know what to expect of him, either. Father told me nothing about him, except that he was coming today to help me improve my playing.

The door swings open, and at once, I feel it. I feel the precise moment my world shifts on its axis, tilting in an entirely new and unexpected direction. I must say it’s not entirely pleasant, this sensation, a sort of inexorable slipping and sliding as if my feet have come out from under me. As if my very life is rushing up, or perhaps away, and I am merely caught up in a tide which could drown me as easily as uplift me.

“Good day, Lady Au — ”

He stops, as suddenly as if someone had snatched my name right out of his mouth. The look on his face is my only comfort as I seek some inner lodestar by which to center myself. It seems that I am not alone in feeling thunderstruck.

“Lady Aurelia…” He seems to gather himself with an effort, and I force myself to do the same. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

It occurs to me that I am supposed to respond in kind. My throat is so dry that I have to clear it once, twice, before I can speak. “And I yours, Mr. Lewis.”

Oh, yes, Aurelia, how clever, how winning. And I you.

At least he does not give me a strange look when I refer to him by that name, so I’m correct about that, it seems. Or else he is excessively polite.

He says something apologetic about his shabbiness, and I almost laugh. Shabby? Alright, well, yes — perhaps his trousers are a bit wrinkled, his shirttail not properly tucked in, and though he has a coat, it appears that he has neglected a tie. And I suspect, though I cannot be sure as I have never personally been drunk, that he is suffering from just a smidge of ale passion.

But it does not matter, not one single, solitary bit, what he is wearing.

His face is so finely made that I cannot think of any man in any piece of art — Michelangelo’s Adam, reaching out for God; Courbet’s frantic, wide-eyed Le Désespéré; the long limbs and fine curls of Hilliard’s Young Man Among Roses — who could surpass him, or even match him.

A strong, angular jaw, mirrored by high cheekbones, which come together to make such a perfect curve that I can barely resist tracing his cheek with my fingers. His nose is fine and straight, set off by the earnest, almost childlike roundness of the bluest eyes I have ever seen. And his lips, God help me — any sculptor on earth would weep to know they would never be able to capture how soft they appear, how full and inviting. The marble itself would crumble in shame rather than fail to be molded into the proper shape.

And he is tall, taller than I by nearly a foot. His shoulders are broad, his waist slender, and I find, as I study him with only the faintest frisson of shame — if not because I have been staring like an absolute idiot for far too long — that my gaze is now drawn to his hands.

Oh, the hands of a pianist. If ever anyone doubted the universe was divinely made, one would only have to look at his hands. There is no happenstance that could result in such long, graceful fingers, or the broad palms so easily able to encompass the keys. Or, for that matter, my waist.

“Shall we begin?” he says, and I twitch like the tip of a cat’s tail, pulled from my reverential reverie of his beauty.

I nod and turn toward the piano, hastily murmuring, “Yes, let’s,” so that he does not think I am utterly without decorum. Typically, the thought of being found ill-mannered would not bother me one whit; in fact, it often pleases me, if not for the sake of entertainment. I know I will be spoken about without my consent or my knowledge no matter what I do, especially the older I become. A single daughter over twenty-five who has never been married, who has no children? To some, I am an oddity, to others, a laughingstock, and to still more, an unbearable thing in-between which elicits both amusement and pity.

And so, oftentimes, I feel the desire to lash out. Even if the whip is so small that none but I even know that I hold it, I can still do so by not following the rules, step by rigid step, laid out for me. It is the least I can do, and the most I am able to do.

On top of it all, some of these rules are simply insipid. Eyes down, voice soft, hands folded. Why? Because of what I have between my legs?

When he says, as I sit on the bench, that he seems to have forgotten his manners, I bite my lip to hide a smile. Funny that he should be concerned about being polite when my thoughts have run away in an entirely different direction. It is like we are a call-and-response, notes teasing and talking to each other on opposite ends of the scale.

I shake my head. “Think nothing of it,” I say. I gesture toward the piano. “Shall we…?”

“Oh, yes — ” He pauses, studying me, and I feel as though my heart has flooded my chest. He admits that his preparation for our lesson is perhaps not as complete as it should be, and I feel a frown tugging at the corners of my lips. I was right.

“You expected a child,” I say. “Or someone younger than myself, at least.”

