A/N: I came across "Lovejoy" quite recently, and instantly fell in love with the relationship between Lovejoy and Lady Jane. They're perfect together—at least that's my humble opinion on the matter—and although I do admire Lady Jane's mental composure and her sense of morality, I do wish she'd just hung her principles on a hob from time to time and had some fun…
Which is why I decided to give in to temptation, and wrote my own version of what SHOULD have happened during the 4th episode of season 2—the one in which Lady Jane seemed so determined to get back at her husband after seeing him with a strange woman. I hope you enjoy this little venture into the world of "Lovejoy": let me just forewarn you that is most definitely a M-rated story, so if it's not up your alley… well, you know what to do.
Reviews are love!
Lady Jane Felsham was not amused.
Frankly speaking, she was positively vibrating with irritation and anger, which made her want to scream, kick at things and use excessive amounts of words generally considered, well, vulgar.
As a person of considerably high self-control, raised to appreciate composure and restraint, Lady Jane didn't feel particularly well in this situation. She would have given anything to have these… troublesome feelings go away—alas, it seemed that the world was not her ally in the battle against her rebellious heart.
Of course, it was all Alexander's fault to begin with. How could he lie to her like that? Several times had he emphasized how important his trip to Paris would be, and how high were his expectations as to its outcome: and yet, she found him waltzing around East Anglia with some… oh, no, this was hopeless, she was at it again.
Jane groaned and leaned her head back against the arm of the sofa upon which she lay, stretched, balancing an almost empty glass of whiskey in one hand. She knew that she should feel pathetic, drinking herself into a stupor, trying to forget her husband's probable infidelity—but since the alcohol was clearly defective, not helping to numb the pain, the anger and the irritation, she only felt tired, and betrayed. Not only by Alexander, though he was the main factor in this situation, but also by Lovejoy.
Oh, Lovejoy! When she went over to his place, and found him cookingdinner, of all things, and for a woman, to make the matters worse, she was so… angry, confused, disappointed, frustrated—a mixture of emotions she usually kept well at bay, if she was to experience them at all, that is. Who was this Rosita, anyway—and what right did she have to monopolize her Lovejoy like this?
Jane huffed impatiently, covering her eyes with one hand. Since when, exactly, did she take up calling Lovejoy 'hers'? The man was clearly his own, never belonging to anyone—and although he did, in the very beginning of their friendship, suggest taking their relationship to another level, this didn't mean that he still had those feelings for her, did it? She'd been quite stupid, and reckless, to go to him and expect him to drop everything he was doing and devour her right then and there… and anyway, it wasn't about Lovejoy at all, was it? She needed—wanted—to get back at Alexander, and any man would do, at that point. She chose Lovejoy simply because of the easiness in their mutual relations, the friendship that was strong enough not to stagger under the pressure of a casual fling, the rich smell of old wood that always seemed to surround the man, the width of his shoulders, broad and reassuring, the playful glimmer of his eyes when he bantered with her… this time she actually howled in frustration.
Sitting up, and leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, Lady Jane Felsham faced the grim truth: she was either drunker than she'd initially thought, or completely smitten with a man who was not her husband.
She dearly wished for the former, but deep down inside knew it was the latter that was true.
Sighing, she stood up and walked across the room to the liquor cabinet, her mind made up on having another drink, until that ridiculous notion got completely wiped out of her head. Unfortunately, she found that the bottle of Scotch that had been keeping her company throughout the evening was defective—that is, completely empty.
Jane bit her lip and frowned at her reflection in the mirror, trying to assess the actual level of her own drunkenness. Would she still be able to drive? The roads were likely to be quite empty and this hour anyway, and the need for another drink was become quite a nagging in the back of her brain. Youcandoit,Jane, she firmly told her reflection, turned on her heel and marched out of the room, grabbing her purse from the chair by the door.
Lovejoy whistled tunelessly as he cleared up the pots and pans, putting away the remains of his dinner, the mood of which had been so thoroughly ruined by Tinker's sudden appearance. He pondered the fact that, on yet another Friday evening, he'd found himself completely alone, with no chances for a female company whatsoever, and (which he found equally troubling) without a single drop of alcohol at home, having apparently served Rosita what was the last bottle of wine he had in his pantry. He scratched his head, unsure whether to jump into his car and head out to restock the booze, or whether to spend some time in the shed, refreshing a particularly nice chair he'd come by the other day.
