Is There Someone Like You?
Lydia couldn't escape it. The way Sharon lingered in her thoughts, curling around her mind like smoke, filling every space that should have been occupied by music, precision, control. It wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was hunger, gnawing at her, leaving her restless, dissatisfied, insatiable. She felt it in the quiet moments, when the rehearsals were over, when the stage lights dimmed, when she should have been dissecting scores or refining phrasing. Instead, her mind wandered—to the sharp, knowing glint in Sharon’s eyes, to the effortless grace with which she moved, to the way her fingers pressed into the strings of her violin with such control, such delicate authority. It was infuriating how much space she took up in Lydia’s head, how she had rooted herself in the darkest corners of her desires and refused to leave.
Lydia was a woman of discipline, of absolute, unwavering focus. She had spent years perfecting the art of self-mastery, of knowing exactly what to indulge in and what to restrain. But Sharon was testing that mastery, pulling at the seams of her control with a mere glance, a half-smile, a lingering pause between words. And it wasn’t just desire—no, that would have been easy. It was something deeper, something more dangerous. An obsession that latched onto her and refused to let go. She found herself noticing the way Sharon’s lips pursed in concentration, how she toyed with the ends of her bow when she was thinking, how her breath hitched just slightly when she played something particularly moving. Lydia felt like a woman possessed, every thought tracing back to her, every impulse tinged with an edge of longing. At night, it was unbearable. She would lie awake, her body tense with frustration, her mind replaying every interaction with Sharon, every smirk, every glance. The worst part was knowing—knowing that she was losing control. That Sharon had become something more than a passing fixation. That she had somehow, without Lydia’s permission, embedded herself under her skin, a slow-burning fever that refused to break.
She tried to chase it away with other women—young, eager, nameless bodies that melted against her, hands grasping, lips parting, legs spreading. It should have been enough. It had always been enough before.
But it wasn't.
Even in the heat of it, in the breathless, tangled sheets of unfamiliar beds, Lydia could feel the weight of Sharon pressing against her thoughts, a ghost she couldn't banish. She would press her mouth against the soft skin of another's throat, inhale the scent of unfamiliar perfume, and still, still, it was Sharon's voice she heard in her mind. That dry, teasing lilt. That insufferable smirk. The way her fingers gripped the bow with such precision, restrained elegance. It wasn't about pleasure. It was about control, about conquest. And Sharon was the one thing she couldn't conquer.
One night, after a performance, Lydia found herself in a dimly lit bar, whiskey burning down her throat as she watched a girl across the room—blonde, barely out of university, her eyes wide and full of something Lydia no longer believed in. Hope. She approached her, the way a predator might approach prey, soft words, a hand grazing her arm, the promise of something exciting whispered against her ear. The girl melted so easily, followed her back without hesitation.
In the darkness of her apartment, Lydia pushed her down onto the mattress, trailing her hands up smooth, young skin, her mouth finding every place that made the girl shudder. She wanted it to be exhilarating. She wanted it to make her forget. But she found herself searching. For something in the girl's expression, some flicker of sharpness, some sign of defiance. She needed resistance. She needed something to break. But this girl only gave, pliant and willing. And Lydia? Lydia needed something she couldn't have. She closed her eyes, biting down on the girl's shoulders harder than she should have, drinking in the gasp it earned. The girl's nails raked against her back, her breath hitching in pleasure, but it wasn’t enough. Her body responded, yes, but there was no fire, no defiance, no fight. Just softness, compliance, surrender. And Lydia didn’t want surrender. She wanted to take. She wanted the struggle, the tension, the push and pull. She wanted the sharp, wicked glint in Sharon’s eyes, the way her mouth curled when she was being insufferable, the way she would never—ever—just yield. She pressed harder, her grip tightening, her pace growing desperate, her breath ragged against the girl's skin. The girl whimpered, arching beneath her, and for a fleeting second, Lydia could almost pretend it was enough. Almost. But the fantasy shattered as quickly as it formed. The weight in her chest didn’t lift. The hunger didn’t fade. She was left, panting, restless, empty, staring at the ceiling while the girl curled into her side, content and unaware of the storm still raging inside her.
On her. Always on her.
Sharon had ruined her. And Lydia hated her for it.
The next morning, Lydia found herself at rehearsal, exhausted but wired, her eyes drawn to Sharon even as she told herself she wouldn't look.
Sharon knew.
She had to know.
She was leaning against the frame of the rehearsal room, arms crossed, lips curled into something infuriatingly smug. She looked Lydia up and down, like she was assessing her, like she knew what she had done the night before, she knew it hadn't been enough. “Rough night, maestro?” she murmured when Lydia passed her.
