A/N: This one's been sitting my Doc Manager for some time now. Typical lesson phanfic. Not much plot, but might unravel into a bit of a short story fic for me to relieve me of my burning desire to write smut. Anyways... enjoy.

She watched his fingers glide over his instrument's fingerboard, his skin wrapped around his lengthy bones, muscle tensing as his hand rocked with vibrato. She was supposed to be following along in her music, but he was much more interesting to watch. His eyes closed, mouth slightly agape, body moving with the music while his feet kept their position flat on the floor. She drew her bottom lip in as he hit the highest note in the piece, his pinky finger stretching out and finding the correct spot on the fingerboard, the note perfectly in tune. She wished she could sound just as wonderful, or at the least mimic the sounds he created, produce a note that was in tune. Instead, everything she played was off. Flat. She had practiced. Time and time again she had practiced with a tuner and metronome. His voice was in her head, correcting her bow hold, her wrist, her posture. Still, she could not do it. She could never be good.

Christine missed the sound of her father's violin, the old folk tunes he would play her to sleep with when she was a child, the classical compositions he held so dear to his heart. She just wanted his music again. She never wanted his violin to go cold, to rest unplayed, so she asked Mamma Valerius if she could pick up some lessons. She felt silly doing so. As an adult, she was too old to ever be good enough to be a professional violinist, but she didn't care. She just wanted to learn, to understand the things her father understood, appreciate music in a new form.

Her teacher, Erik, was something of another world. Tall and alluring in spite of the mask. His sweet voice and enchanting playing made up for everything about him that made her feel somewhat discomforted. He never had to look at the music to play it. His fingers knew exactly where they needed to be. The way he played his violin was like he was making love to a partner. Like he had studied every inch of it, found what parts elicited the most delicious sounds.

They'd only had five lessons together. Five lessons, five hours alone in the drawing room of her and Mamma Valerius' home. She had made progress the first three, but these last two she had struggled to maintain focus. Her mind and eyes drifted to him as he played, demonstrating what each song should sound like. She tried blocking out the thoughts, but they grew louder with every crescendo of his instrument. Those hands and the way they moved, the way they made love to his instrument - she imagined them gliding over her body the same way, studying every inch of her and finding what parts of her elicited the most delicious sounds. His mask, she imagined the cool plastic tucking itself in the valley of her breasts, his thin lips kissing her stomach and singing into her skin. His tall, lithe body between her legs, bucking to and fro, sending her over the edge. Usually she only found those thoughts at night in the darkness of her room where she could take care of them within a few minutes, but now they followed her to her lessons, tapping her shoulder and whispering into her ear.

Erik finished the etude, his bow dropping before his eyes opened to find hers staring right back, her lips plump and parted slightly in a sort of breathlessness.

"Were you watching your music?" he asked, his voice just as beautiful as his playing. Christine had done this before in their previous lesson, his eyes opening to find her staring at him. He did not like it. He was used to being stared at, but he did not want lessons to become about him. They were supposed to be about the student, their playing and their abilities. Not his face.

Christine tensed, her shoulders drawing forward as she bit her lip. No. No, she was not watching her music. Erik exhaled a deep puff of air so hard that she could've sworn she felt it on her hands which were gripping tightly onto her father's violin and bow. He removed his violin from underneath his chin and turned towards his case which sat open in a nearby chair.

"I suggest you find another teacher," he spoke decisively, walking to put up his instrument.

"No!" Christine yelled urgently, afraid to lose her teacher.

Erik stopped at the high-pitched yelp and craned his neck to look at her, his eyes just as piercing as her voice. "I cannot continue with these lessons if you are not to show even a sliver of interest in anything other than my face."

Christine appeared to stumble for a second, her mind jumbling with the near-loss of her teacher and the surprise that he'd concluded her reason for staring was his face. "It's not that," she said, realizing quickly that maybe it would've been better to say that it was.

Erik turned back to her, his head cocking with curiosity. His eyes roamed over her for a brief second in an attempt to figure it out himself. "What then, if not my face?"

Christine swallowed. How could she tell him that it was his hands? Those beautiful, graceful hands which she longed for so. How could she tell him without revealing to him the extent of what she truly desired? She would have to make up something else. Yes, something. Anything else.

Erik sighed in irritation. "It is my face," he muttered under his breath, speaking aloud but mostly to himself. This cursed face! The one thing that keeps him from having a normal life. The one thing that keeps him from being a successful entrepreneur. And now here he was again, another student incapable of completing the very simple task of listening and watching their music.

"No, it's not!" Christine insisted, quick to dissuade him. "It's not," her voice softened.