He smiles and admits to making an assumption. I wonder if he is disappointed, if he was hoping for a girl still in the delicate bloom of youth, a time of life in which beauty is found in the simple things — a bright eye, a ruddy cheek, the easiness of a sunny smile.

Through the golden haze which has surrounded me since first laying eyes on him, I feel a wasp’s sting of disappointment. Perhaps he is not so unique as I first thought.

Raising an eyebrow, I say, “Alas, I am well past my debutante years, as I am sure you can plainly see.”

To my surprise, and my chagrin, he laughs. “Yes — yes, no, not alas. A woman stands before me, indeed.”

“A spinster,” I challenge. Daring him to say it assuages the hurt beginning to creep over me, at least a little.

I don’t expect him to pick up the gauntlet I have thrown down. Instead, I think he still bluster and blush, dropping his eyes, muttering something perfectly pleasant. In short, I expect him to disappoint me. Perhaps then, at the very least, I can get my sense of equilibrium back.

Instead, he looks at me with an earnestness which strikes at the very center of me, an arrow dipped not in poison but in something far worse.

Honesty.

“I would never use the word spinster,” he says. “Especially not in your presence. I may be a humble musician, but I am no scoundrel.”

I have no doubt that he means it. I am so used to the sort of society where even the truth is gilded and garnished so thoroughly as to be unrecognizable. But here he is, looking at me with those wide, round blue eyes, and I have no recourse except to believe him.

He only drives the arrow in deeper when he adds: “I do hope to be a worthy instructor of your ladyship.”

“Aurelia,” I say, without sparing a moment of thought. “Please, call me Aurelia.”

Something in his expression softens, like a flower in spring just beginning to bud. “Then I beg you, call me William. Mr. Lewis makes me sound ancient.”

A laugh startles its way out of me, a bird bursting from the top of a tree. I do not reply, but instead, I pat the bench beside me, a silent but emphatic invitation.

He hesitates for a moment, saying, “Is that not improprietous?”

I look up at him, tilting my head. “I would say it would be a greater impropriety, as a piano teacher, to linger so far from the instrument you purport to teach. It is not as though you are instructing me in Latin or mathematics.”

Though plenty others have been wounded, or simply offended, by the barbs in my tongue, William just smiles, chuckles, and agrees, “I suppose it is difficult to instruct the pianoforte when so distant from the instrument. I thank you for the invitation.”

And so he sits next to me.

His shoulder brushes mine as he settles himself on the bench. I feel it less in the specific extremity than I do in my chest, where my lungs expand to such an extent that I am dizzy from a surfeit of air. He brings up our lesson, and I have to give my head a little shake to clear it, to remind myself why we are here.

“—perhaps a simple scale?” he says, and I realize he wants me to play for him.

But his proximity has my fingers trembling too badly for me to even contemplate playing so much as a note. “And what of your musical knowledge?” I say, the first question that comes to mind. “Tell me where my guide has been.”

He explains about his friend Benedict — ah — and tells me how Benedict’s parents allowed him to play the piano in their home. The beautiful thing. I smile. “And here you are, teaching the pianoforte to a willing student,” I say.

He smiles back at me and agrees. “And what of you? What do you seek in your pursuit of music?”

I gaze straight at him, having no doubts that he will understand what I’m about to say, perhaps better than anyone else I have ever met. “To make myself worthy,” I say simply. “Or at least, worthier. I think music is the purest expression of pleasure and beauty that we may find in this world. My playing must be better — I must be better — so that I can express it in a way that at least approaches its true self.”

He does not laugh. He does not so much as crack a smile. “Indeed,” he says. “Music is the purest expression of pleasure and beauty. I believe it is one of life’s greatest joys.”

Oh, to find someone who understands…I feel as though a weight has been lifted from me, one to which I have become so accustomed that I only notice how heavy it is after it’s been taken away. “You are an artist,” I murmur. “What is your life like? Is it wild and free?”

William chuckles, though there is no mockery in it. It’s a rueful sound. “I’m afraid my life is rather mundane than debaucherous.”

“But you can do whatever you like,” I argue. “If your life is mundane, surely you have the opportunity to make it otherwise. You are free to do as you please.”

I study the keys in front of us. The words leave my lips of their own accord, but again, I am sure he will understand. Or, at least, he will not mock, nor judge, which is more than I can say for many other people in my life.

