So they danced.
"Shall we, my darling?"
Jean stepped forward into Lucien's embrace, gloriously unfettered. It was no longer deemed inappropriate that she should hold him - touch him - want him. They were married now, before their friends (well, most of their friends. Jean wouldn't think of the parishioners she considered friends who snubbed her invitation and took excommunication to its most literal meaning. And she wouldn't dwell on her broken boy, Jack, whose anger prevented him from experiencing so much good in his life) and she was free.
Bound to Lucien forever but finally free to love him without reservation or judgement.
It was still early yet when Jean found him in conversation with Matthew, Danny and Charlie, a still-full whiskey in his hand.
"Lucien, the taxi will be here early in the morning." She pressed her palm to the middle of his back and took the drink from his hand, startling the others when she sipped at it herself. She'd developed a taste for it over the years - she'd developed a taste for quite a few things in his influence.
"Yes, Lucien. You wouldn't want to miss the taxi." Matthew spoke pointedly, Danny chuffed into his sleeve and Charlie, bless him, reddened along his collar.
"We've an early flight." Jean chided without heat, linking her arm with Lucien's, not giving in to the threatening blush.
"I'm sure." Matthew coughed into his fist and turned to inspect the ceiling.
"Alright, you lot." She said, pointing at them with her glass. "Off with you."
With wide grins they nodded, shook Lucien's hand and kissed her cheek. She watched them walk away with an indulgent smile - three gently recalcitrant sons. Her grin shifted to interest as Matthew veered off in Alice's direction but then Lucien was tugging her hand and she lost sight of the couple.
It took far longer than either had anticipated to make it up to their room. So many well-wishers and cheek-kisses. Lucien was sure he would have a permanent handprint on his back from all the well-meaning slaps and his fingers ached from the multitude of handshakes. He was a lucky man, he'd heard so many times. "I know," he'd responded, watching his wife graciously accept the attention and deftly move them back towards the staircase. His wife. The word bubbled in his chest like good champagne and he wanted nothing more than to drown in it.
To drown in her.
They made their way to their room with a nervous energy, quiet tension building as they crossed hallways to the suite prepared for them. It had been a hushed conversation that led them to choose to spend their wedding night at the club. With everything that had happened in previous weeks the studio - their bedroom, she corrected herself - wasn't quite finished. They also had to be up early to take a taxi to Melbourne for a flight. They didn't want to wake the house before sun-up. Matthew had offered to stay away that night, a discussion that had three sets of cheeks flaming and speaking in general, clinical terms. In the end they decided the most logical choice was to stay at the club, and none of them had mentioned it again.
By the time they reached the suite they were fairly trembling in anticipation. Lucien swung open the door and held it for his wife...his wife. She breezed past him, her fingers brushing his chest playfully. The room was simple and plain, meant to house members too drunk to make it home, not to serve as a honeymoon suite. However the soft glow of candle and firelight softened the harsher edges and Cec had filled every available surface with Jean's centerpieces. Lucien knew he would forever connect the heady scent of roses with the happiest day of his life.
Together they stopped in the middle of the room. Lucien stood behind her, close but not touching, breathing into her hair. She resisted the urge to slump into his arms and let him carry her to the bed. She had a certain nightgown that she'd been saving for just this very night and she wasn't going to miss the opportunity, not again. She'd waited such a long time. She turned abruptly and placed a kiss on the corner of Lucien's mouth before disappearing into the adjoining bathroom.
With a shuddering sigh, Lucien removed his coat, setting the rose from his lapel on the bedside table. He undressed and folded his clothes carefully, mindful of his wife's...his wife's...inherent neatness. He took his time, relishing in the warmth of the room, looking over the turned down bed with longing. He was just about to divest himself of his pants when the door opened and Jean emerged from the bathroom with a wad of filmy fabric in her arms. Her expression was one of frustration and she looked at Lucien as she usually did when she found he'd taken to smashing the glassware. She stood before him sans hat and gloves, but still fully dressed. After several minutes of struggle in the bathroom she came to the belated realization that she couldn't get the dress off without him.
The furrows between her brows melted at the sight of her husband...her husband... bare-chested and barefoot in only his slacks. For reasons she couldn't quite describe she stared at his bare toes, suddenly swamped with the intimacy of it. Her vision swam with a burst of emotion but she swallowed it back and met Lucien's gaze.
They watched each other warily - she still fully dressed and he well on his way to not. Firelight shifted the shadows and the red-gold glow made Lucien appear burnished. Bronzed. Something to be worshipped.