"What then?!" he demanded. He wanted so badly for it not to be his face. For once. Just once.

"I," she began, her chest rising and falling quickly, her brows furrowing and her lips pursing. Her eyes could not look at him. He was growing restless of this game. He wished she would just say it, say that it was his face that distracted her so, get it over with!

Christine closed her eyes, her palms sweating heavily on the wood of her instrument's neck and her bow's frog. She did not want him to leave, but at the same time she found her mind was incapable of coming up with a quick lie to lay his concerns to rest. She lowered her voice even more, the words emitted barely that of a whisper. "I want you to touch me."

Something pulsed throughout his body and everything seemed to still except his eyes which widened and his hands which clenched harder onto his violin and bow. A few moments passed before he spoke, an eternity to her. "You wish for me to touch you?" His voice was also merely a whisper, so soft in contrast to what it usually sounded like when it surrounded her at its usual volume.

She managed to open her eyes, his wide and blank with surprise. She imagined, beneath the mask, his brows were furrowed deeply like hers, a knot forming between them. "Yes," she answered breathlessly.

His mouth twitched for a moment, his chest rising as he drew in a deep breath of air. "But," he said, eyes flicking up and down for a moment. He swallowed, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I don't know how."

Christine stood still for a moment. His answer was not one of disgust. He did not speak against the act except for that he did not know how to touch her, how to pleasure her in the way she desired him to. She did not understand. How could he - this man who exerted so much sexuality through his voice and instrument and walk - not know a single thing about how to pleasure a woman?

She swallowed. "I could show you," she said, her thighs tightening with her own bought of courage.

Erik shook his head. "I don't know… I don't think I could…"

He was afraid, she realized. Afraid he could not please her. But she saw his hands. She watched how they grazed his instrument at their lessons. She saw them when she closed her eyes at night, between her legs, milking out every little pleasurable mewl from her. She knew the power they held within them. She, more than he, knew just what they were capable of.

"Yes you can," she assured him. Her fingers ran over her instrument for a second as she drew in her lower lip, her eyes flicking to his fingers which held his instrument so carefully. "Come," she said, beckoning him to follow her back to her bedroom.

Erik followed, instrument still in hand, eyes fixed on the back of her head, mind wondering what her hair smelled like, what her flesh tasted like. He'd allowed his mind to wonder these things once at their first lesson as Mamma Valerius led him into the drawing room where this beautiful girl sat pulling her father's old violin from his case. He allowed the thought once and then kicked it to the side. He would not fall victim to his own desires to feel her and hold her and whisper caring words into her ear. Mamma Valerius had informed him over the phone that she'd been a very sensitive girl lately, her father having just past recently. He wished to comfort her and let her know that everything would be fine, but he knew he could not. It was his job to teach her her instrument, not to console her on the loss of who it had once belonged to.

Christine set her violin and bow down in the chair of her room. Erik did so as well, fixing hers with his so that they laid flat side-by-side, no possibility of falling over and getting damaged. Christine walked back to her door, realizing it had not been shut and locked properly. As she turned, she found Erik looking around her room, his eyes settling on the framed photographs atop her dresser. Her, her mother, and her father all together smiling and bundled in winter clothes.

"Were you always so cute?" he asked, not noticing much of a change in her face except maybe that her cheeks had lost much of their baby fat.

He felt her hand on his now and looked up, facing her. Her smile was gentle, sad. She turned, pulling him with her to bed. They flopped down, their legs hanging over the edge, bent at the knee. He looked towards her, seeing her eyes faced towards the ceiling. He looked up as well to find a quote painted into the otherwise bareness of the ceiling.

"Stars can't shine without darkness," he read aloud.

Christine's hand crawled towards his, finding his palm facing downward. She slid her hand underneath his, fingers curling to grasp his hand closer to hers. He followed, their palms flush.

"Are you sure you want me to touch you?" he whispered, afraid Mamma Valerius might overhear.

Christine turned and so did he, their eyes boring into each others. "Yes," she breathed, not a hint of a lie within her single-worded reply.

"Are you…" he swallowed, "Are you going to show me how?"

Christine nodded, turning her body in the direction of her face. She pulled their locked hands up, opening her hand to press his palm to the mound of flesh which was her right breast. His fingers curled there slightly, enveloping the curve. Her fingers pressed down over his, forcing him to squeeze. He could feel the plush fabric of her bra beneath his fingertips and he looked to her for approval, her mouth dropping in a silent whimper as he kneaded her.