“I know my house is beautiful,” I say. “And I know I am lucky. Believe me. But this is a cage, for all that it is gilded and filled with lovely things. I am no better than a little songbird, twittering away while life passes me by, for no better reason than I am a daughter and not a son.”

He takes only a breath to consider. “Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, if you put it like that, I suppose I am free to do as I please. If you are a bird in a gilded cage, then I too am caged. Just without the gilding.”

He sighs. I say nothing. I find I want to comfort him, to pull his head down onto my shoulder and let him rest there for a little while.

After a few moments of silence, I say, “Play me something beautiful.”

He smiles, as I hoped he would, and complies.

The moment he begins, I feel it in every part of my body. It is sensual in the purest, deepest meaning of the word, in that it is deeply gratifying to the senses. The air seems to caress my skin as the notes disperse into it, dandelion seeds on the wind. The light coming in through the window seems to deepen in warmth and color, and I swear I can catch the faintest taste of caramel on my tongue, mirroring the amber richness of the music. And…as inexorable and as easy as the tide, I lean into William. We touch at the shoulder, along the length of our arms, at our hips. Our thighs.

A flush rises up his neck, and he shifts in place, clearing his throat. I note, however, that he does not move away. Instead, he asks if I would like him to make some room.

“No,” I say. “I like to be near you.”

It is another challenge, though not as angry as the one before. It is more of a…dare, this time.

I only have a moment of uncertainty as to whether or not he will oblige. He presses his shoulder a little more firmly into mine, and says, in a huskier tone of voice than before: “I like to be near you, as well.”

Oh.

It is insipid — it is downright insane — but the pleasure that strikes me at this merest hint of his reciprocating my feelings is as hot and visceral as lightning. Emboldened by his words, and in possession of a naturally bold disposition to begin with, I slide my hand over his thigh.

There is a momentary lapse in his playing, a flicker of a moment, before the melody resumes as flawlessly as before. I caress the firm muscle of his leg, moving my palm toward his knee and back up again, near his hip. His breath shudders, hitches, and once, I swear he moans, trapping the sound between his teeth.

“Aurelia,” he says. “We shouldn’t. We could be caught.”

My hand stills, but I do not remove it.

He keeps playing, though I can sense, the way one can sometimes tell when a storm is in the air, that it is a greater effort. The notes trail away, becoming plaintive, before they stop completely.

“Why did you stop?” I murmur.

He says something about my hand on his leg.

“Does…my forward nature bother you?” I ask. He certainly would not be the first to say yes.

But he shakes his head. “Your forward nature pleases me very much,” he says. His glance sidles into the infinitesimal space between us, and he peeks over at me, suddenly almost sheepish. “Does…my playing please you?”

I lay my head on his shoulder. “Oh, yes.”

From the corner of my eye, I can just see the tilt of his mouth as he smiles. “I am…so very pleased that I can please you,” he says.

There is something about the way he says those last two words, his voice wrapping around them, infusing them with warmth, that leads me to suspect he is not just speaking about playing the pianoforte.

The rest of our lesson passes in a dream, hazy and deliciously nebulous. He plays for me, snippets of pieces we both love, stanzas of things he has written in the past. His work is incredible, beautiful and supple, as warm and playful and vital as any living creature. Just as I think I could easily sit here for hours, the seams of our sides sewn together, my head on his shoulder, he says he must depart.

“You must?” I say, my manner leaving no uncertainty about how vehemently I disagree.

William smiles. “Yes,” he says. “If only so I may anticipate the pleasure of seeing you again. Parting is such sweet sorrow, as they say.”

“What need is there for sorrow for now? Stay longer,” I retort, and he chuckles.

He brings up a hand, the pad of his thumb caressing my jaw as his fingers delicately follow the curve of my neck, their grasp so gentle it would suggest that he holds a delicate bloom instead of a typical piece of anatomy.

“I will see you tomorrow,” he says simply. “I can assure you, madam, that you need not doubt if I will be thinking of you while we are apart. I strongly suspect Morpheus will bring you to me as I sleep tonight.”

He takes a step back and bows his head. He reaches for my hand, kisses it, and smiles at me before he goes.

As I climb into bed that night, I expect to lay awake, as hot and restless as if in the grip of a fever. But I sleep better than I have in a very long time, and though I cannot clearly recall my dreams when I wake, I remember the shining notes of a piano and a pair of blue eyes looking into mine.