Lydia stopped. Her jaw tightened. Sharon wasn't asking out of concern. She was playing with her. “Nothing I can't handle,” Lydia replied, keeping her voice even.
Sharon tilted her head, considering her, then took a deliberate step closer. “You know,” she mused, “you should really be careful. Too much exertion… well, I’d hate to see you lose your edge.”
Lydia exhaled sharply through her nose. “You're awfully concerned with my stamina, Ms. Goodnow.”
Sharon smirked. “I just notice things.”
The way she said it—so casual, so careless—made something tighten in Lydia's chest. A teasing little dagger slipped between her ribs.
Sharon had been doing this for weeks, dropping sly comments, watching Lydia squirm with barely concealed amusement. It was a game, a long, drawn-out hunt, and Lydia hated how easily she played the part of prey. Hated how her stomach clenched at the sound of Sharon’s voice, how the mere sight of her standing there, smirking, set her on edge. It was infuriating. More than that, it was distracting. Lydia had spent years perfecting the art of control—onstage, in life, in every aspect of her existence. And yet, here she was, unraveling at the hands of a woman who wielded her amusement like a weapon. Sharon was testing her, deliberately pushing her buttons, and Lydia refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing her crack. So she rolled her shoulders, exhaled through her nose, and forced herself to move past Sharon without another word. She could feel the weight of Sharon’s gaze following her, the almost lazy confidence of it, and it took everything in her not to react.
Later that evening, Lydia wasn’t looking for anything. Not a distraction. Not a chase. She just wanted to breathe. So she walked. The city lights stretched long across the damp pavement, and she let the chill air bite into her skin. But then—
She saw her.
Sharon.
Sharon.
Not at a bar, not draped over someone in some seedy corner. No, this was different. Lydia had wandered into a late-night café, something quiet, tucked away. And there was Sharon, sitting by the window, alone, her fingers curled around a steaming mug. A book lay open in front of her, half-forgotten, and she was smiling—just slightly, just enough to make something twist inside Lydia's gut. It was disarming, seeing her like this. No sharp smiles, no teasing remarks. Just Sharon, lost in a moment of her own.
Lydia almost turned away. Almost. But then a woman walked past Sharon's table, pausing just slightly, just enough to rest a hand on Sharon's shoulder as she passed. The touch was light, fleeting. But Lydia saw it. The way Sharon's lips parted just slightly in response, the way her shoulders relaxed rather than tense. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some grand reveal. It was effortless. And that was the worst part of it.
It was enough.
Lydia left before Sharon could see her, her mind buzzing, her pulse unsteady. The air felt heavier, charged, and no amount of walking could shake the tension coiling inside her. By the time she reached her apartment, her skin felt too tight, her thoughts too loud. She poured herself a drink, hoping for clarity, but the whiskey barely burned as it slid down her throat. It wasn’t enough. Not to erase the image of Sharon’s lips curling at someone else’s touch, the ease of it all. The sheer audacity of it. She set the glass down with a sharp clink, inhaled deeply, and dragged her fingers through her hair. The frustration gnawed at her, sharp and relentless, winding its way through her limbs, pooling in her stomach.
She exhaled, slow and measured, but it didn’t help.
Her mind kept circling back—to Sharon, to that woman’s fingers grazing her shoulder, to the way Sharon had leaned into it so easily, so naturally, like it was nothing. Like it was something she had welcomed, something she had wanted. Lydia groaned, pressing her palms against her eyes. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. And yet, her body knew the truth before her mind would admit it.
She was restless. Frustrated. Aching with something she refused to name.
With a slow, shuddering breath, she let her hands drift lower, over the taut lines of her stomach, down between her thighs. The touch was light at first, almost hesitant, but it wasn’t enough. It never was.
She needed more.
Needed something sharper, something crueler. Her mind latched onto it immediately—Sharon’s voice, that insufferable smirk, the teasing lilt of her words.
“Rough night, maestro?”
Lydia’s breath hitched as she pressed harder, her thighs tensing. She imagined Sharon watching her now, imagined those sharp, knowing eyes raking over her, full of unbearable amusement. She could practically hear her voice, soft and taunting.
“Is that all?”
A sharp gasp, a low and guttural moan tore from Lydia’s throat, her back arching as she finally let it take her over. The pleasure came fast, too fast, leaving her panting, wrecked. But even as her body trembled with the aftermath, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
Because Sharon still had the upper hand.
And that? That was something Lydia couldn’t stand.