His musings were cut short by the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine on the brink of destruction.
Rolling his eyes, Lovejoy dropped the kitchen cloth on the table and crossed the corridor, opening his front door just as Eric tumbled into his yard, stopping right at doorstep. "C'mon, then!" the younger man yelled, not bothering to turn off the motor. "It's serious, Lovejoy, we don't have the time!"
Something in Eric's voice told Lovejoy this was not the time to argue. He grabbed his jacket, switched the light off and closed the doors haphazardly, dropping the keys into his jeans pocket as he climbed over to his customary place. The motorcycle roared angrily as Eric slammed the gas pedal, hard.
They didn't talk drive the ride, what with Eric looking extremely tense and nervous, and Lovejoy trying to make something out of this highly troubling situation. From the way his young associate shook with tension—most of which couldn't be simply put off as a result of the motorcycle ride—he could guess that whatever the reason was, it must have been rather serious, yet the particulars remained blurred and dim: and it worried Lovejoy, as much as he hated to admit it.
He got even more concerned when he saw Tinker infrontof his favourite pub, looking more sober than he had in months. Something was definitely off.
Jumping off the motorcycle, Lovejoy strode over to where Tinker stood, and frowned as he recognized the vehicle the other man was leaning against—Jane's Range Rover. Still, he tried to keep his cool. "What's up, Tink? Lost your way to the pub?"
Tinker's face was drawn and worried. "Oh, I did not! But there's someone here who's found it, Lovejoy, and that someone should be taken home. Fast."
His heart pounding harder than he'd like to admit, Lovejoy pushed past the door and into the pub, only to stumble upon a very inebriated Lady Jane, perched hazardously on a bar stool and quarrelling loudly with the bartender, who was adamantly refusing to sell her a bottle of whiskey. Lovejoy groaned and walked over to his friend, muttering to himself something along the lines of: "This night couldn't possibly get any worse, could it?"
Tapping Jane on the shoulder, he did his best to hide the concern, and bring forward his usual cheekiness. "How're you doing, Janie? Everything alright?"
She turned to him with a smile much too bright and perky for his liking. "Lovejoy! Oh, how splendid 'tis you came! This awful man won't let me have my alcohol!"
And he's bloody right to do so! "C'mon then, Janie, how about we get you home," he leaned over the bar, motioning for the man behind it to hand him a bottle of single malt, "and if you still find yourself wanting that drink, I'll fix you one."
"Are you proposing to take me home, Lovejoy?" she slurred, her stool rocking dangerously as she shifted her weight. "How good of you."
He rolled his eyes at the bartender, took the proffered bottle and put it in his jacket pocket, while taking Jane's arm and helping her stand up. She swayed on her feet and leaned against him, the warmth of her body clearly palpable since she wore no jacket or coat, just a thin, silk blouse. Lovejoy embraced her gently, steering her towards the door, and was suddenly reminded of that dream he'd had, with Jane leaning into him and asking him to kiss her… Of course, her dream version did not smell of whiskey, but it felt so close to the fantasy that he shivered slightly. Fortunately, Jane noticed nothing—not surprisingly, given her state.
Tinker and Eric were waiting for them outside, both looking genuinely worried about Jane's wellbeing. Had Lovejoy been a more affectionate man, he might have found it heart-warming. As it was, he only found it irritating.
"Alright you two, show's over," he grumbled, rummaging unceremoniously through Jane's purse to find her car keys. "Thanks for calling me, though—I'll take it from here. In you go, Janie."
She all but snarled at him, but climbed into the passenger's seat without any further protest, which was quite a blessing, as far as Lovejoy was concerned.
The ride home proved to be quite a trial for him. Jane slipped off her shoes and propped her feet up against the glove compartment, her skirt riding up dangerously over her thighs. Lovejoy bit the inside of his jaw to stop himself from groaning, and kept his eyes on the road, trying not to take notice of Jane's soft humming, or the way she drummed her fingers against her leg to the rhythm of whatever melody she had stuck in her head. He couldn't say he succeeded.
Once they arrived, Jane—probably feeling a little more confident now that she was back on her own familiar ground—demanded a drink with all the 'ladyshipness' she could muster. Lovejoy sighed and moved towards the liquor cabinet, where he found an emptied bottle, and a glass jar in which Jane used to keep ice cubes, now filled with lukewarm water, the ice having melted away. Reluctantly, he poured a little Scotch into the glass, filling it up with a generous helping of water, and brought it back to Jane, along with a slightly stronger drink for himself.