The morning drags on so interminably that I think I am in the midst of some sort of Sisyphean punishment, wherein I am forced to shoulder an endless breakfast instead of a boulder. I try to read, to sew, to paint. I even consider taking a walk, but with my mind running amok in this way, I fear wandering too far and losing track of time. I am loath even to lose a second with William.

In the end, there is nothing else for it. I find myself in the music salon, trying to lose myself in the music. I do not fully realize I have succeeded until I hear a voice behind me say, “Lady Aurelia?”

My hands freeze, and I get to my feet, turning to face him. I cannot stop myself from smiling. “William,” I say. “You look…”

Divine.

“…quite splendid this morning.”

“No, no, it is you who looks quite splendid this morning.” He smiles, quirking an eyebrow slightly as he says, “Do my ears deceive me, or was that you playing pianoforte as I arrived? To my ear, it does not sound like you need instruction.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I can play well,” I say. “But I want to be better.”

After a pause, I add, in the spirit of honesty: “And I am finding it rather difficult to play with both hands at the same time.”

I expect an indulgent chuckle, but he just nods as if this makes perfect sense. When he tells me he himself took a long time to master the skill, I just shake my head. “I have heard you play,” I remind him. “You are surely being modest.”

“I am not being modest, I swear it,” he rejoins. “I struggled for quite some time before I could play it properly.”

In truth, I am relieved to hear it. Someone of his skill and talent struggling with the same issue as myself makes me feel better about it. Still, I cannot resist teasing him. “Are you certain, then, that you have the necessary skill to hone my own?” I say, arching an eyebrow and smiling up at him. “I would not have this lesson merely be the blind leading the blind.”

He quirks a brow in return, chuckling as mirroring smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “I am very much up to the task of guiding you through this delicate instrument,” he says, and I giggle.

“And are you an ardent instructor?” I say. “Passion is important when it comes to the success of any artistic endeavor.”

It is true, not just for music. Painting, sculpting, writing — all require a fervor and dedication which can only come from truly loving and appreciating the art form.

Sex, I have long believed, is much the same.

Something warm and incredibly soft flaring in his eyes, he says, “I am most eager to provide instruction, as you do seem like a very eager student.”

I know then, without even having to ask, that he is of the same mind when it comes to my opinions about art. About lovemaking.

He is still looking at me that way as he goes on. “May I see what you are capable of? If you would be so kind as to grace me with your skill, of course.”

I laugh, feeling pleasantly light under his scrutiny. “Only if you sit next to me.”

He bows his head in acquiescence. “As you wish. It would be a pleasure to share the bench with such a prodigious talent,” he says, tossing back the tails of his coat with a virtuoso flourish that makes me laugh again.

“There is no need to mock me, sir,” I say, with playful reproof, but he only smiles at me.

“Mock? I never mock.”

As if to underscore the point, he presses his shoulder against mine. It is difficult to concentrate for a moment, but I gather myself and begin to play one of my favorite pieces. Für Elise. A love song for a student adored by her teacher.

“May I join you?” he murmurs in my ear, and I am sure he understand why I chose this piece, in this moment.

I nod, and his hand joins mine on the keys as the passage shifts to one which sounds richer with two hands shaping the music. I press more closely against him, barely suppressing the urge to climb into his lap. I feel him take in a deep breath.

“Your warmth is…intoxicating,” he says. “But — Stanton, or your father…what if they discover us?”

“And if they do?” I say. “We are doing nothing wrong. In any case, they will not. Stanton is busy running this household, and I am not even sure where my father is. He could be at an art gallery, or holed up in his study with a copy of Cicero, for all I know.”

If he detects a strain in my tone, he does not comment on it. Instead, he just presses his shoulder more firmly against mine and says, “Okay, if you are confident they won’t, then who am I to quarrel?”

In response, I slip my palm over his thigh again, stroking, squeezing. I feel the muscle flex as he moves closer to me, and when he moans, softly, it fills me up like the sweetest nectar.

“I…I love your hand on my thigh,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet. If I could, I would wrap myself up in it and descend into the depths of its timbre. “Keep it there. May I place mine upon yours?”

