You fidgeted in your seat as your Economics professor droned on and on, considering the fact that you had a classic love/hate relationship with Fridays. This was partly due to the deathly boring class you now suffered through, but also could be attributed to your fast approaching piano lesson. You dearly loved learning how to coax beautiful music from the ivory keys, but your frustration levels had been off the charts since you started. And it was all due to Mister Hiddleston.
You had hurried to your first day of lessons, nearly giddy with excitement. You'd wanted to learn to play ever since you were a small child and now you finally had your chance. As you took the ancient elevator to the top floor of the music department, you daydreamed about your teacher, imagining him some wizened old man in a cardigan. He would be demanding, but not too severe, and he would push your limits and mold you into a great performer. In your mind, you saw yourself playing some great concert hall, and as the final note echoed into nothing, the audience would erupt into applause, and your teacher would rise from his front row seat and throw a bouquet of roses at your feet. You would meet his eyes, and he would shine a proud smile as he gave you a satisfied nod, acknowledging a job well done.
Exiting the elevator, you nearly ran to the room at the end of the hall and burst through the door, overflowing with exuberance. "Hello! I'm here," you had sung out, before falling completely silent as the tall, slim man that stood near the piano turned to face you. You were rendered speechless as he smiled widely. This was not the aged and stooped teacher you had envisioned. This was a lean, gorgeous man, with sparkling eyes, perfect dark blonde curls, and a beautifully tailored black suit. And he seemed rather pleased to see you.
"Yes, you certainly are," he had laughed. "And what an entrance! It's nice to have an eager student for a change!" Placing the sheet music he had been holding atop the piano, he strode toward you, drawing your attention to his incredibly long legs. "I am Mr. Hiddleston, but feel free to call me Tom, if you wish. I don't mind a bit." Stopping in front of you, he had enveloped your own slim hands in his surprisingly large ones and raising them for inspection. You had tilted your head back and watched his face, emotions flickering across rapidly as he spread and stroked your fingers. "Your reach is a little small," he murmured, almost to himself, "but we can improve upon that with the proper conditioning. Squeeze my hands, please?" You did as directed, and he flashed that brilliant smile again. "Good finger strength! Oh, yes. I will be able to work wonders with you, I think."
You had smiled in return, his joy infectious, and resolutely tried to ignore the immediate attraction you had felt from first sight. Tom had dropped your hands then and ushered you to the piano bench, beginning his introductory speech as you seated yourself.
That had been six weeks ago, and every time you met, the lust you felt for this perfect man just seemed to grow. It was maddening, really. You had wanted nothing more than to learn to play, and yet all you seemed capable of memorizing was the image of Tom. The way his hands splayed across the keys, or how the waistcoats he seemed to favor worked to emphasis his lean frame. You had had to excuse yourself momentarily during week three as he demonstrated the proper usage of the foot pedals; the image of his thighs flexing rhythmically had nearly been your undoing. Upon your return to the music room, face still mildly flushed, you had tried to focus on the lesson, on anything other than him, but it had been pointless. And you couldn't help but notice the appraising glances Tom kept sending your way, making you worry that he knew exactly what you were thinking.
You glanced at the clock, seeing that there were still five minutes remaining in the lecture. Five minutes before you had to gather your things and face another 90 minutes alone with the object of your frustration. You idly wondered what suit he would be wearing that day, hoping it was the black one again, as that was your favourite. It really emphasized what a wonderful build he had. "Stop, stop, stop," you muttered to yourself. "I'm not even there yet, and already you're torturing me. Thanks, brain!" The last few minutes of class were consumed with trying to compose yourself, all to no avail, and upon your dismissal, you slowly stood up, collected your bag and headed toward your doom.