"Lost your touch, have you?" Jane grimaced as she took a tentative sip. "I'm not a child, Lovejoy, so don't treat me like one!"
"I don't. I simply think you've had enough for tonight."
She huffed irritably and fell limply against the back of the sofa upon which they were sitting. "Of the booze, perhaps. Not that it was what I actually wanted tonight." She shook her head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the angle of her head showing off a wide expanse of milk white skin of her neck. "Oh, don't mind me, Lovejoy. I'll be fine come morning. Just leave me alone with that bottle, and go home."
"Cannot do that, Janie. I feel quite responsible for your well-being, us being such good friends and all."
Jane laughed, mirthlessly, and looked at him with tired eyes, something indescribable shining through the exhaustion. "Friends," she spat, and turned her head away, biting her lip. "Oh, yes, Lovejoy, we are friends. Perhaps that's the biggest problem in all this."
He frowned and shifted closer to her on the sofa, seriously troubled with her mood. "Janie, what's wrong? You haven't been yourself lately, and I… I don't understand. I'd like to help you, but—"
"I saw Alexander when I went to Cambridge the other day."
He looked at her, not quite sure he'd heard her right. "Cambridge? What the heck was he doing there? Wasn't he supposed to be in Paris?"
"That's what he told me," she whispered, sitting up and setting her glass on the coffee table. "He informed me that he had urgent business matters to take care of in France. He never mentioned he'd be taking a break from his work to spend a romantic night in a luxury hotel… with another woman."
She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, almost breaking Lovejoy's heart. He reached out for her, taking her in his arms and cradling her wet cheek against his shoulder. She felt tiny, fragile like a porcelain figurine, and her hands were ice cold against his skin when she twined her arms around his neck, holding on to him for dear life.
Lovejoy lost track of time. They could have been sitting like this for hours, Jane crying into his shoulder, him caressing her back with delicate strokes, whispering comforting words of nonsense, kissing her hair occasionally, revelling in a way she felt pressed against him. Gradually, her sobbing subsided and she relaxed in his embrace, her warm breath grazing his skin in the most tantalizing way. He felt a slight pull in his back from sitting in quite an awkward position, and tried to shift himself on the sofa—Jane fell softly against him, her silk-covered breasts pressing into his chest. He realized with astonishment that she'd fallen asleep, probably exhausted from crying and the alcohol intake.
Lovejoy pondered quietly what his next move should be. Could he simply disentangle himself from her arms, lay her down on the sofa and head off home? Surely it wouldn't be advisable. To stay here… like this… would be nothing less than taking advantage of her vulnerable state. And yet, try as he might, he couldn't make himself leave her, leave this: the warmth of her body, the smell you her hair covering up the one of alcohol (which had, luckily, diminished significantly since they left the pub), the softness of her skin on his…
Oh, he was a bad man, he knew it—but how could he leave her now, considering everything she'd told him about Alexander? How could he make her feel unwanted, if that was the last thing he thought she was, to him at least?
Having made up his mind, Lovejoy inched backwards across the sofa, lying down and pulling Jane with him as he went. She murmured a little, protesting against her body being repositioned, but quickly nestled down, her head coming to rest on his chest, her body stretched against his, with one slender leg bent and thrown over his hips.
This was not going to end well, he knew this much—but he wouldn't change his mind now, come Hell or high water.
He must have dozed off, with Jane's body wrapped around his keeping him warm, for when he opened his eyes it was considerably lighter outside; a delicate, pinkish hue resting upon the furniture and across the ceiling told him that sunrise was fast coming. He brushed his hand over Jane's arm, and noticed with a frown that it was cool to touch: the alcohol warming her up must have worn off. There was a rug folded and placed on the back of the sofa; Lovejoy reached up and pulled it down, trying to manoeuvre his arms enough to unfold it and cover Jane up. His hands came to rest on various parts of her anatomy in the process, and although he did his best to keep his mind clear and distant, he couldn't help but imagine how it would feel to stroke her skin and remove layers from it rather than add some…
He paused and cursed under his breath, feeling beyond any doubt that his close contact with a female body—and one that he'd grown accustomed to dream about, too—plus the time of the night, or day, has most definitely had an effect upon certain parts of his body: just like he thought it would.
