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Simon froze where he stood in the entry hall, the sound of music reaching his ears. It was that song, that damned song. He had heard her playing it over and over again, and while he was certainly no trained musician, he knew that this song was one of her own creation.
She always seemed to play it most often while he was away from their home for some time - he had yet to be gone overnight, but when he went down to the village, or out riding, or hunting... any time he was not on the grounds, he would return to her playing that song once more.
And then, he would sweep up the stairs, scoop up his pretty little wife, and carry her off to the nearest surface upon which he might have her - which was not the pianoforte, because he treasured his life, and would not dare to perform any act upon the very instrument that was now calling to him.
He wanted to call it their song, although he doubted he had that right. Why would she not play it for him, when she was nearest to him? Why would she not put on a performance for him? While he had no interest in sitting around listening to girls play, he had every interest in watching his wife pursue one of her passions, enjoying herself at something she excelled at.
He loved everything his wife did, everything that placed a smile on her face, made her feel proud, gave her a sense of joy. He would gladly sit there and listen to her play this song, whatever it was.
Rather than calling out to her, or even stomping up the stairs so that she might hear his approach, Simon went quietly, creeping up the stairs and down the hall, until eventually, he was peaking into what they had both dubbed the music room. He watched as she played, her fingers moving across the keys, her eyes half closed-
“What is that you are playing?” he asked, interrupting her.
The music stopped immediately at the sound of his voice, and then his wife was smiling at him, immediately rising and coming towards him.
“You’re home,” she said, and he had half a mind to scoop her up as she approached, but he wanted to know more about this song that she kept playing.
“The song, Daphne,” he says, smiling at her as she walks over. “I have heard you play it time and again. What is it?”
There was a polite smile on her lips, but as she turned to look at the pianoforte, he could see what looked to be a bit of fear, perhaps nervousness? What was it his wife could be nervous about?
“It is... one of my own creation. I was working on it during my season, and finished it just before our wedding,” she said, a private blush flooding her cheeks as she did so.
Approaching her, he let his fingers graze her jaw, turning her face to look up at him. He bent down, pressing his lips softly to hers, and then withdrew, a smile clear on his face, even with his eyes.
“Will you play it for me?” he requested.
She gave a nod and seemed to swallow her fears, then returned to the pianoforte. He considered sitting in one of the chairs or on the chaise, but instead, he followed her, standing just behind her as she began to play. She looked back over her shoulder towards him, and then continued on, her fingers beginning to move.
It was magic, to watch her hands, hands that he well and truly loved, start to play. He could watch her play for hours, could watch the way her head shifted and swayed with the music. He longed to touch her, to press his lips to her throat, to have her right here...
Still, he did not move, waiting until her hands pressed in the final cord, and then-
“It is our song,” he murmured against her throat, and his hands moved down, one grasping at her breast, another going to between her legs, even with the layers of fabric that kept him from touching her most intimate parts. “You wrote a song for us.”
“It is not-” she gasped as his hands moved together, squeezing, trying to pull her dress both down and up so that he might reach the creamy skin underneath. “I did not write it for you-”
“You play it every time I am away,” he insisted against her throat. “It calls to me, each time I return. I long for you before I have even seen you. I need to be within you as soon as I am in the entry hall. Everyone knows that you are calling to me with your music, like a siren. I must have you, my lady, must have you right here-”
“Oh Simon,” she gasps, and in seconds, he is flat on his back, his lady wife tugging up her skirts as she straddles him, and he has his arms full of Duchess and fabric, his temptress that burns for him and him alone.
“Our song,” he insists as she works at his breeches.
“We shall discuss this-” She sinks onto him, stealing all breath from both their lungs, and all conversation is forgotten, as in that moment, all they desire is one another. Arguments can be fought later.