My only answer is to squeeze his leg, to slide my palm toward his inner thigh. To move it up, tantalizingly, teasingly, stopping just short of where it could do the most good. My free hand continues to caress the keys, moving in a parallel dance to the hand on his thigh. His hand finds my leg, the heat of his broad palm soaking through the delicate material of my dress.

I reach down with my free hand and tug up my skirt, his hand lifting for a moment to allow it to pass. My leg is only exposed to just above the knee, but I hear his breath hitch as if I have shown him the gates of Heaven itself.

His palm lands again. His fingers tighten, and I moan softly as his thumb moves in small circles against my skin.

“It’s heavenly to hear your pleasure,” he says, and I feel an ache within me deeper than any I have experienced before. It is not just that he appreciates my pleasure, or is proud of his own skill in eliciting it. It seems that he craves it, just as much, if not more so, than his own.

Somehow, despite feeling as though I am both burning and floating away, I manage to keep playing. And, although I can feel him trembling against me, so does he.

“You play so beautifully,” he sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment. “I can feel it with my whole being.”

He looks as though he is enraptured, caressed fully by bliss, and all I can think is that I would give anything for him to look like this when he is inside me.

I cannot stop myself. I would not, even if I could somehow see a moment ahead and hear my future self speak these words. He must know. To hold back this truth — for it is a truth, as undeniable as the very vastness of the universe — would be intolerable, like sinking into the depths of the sea and depriving myself of air.

I do not turn my head as I speak, but I look at him, my eyes devouring his face. “I want you.”

A fire blazes up in my soul when he says, “I want you, too.”

I forego playing the pianoforte for the far more invigorating instrument of his leg, exploring each curve and firm expanse of lean muscle. He smiles, his cheeks appearing rather bright. “I have never encountered a bolder hand than yours, Aurelia.”

I smile. “I could be bolder,” I say. “My hand might seem tame in comparison to my — ”

The door behind us opens, fortunately with enough fanfare in its heavy brass knob and old hinges that we have a moment to spare. We shift away from each other, though William is less graceful than I, muttering a stricken, “Oh, fuck!” as if my father has shoved him into the Thames rather than merely appearing in the room.

I am vaguely aware of Father speaking, of William saying, yes, I am a quick study and a natural musician. It is impossible, even with our current company, to think of anything else but the warmth of his leg under my palm. I can only imagine what the rest of him would feel like, his body layering mine like sea foam on the water.

When he rushes off this afternoon, still adorably flustered, I remain incapable of banishing the image from my mind, and equally unable to quench my longing for such a moment.

The next day, I do decide to take a walk, risking being late for our upcoming lesson. I cannot sit still for thinking of William, my desire for him acting like a spur in a horse’s side, driving me forward. And I hope we will, as lovers tend to do in the stories, meet by happenstance.

I am so consumed by this idle little daydream that it takes me a moment to realize it has come true. As I turn back toward home, nearly an hour after setting out, I see him. He is coming straight toward me.

“Lady Aurelia,” he says, and I wish he could stop calling me that. I so much prefer it when he calls me by my given name alone. “What brings you out on this fine day?”

“You,” I say simply.

“Me?”

Instead of explaining myself, I take his hand and lead him into our back garden, which sprawls from the street up to the rear yard. We march along gravel paths until I find a hedge tall and thick enough to conceal us both from view of the house, and I tug him behind it, ignoring his puzzlement and his commentary about the size of our home.

His hand still in mind, I tell him, “I cannot stop thinking about you.”

As yesterday, it would be intolerable not to say this, not to be truthful. I have always been this way, but it is more true than ever, now, with him. I would sooner never speak again than conceal myself and my thoughts from him. I pull him closer to me, settling his hand on my waist. He lets out a soft, almost inaudible, Oh, but he does not move away.

To my delight and despair, he says, “I can’t stop thinking about you, either, but we can’t.”

I decide I have had enough of words, which don’t seem to be working, anyway. I grab the front of his jacket in both hands for leverage, leaning up to kiss him.

Oh, indeed.

His lips are as soft and full as I imagined them to be, warm, hungry. He kisses me like he has just learned he is being sent off to war, as if my mouth may be the last he ever tastes. If that be so, I would be the most delectable feast, the memory of which would sustain him for days. And I would kiss him him for precisely that long — days — except he is already pulling away.

“But,” he says breathlessly, “surely someone could discover us here?”