It was a blessing that Jane was still asleep, he thought—and then he felt her stir, and heard a small moan come out of her lips. It only made that blasted part of his body twitch a little harder.
Damn him being such a good friend to this woman!
"Lovejoy?" her voice, deep and husky from the whiskey, sounded dangerously close to his ear. "Did we fall asleep?"
"Yes," he managed to stutter, trying to coax his body into lying still instead of grinding itself shamelessly against Jane's. "And I wouldn't mind if we went back to doing just this."
Of course, she misunderstood his intentions. "Oh. Perhaps I'll just go upstairs, then—"
"Janie," he hissed, his hands grasping her hips as she started to wriggle out of the blanket and, well, himself, "Don't. Move."
"What?" she raised her head to look at him, which angled the upper half of her body upwards, and brought the lower one to closer contact with his insubordinate body part. "OH."
"Indeed. So, if you could just hold still for a moment, I'm sure it'll—"
Jane reached up and kissed him.
It wasn't at all like his dream.
First of all, she still tasted of whiskey and, astonishingly, of honey. Second, she was nowhere near the delicate, meek creature he'd imagined, one that would let him set the pace of the kiss and simply enjoy his attention. No, not in the slightest; it turned out that once Lady Jane Felsham let her moral principles go she'd become a completely different person. Not that Lovejoy was complaining.
Oh, no, he thought to himself as he felt her tongue caress his lower lip and opened his mouth under hers, he could never complain about being kissed like that. He hummed with appreciation and slid his hands higher, stroking her sides, until his thumbs touched Jane's bra and skimmed along the underside of her breasts. She gasped into the kiss and broke it, her eyes locking with his. She looked dead serious, even with the slightly glazed eyes, swollen lips and hair in complete disarray, and Lovejoy, who had begun to enjoy himself immensely, thought that, perhaps, his dreams wouldn't come true after all.
"Lovejoy," she whispered, stroking his hair, "I want you to know… this isn't only because of what Alex did."
"I know," he answered, touched by her words more than he cared to admit. "You're not that kind of a person, Janie. I know that… this… is not a way to execute your revenge. I just hope you're sure about this."
"I am," she smiled, and licked her lips just so, making him groan and pull her closer. "I very much am."
To which he couldn't have possibly answered with words.
They kissed, nibbled, bit and stroked for many long minutes, not wanting to rush things, pacing the tempo to discover as much as they could about the other person. Lovejoy found out, for instance, that he could drive Jane crazy by gently scratching his fingernails to the left of her spine, and that the way in which she'd pull his earlobe with her teeth could make him see stars. When they've finally reached the point of removing clothes, he instantly fell for her skin, softer than anything he'd ever touched; he was dying to mark her, to drag his teeth across her collarbone and watch it turn red, purple even—but they both knew it would be unwise. So he kissed her, wherever he could reach, flipping them over so that she rested on the sofa and he hovered above her, tasting, smelling, committing every detail to his memory.
When he dipped his tongue between red, swollen flesh of her sex for the first time, he was sure that he would die if he was to be refused doing this on a regular basis. And when she cried out his name, her nails marking his shoulders as she came under the insistent strokes of his tongue, he was sure he'd never heard a sound more beautiful than her voice at that precise moment.
He looked up at her, feeling quite pleased with himself: and she took advantage of this moment of inattention to flip them over again, her hands never shaking as she pulled his zipper down, tugged at his jeans and whatever poor excuse for an underwear he was wearing, and sent them flying across the room.
As she lowered herself onto him for the first time, head thrown back, hair spilling down her neck like a fountain of fire, Lovejoy thought this must have been what Heaven was like.
Afterwards, when they lay spent in each other's arms, he thought of telling her how he felt about her—but once he spoke her name, she had her lips on his again.
"Nobody else could make my name sound like this," she said, and the longing in her voice made him feel quite eager again, which prevented them from talking for another long moment.
It didn't matter, though. There would be time enough to tell her… to explain… to ask her to…
He fell into her, and it was the best thing he'd ever done.
She drove him to the town in the afternoon, and they run into Alexander, who promptly explained why he didn't go to Paris—and there was no reason for Jane not to believe him.
And so, she left Lovejoy at that parking lot, and went back home with her husband, to sit him down on the sofa that probably still smelled of their lovemaking, and make small talk about his new business enterprise.
And he didn't mind—because he knew that, in the end, it was the way in which he said her name that really mattered.
Or so he hoped.
Fin