Over the years she had seen him in various stages of undress but he was usually injured in some way and she kept her head by focusing on his care. She was, at heart, a nurturer although the rush of desire swept aside her need to care for him, pushing simple affection far out to sea. Need, hot and fast, hung between them and she followed the line of his shoulders, visually marking all of the places she would physically mark in the very near future. She swallowed drily, wishing for the drink she'd left behind downstairs, and brought herself back to the moment. She had no desire to be inebriated for what was happening between them - his very presence was intoxicating enough.
"I need your help". She turned, shrugging her shoulders to indicate the line of delicate buttons in the lace. It had been an indulgence to choose such a dress for her wedding, but a stubborn streak had her absolutely determined to make this wedding more than a simple legalization process. She was marrying Lucien - a man she loved - and it would not be reduced to a mere business transaction.
"Of course, my darling." He gestured her closer and nudged her shoulder to face away from him. Jean caught their reflection in the bathroom mirror. His expression was reverent - captivated. Overwhelmed, she dropped her chin to her chest and clutched the peignoir. Lucien followed the line of buttons with his fingertips, inordinately pleased he would be the one to open them so tantalizingly slowly. He'd been fixated on them all evening, the press of them into his palm as they danced. So lovely, so delicate. Briefly he imagined biting them off, giving in to a base urge to remove the garment as quickly as he could manage. But she had been so impossibly lovely in it, it would have broken his heart to destroy it.
Instead he unlooped them slowly and carefully. He was unwrapping a gift he had no intention of returning. He parted each one with a kiss, following the gentle undulations of her spine to the top of the zipper. Ever so carefully he slid the zip down to her lower back. Jean's breath cascaded past her lips. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it until she began to feel light-headed.
Once more she glanced at their doppelgangers in the glass and Lucien stared back at her, his hooded eyes lazy and dark. He kissed her neck, suckling and nibbling gently, pushing the dress aside to reveal more skin. Her bones dissolved in the heat of his gaze and she dropped the nightie, forgotten at her feet. Lucien's fingertips brushed the dress from her shoulders and it dropped noiselessly to the floor..
"So beautiful," He whispered into her hair and she shuddered. She felt exposed, standing in only her underthings, but cherished. He touched her gently, the pads of her fingers whorling deliciously. She watched their reflection as Lucien dipped his head to her throat, swirling his tongue over the pearls. She was so chaste, all in white, and yet...she stood in only her stockings and underthings and was far more dangerous than he'd realized.
His fingers tensed and released at her hips, holding her gently and allowing her a few moments to settle her skittering heart. Another shiver and gooseflesh rose across her arms.
"Are you cold?" Lucien's concern was touching. Not trusting her voice she shook her head still holding his gaze in the mirror. It was easier, less intense - somewhat removed, to look at him indirectly. Once they locked eyes for real, she was sure she would incinerate from the intensity.
He was breathing in short bursts, nearly panting, his knuckles white from the exertion of not touching her.
Wobbly with anticipation and desire, she leaned over to remove her shoes.
"Don't." He spoke so low it was more of a rumble against her skin than a sound.
"Lucien-"
"Leave them on." He dropped his forehead to her neck, his hot breath spilling over her skin. She was everything - a vision - and his need for her pressed hot against her spine. "Please."
She only nodded and he reached around her to palm her stomach, skimming over the delicate skin of her navel. She was transfixed by the delicate brush of his hand across her abdomen and her fingers clutched at the material of his slacks. His pinkie slid beneath the waistband of her knickers, the barest of touch, and her knees buckled. She clutched the arm holding her against him before spinning and crashing their mouths together. Need, once slip free of its bonds, consumed her and raged quickly out of control.
Lucien has suspected - hoped - that Jean's prim exterior was a glamour meant to protect the soft, passionate, vibrant woman beneath and he was delighted - as she nibbled wantonly on his earlobe and slid her palm across the planes of his rear - that he had been correct.
Months - years, really - of restraint turned to ash and they fumbled towards the bed, an inelegant tangle of limbs and need.
He had intended to go slow - to worship her and savor the freedom to look and to hold. However the writhing heat of her in his arms would test the restraint of even the strongest man and where Jean Blake⦠Jean Blake...was concerned, he was deeply, unreservedly, unashamedly weak.
They touched and tasted, swallowing groans and pleas, gripping one another until everything else - long months of agony, scandal and rumor, loss and betrayal - were distant memories.
All that remained was the two of them, and the singular pleasure Lucien took discovering the last remaining hidden frontiers of Jean Blake, his wife.
His wife.
-(fin)-
A/N.- This was actually part of a longer piece that I decided needed to be broken apart because the tone didn't match between the first and second half. I haven't decided if the other half will be chapter 2 of this piece or will stand alone. *shrug*
Anyway. THOSE BUTTONS.