When I shrug, not at all bothered by this thought, he says, with a curl to his lip and a warm lilt to his voice, “Oh, I see. You enjoy the thrill of discovery.”

Well — I have not thought of it before, to be frank. But I certainly don’t care if we are discovered. I have never cared what others think of me, being more concerned with how I often seem to be the only one who chafes at the constrains of our society. For women, especially. How can it not drive everyone else mad?

Though I have no doubt William would not only be happy to discuss these points with me, but be entirely on my side, I have more pressing matters to consider. Chiefly, how to get him to press against me. I reach up and draw his face down to mine, kissing him again.

He allows me a few kisses more before he voices his concerns about my reputation. I could scream, except that I know he genuinely is worried. “I do not care,” I say. “Everyone already thinks me odd. And my father, to boot. We are charmingly eccentric, as they like to call us.”

It is, actually, the only other thing my father and I have in common.

His next point perturbs me more. “What happens to me if somebody sees us? Am I to be tossed aside?”

“No,” I say at once. I am rather hurt that he would think me so callous, or so ineffectual that I could not stop my father from abusing him in this way, especially considering I’m just as much a player in this act as he is. If not more so. “I would never let that happen.”

This seems, at last, to be enough for him. He kisses me, gentle, soft kisses, falling on my lips over and over like the finest spring rain. They are tender rather than amorous, but they only serve to fuel my need for him. I cannot bear it anymore. I pull away and take his hand again, leading him, almost at a run, to the door leading into the rear hall.

He laughs, like a boy engaged in a harmless game. “Where are you taking me?”

I lead him inside, ducking into a side hallway, just for a moment, just for another kiss or two. Against my lips, he mutters, “My appetite for you knows no bounds.”

God help me.

At once, I know where we should go. It is the only rightful place. He laughs as I lead him to the door, saying I am naughty, that we will get caught here.

“I don’t care,” I say, and to my intense relief, he does not care either.

He steers me into the light pouring from the window, staring at me as if he would paint me — or no, as if he would memorialize me in song, and he needs to see me in this light so that I may be better illuminated in his mind’s eye. So that I may then be transformed from my earthly body into the angelic, airy form of music.

“Oh, God, you are so beautiful,” he says, and he bends his head to kiss my neck. When he speaks again, I feel his words sinking beneath my skin, rushing through me alongside my blood. “From the first moment I lay eyes on you, I was smitten.”

I moan softly in response. It is the only way I can express how deeply I feel the same, a wordless, pure answer. He compares the sound to a symphony, and I cannot keep from moaning again, even as he asks for more.

“May I lay my hands on you?” he says, and I could weep for how deeply I adore him. Who else but he would even bother to ask, in such a heated moment? Any other man on earth, I am sure, would simply do so. He wants to be sure that I am willing, offering instead of being taken.

He waits until I say, “Yes.”

His hands grip my waist, as if confirming that I am real and in his arms, before they move over my hips, my back, my shoulders, into my hair. “I’ve been imagining touching the rest of you,” he sighs. “You feel incredible.”

He asks me for guidance — Where else? — and I do not hesitate to take one of his hands and lay it against the curve of my breast where it peeks over over my collar. He groans like a man who, wandering in the desert, has been given the life-affirming gift of water. He bends his head and kisses the skin visible between his splayed fingers.

“I could feast on you forever,” he says, and I give a weak laugh. Again our thoughts seem to run in tandem together, as if we were not two beings, but one.

“Your lips,” he goes on, kissing me again. “Your tongue…I just want to devour you.”

He says he wanted me as soon as his saw me, further proof that Zeus failed to part us when he split humanity in two. God knows I have ached for him since the first moment I lay eyes on him. He laughs against my lips as I kiss him once more, and I pull him toward the piano bench, tugging him down with me. He groans softly, and I think he will relent — I hope he will relent — right here, before he pulls back again.

“Wait, wait, wait — ”

I am about to make it unequivocally clear that I do not want to wait, and then he frames my face between his hands. “You naughty girl,” he says fondly. “We have all the time in the world to devour each other. Not like this. Not here. I would not waste a single moment by giving in to passion so hastily.”

He stares at me so intently that I think I must dissolve beneath his gaze. “I want to be more certain we will not be interrupted,” he says. “All the ways I would like to please you take the dedication and time which comes only with greater privacy.”