She shoved his hand away and for a moment he thought she'd changed her mind, but she sat up, pulling her tank top over her head and tossing it to the side, her stomach and back bare to him, the lilac lace of her bra visible and lovely to his eyes. She laid back down, taking his hand once more and moving his fingers to gently play with her bra strap. She released his hand and allowed it to roam, his fingers skating over the curve of her shoulder, then tugging at her bra strap once more, pulling it down and watching as one of her pointed nipples made an appearance. It was small, a dusty rose color, ripe for plucking. He paused his movement, swallowing back his own desires, wanting her to show him the way.

She moved the shoulder of the breast forward so that it was closer to him, a silent demand.

Erik's eyes flicked to hers, finding her in waiting. He moved forward, cupping the form of her breast in his hand and taking its nipple into his mouth. He did as she asked, sucking gently, his tongue flicking over its peak. She elicited the most wonderful sound, sending shock waves of desire and encouragement throughout him. He continued, his thumb pressing further into her breast, stroking it lovingly. She allowed him to continue until he pulled away, a string of his saliva drooping as he did so. He moved back quickly, sucking her breast clean from the possibility of another string all while keeping her breast moist and warm. She looked to him, wondering why he stopped.

"Show me more," he begged, eyes full of enthusiasm for learning, hungry to find out more about the pleasures of a woman.

Christine stood, unbuttoning her pants, and pulled them down over her legs, tossing them to the side with her tank top. She pulled her bra overhead as well, taking some of what remained of him on her with it.

She sat back on the bed, thighs clenched together. She still couldn't believe what she was doing. All her little fantasies of him could come true. Although, she admitted to herself, she hadn't quite imagined it this way.

She looked to him waiting for command. "Come here," she called and watched as he joined her side, their bodies parallel.

She bent her legs up, pulling her moistened thighs apart, and reaching over to guide his hand with hers. His fingers found her panties soaked and warm. He tensed, knowing he was touching the most intimate part of a woman, only a thin piece of fabric standing between him being flesh on flesh with her. Her fingers curled, making his apply light pressure and move in circular motions until he got the hang of exactly what she liked and she let go, allowing him to pleasure her on his own. Her hips rolled with his motions, mouth watering at the intimacy of his touch.

Christine looked over to see that his eyes were focused on his hand connected with her body, his mouth slightly agape just as it had been when he was playing his violin. Then her eyes moved downward, a crease in his pants indicating that he too was suffering. But her suffering was being released with every stroke of his hand. No release was there for him. In all of her fantasies she had not thought about him, she realized. His needs were always second to hers. Her hand slowly found its way to his pants, palming the length of him. Erik stiffened, his motion stopping as his eyes flashed to hers.

"I can… help you," she said, her cheeks a strawberry red.

"Christine, you don't…" He watched the light die in her eyes for a moment, a feeling of rejection rushing through her. "If you don't want to…"

"I do," she said urgently. "I want to touch you as you touch me."

Erik felt something tighten within him, a burning need for her. He sat up, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down, kicking his shoes off with them. Christine's hand dipped beneath his briefs, pulling him out from his encasement. He gasped as her hand pulled the silk of his skin up, a small pearl of fluid seeping from his tip. He set his hand over hers, demonstrating just the right amount of pressure before returning his hand to her sex, slipping it beneath the fabric of her panties. She gasped at the coolness of his touch warming with the touch of her hot flesh.

They worked together, no longer needing to watch their motions, their hands already familiar with the path they needed to take in order to give pleasure to one another. Their eyes bore deep into each other's, mouths agape as they breathed their pleasure, filtering their moans out into silent cries.

Christine bucked against Erik's hand, feeling close to the edge. "Faster," she begged. Erik shoved her hand away from his member, positioning his body so that he could touch her more easily, taking the nipple that had not been pleasured earlier into his mouth. She cried softly, her hands digging into the sheets beneath her, toes curling as she rocked with his hand, losing herself and collapsing inwards. He stopped his motions as she came down, freeing himself and letting loose her breast with a small plop, his tongue darting out quickly to clean some of his mess. He laid beside her, watching her fall back down to earth, her breaths softening as she closed her eyes and a small smile curled her lips.

Erik waited a short while before rolling off the bed and collecting his clothes. She had not finished him, but seeing her little explosion before his eyes was enough to satisfy his needs for the day. Christine had drifted off for a short while, waking to the sound of his instrument's wood gently clashing with hers as he tried to quietly pick his violin up and leave without disturbing her.

To his disfavor, she sat up, alarmed that he was leaving her without so much as a word. "Shh," he whispered before she could even speak. "I'll see you next Thursday, alright?"

"You didn't finish," she spoke in realization, noting his softening member still somewhat solid in his pants.

"Next time." He moved towards the door. "Work on that etude, alright? I want to hear it." He left with a small smile, shutting her door behind him.