She's almost panting, the barest edge of a whimper in her voice, which gives him an unexpected surge of confidence. It's an unusual fantasy, he knows, but the fact that she responds to it with exactly the enthusiasm he's fantasized about is a sort of small, heated victory.

"Then I'll write it for you," he whispers. His hand starts to trail down, down from her breast, tracing over her ribcage and into the soft hollow of her hip. "Something slow to start, I think. A rising theme. Legato, at first, though not strictly in tempo, to allow for more expressive interpretation."