He kisses me again. “Come,” he murmur, and when I grin, he raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, unable to stop himself from smiling. “I mean, let us play. It will distract us.”

The music is both a balm and a branding iron. It soothes me, carries me away, and yet as William sits on the bench next to me, playing alongside me — playing with me — the fire which began as gently smoldering embers upon first seeing him threatens to become an inferno.

Before he leaves, he snatches a kiss, with the sort of playful grin you might see on the face of a child snatching a treat from the kitchens. I linger in the doorway to watch him go. He turns back, once, and even at this distance, I know he is smiling at me.

Dinner passes in a haze, and I sit with my father in the drawing room for a while. We do not really speak to each other except for pleasantries, as I read and he looks over household accounts. When it is time to retire, I lean over and kiss his cheek.

“Goodnight,” I say.

He pats my cheek idly as I pull away. “Goodnight,” he says.

I know, even as I walk toward my room, that I am not in the right mood for sleep. I would just lay there and toss restlessly for hours, if not all night, working myself up until I might well break. I have a vague hope that perhaps a hot bath will help, and so I make my way into the bathroom, drawing it myself instead of summoning a maid. I find that I cannot bear another presence right now — save one, and he is not here tonight.

I slip out of my dress and underthings, letting down my hair. The hot water does indeed feel heavenly, and I feel myself relaxing, tilting my head back against the edge of the tub. As my mind softens and unspools, my thoughts inevitably turn back to William, to our encounter this afternoon.

I’ve been imagining touching the rest of you.

Is his imagination as vivid as mine? It must be, I think, since he is an artist…still…

Would he, as I am now, imagine the silky, all-encompassing heat of the water, the little ripples caressing my skin, as a lover’s touch? The warmth is turning my muscles to butter, a simple pleasure which brings to mind a richer one — this afternoon, William’s hands exploring my body, his lips caressing the curves of my breasts, his tongue delving between them.

“William,” I whisper, my eyes drifting closed, and suddenly, it’s as though he is there with me.

In my mind’s eye, I see myself leaning back against his chest, his arms sliding beneath the water to encircle my waist. My breath hitches as I imagine his hand — those talented fingers — spreading over my stomach, lingering there for a moment before continuing downward. I have to make do with my own hand for now, but this certainly does not stop me from pretending.

“Oh—”

I think of his breath in my ear, shaky, hot and damp against my neck, as his envisaged ministrations pick up speed. I am sure he would not be able to keep still, as I cannot, and I barely manage to bite back a moan as I think of his hips grinding against me, his free hand pinning me to his lap.

“I want you,” I breathe. “Oh, William…”

The scene shifts, my imagining melting, dissolving, until we are no longer in the bath, but in my bed. He is inside me, has my hands pinned above my head, as he drives into me. Somehow, in this fevered dream, there is no one to hear us, no reason to suppress ourselves. Though in reality I bite my lip to keep myself from crying out, I imagine myself moaning, the way he likes, fortissimo, over and over again.

And William —

There is moonlight in my mind, spilling over us, lining his beautiful face with silver. His eyebrows are drawn together, his eyes — like mine are now — are tightly shut, rhythmic moans acting as a duet to the sound of his hips meeting mine. I know I am not going to last much longer, either in this reverie or in truth.

His eyes fly open just as my head falls back. He releases my hands to tilt my face back to his. “I want to see you,” he breathes. “Look at me, my darling.”

Then —

Sforzando.

Corporeality crashes down around me, into me, as my peak obliterates the spiderweb of fantasy. I have just enough awareness of myself now to bite down in my free hand, shifting to my knees, water sloshing onto the floor, as I ride out waves of pleasure. I nearly overbalance but manage to right myself, gripping the sides of the tub with both hands. My breath is caged in my chest, struggling to make its way out, as my heart hammers hard.

I need a few moments to regain enough mastery over my body to get out of the tub, towel myself off and drain the water. Wrapped in a towel, I slip into my room, and, deciding to forego a nightgown, slip naked into bed and slid against the fine silk sheets, drawing the coverlet over myself.

Between the warmth of the water lingering on my skin, and the release I just attained, I melt into cradling arms of the feather mattress. Even as I drift into sleep, before I’m fully under, I know who will be there waiting for me. I can already hear the music as I close my eyes.

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