Thanks so much to Aussie for Aussifying!
Sitting shoulder to elbow together on the foot of the hotel room bed. "She loved your father very much. And she loved you; she would never have left you. Now, is that all?" Only Lucien would investigate his mother's death and then wonder why his thoughts are all a jumble.
He takes the hint and rises. The clock ticks toward tea time. Collecting his jacket, he checks his basket. "You haven't tried one of my scones."
"There's no jam and cream."
"We could ask for some to be sent up. Have a proper afternoon tea."
The front desk hadn't seen him come up. Best that they not know. "I'm not hungry, really."
He pulls on his jacket slowly. "Then I better be moving along. You'll be wanting to get some rest. It's a long bus ride tomorrow." He holds out his hand.
You take it, because that's what he wants, but slapping it away is an idea too. He does a familiar gesture where he envelopes your hand in both of his, that doctor's grip, warm and secure.
"Please ring me when you arrive. I'll want to know that you're well."
"If I can."
"Do." He gives one of his small smiles. "I'll write."
Will he? Or will you be out of his mind as soon as you're out of his sight? He's not forgotten his wife in seventeen years but you're just the housekeeper. Will he need your thoughts when he no longer needs what you had provided—dinner on the table, clean sheets on his bed, his appointments booked.
"There's no need. You'll be busy."
He looks truly distressed. "Jean." His lips quiver. Does he want to kiss you? He turns as though to leave and his fingers begin to slip from your hand. "I'll go then."
So you kiss him. He thinks that you mean to kiss his cheek, and he tips his head to offer the slope of jawline. But you catch his lips, pressing mouth to mouth and he gasps. The chance is there—breathe in, sealing lips, invading the dark space between teeth and tongue. You can feel the shock of your action in his trembling limbs and heaving chest as you lean in, holding him to the door.
Ease back; you both need air. Slide your fingers down his cheek—tanned skin with the prickle of stubble rising late in the day, thumb along the groove that becomes a dimple when he smiles. Ruffle the fringe of beard, softer than you expected.
"Jean." Such wonder and fear.
You step away, retreat to sit on the bed.
"I should go."
Your answer is to unfasten the top of your dress. He sags against the door, staring. Rising, you drop the dress to the floor.
"Jean, I don't understand."
Do you? Perhaps you understand for the first time since meeting him. You have your own patterns that you've followed all your life. You rarely take risks, but when you do, it's a free fall from great heights. A handsome boy with sly blue eyes and a tousle of curls leading you to a barn's hayloft. A gun heavy in your shaking hand as you point it at another human being. Yelling cruelties to the men you loved, driving one away and walking out on the other. Only one man had come back to you.
You are Deborah Kerr following a set of muscular shoulders into the incoming tide. You're Kim Novak, drawing a man's gaze with the swing of your hips. You are Gene Tierney, being left to heaven for your sins. You've helped Lucien clarify his thoughts. Now he can assist in untangling the coil around your heart. You understand what you want, what you need at this moment, and that the only risk is humilation. When you step on the bus tomorrow, you will have this to turn in your hands like a touchstone.
Your shoulders squared, gaze level. "Lucien." It's not a question but he answers anyway.
One long stride and his arm goes around your waist, his palm cradles your chin, guiding lips back together. To no surprise, he is a very good kisser. You've considered this many times. How his beard would tickle your chin, the smooth slide of his tongue, the nip of his neat teeth on your lower lip before diving back in again.
Your bare skin, flushed collarbone and fluttering belly, feels the caress of his woolen jacket, waistcoat, trousers, with the scrape of buttons. The press of his erection into the crease of hip and pelvis. This makes you turn your nails from his hair to his skull.
Pulling him to the mattress—
He looms over you. "Jean, why—"
Tugging loose his tie, finding the small buttons to pop free. This skin is soft and smooth as a baby's and your lips need to touch right there...
His eyes are dark; the pupils large. His brow furrows as when he's trying to puzzle through a case. Your fingertip finds that groove between his eyes to smooth. He presses a kiss to your palm, and he nods. He finally understands.
Your thighs fit in the cages of his fingers. Nimble touch, shy strokes circling inside your legs. Not what you expected...You're used to frantic coupling, a wave easy to ride and the undertow that would pull away any thoughts. But this isn't Lucien's way, and you should have known that. You're not his piano to pound on.
Between the valley of your hip and the satin of underpants, his touch is as gentle as moonlight. All you can do is melt back into the bed, and twine your hands through his hair—those wayward curls always make you happy. He becomes bolder. Nothing he discovers in the darkness frightens him or slows his journey.
His lips tugging at your mouth, but his gaze keeps watching your heaving breasts, anchored to rigid points by your brassiere. Christopher's gaze had always been on other women's chests, never yours. Little girl tits, he'd laugh when he was full as a boot. Lucien's hand slips behind your back, skillfully unsnapping the fastenings.
"Lovely," he calls. His gentle smile as he looks upon you, his thumb lazily circling between your legs, his tongue mimicking the motion on your nipple, then his mouth breathes in your breast as his fingers slide deep.
He is playing a song after all.
The shattering is fragile fissures through your limbs, you gasp his name and God's name, which is which? Bury your face in his shoulder before you say anything else. And you realise that he's still fully dressed.
"Lucien, you're daft." Trying to pull his shirt loose, find his zip, but he scampers away.
"You don't have to," he says, smoothing his hair flat to his head again.
Your mind is still awash and it's difficult to not react harshly. Find your brassiere. "Why not."
He peeks from the corner of his eyes, and his mouth turns down as he sees you grappling with the garment.
"I'm not going to sit here naked if you won't even take your shirt off."
His reply is to kiss you, those hands on your cheeks, thumbs caressing tears from your eyelashes. He covers you, deliciously heavy and broad, blocking out the late afternoon sun streaming through the sheer curtains. Jacket, waistcoat and shirt slide from broad shoulders, the rattle of belt and zip, gasping exasperation and your giggles over the battle to remove your pants.
Victory is rewarded; he sits up in the middle of the bed, carrying you with him. Powerful, easy strength that makes you gasp and go light-headed. Into his lap, wrapping your legs around his middle. Falling back into his mouth, the kisses deeper and wetter; his tongue more insistent. And between the two of you, an urgent, twitching need.
"Lucien, I—"
"Yes, yes, my dearest," he agrees. So odd to hear him use an endearment. Strong arms lifting you again—grip his shoulders tightly and then wrap your arms around his head, leading his mouth to first one breast, then the other.
His voice is thick and heated on your skin. "You're so beautiful."
"Please, Lucien—" The desire in your voice is shocking and embarrassing. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, but he understands what you need; you don't have to say anything more.
Hands guide you down, and you breathe out to make space in your heart to hold him. You rest there, secure in the cradle of his legs. His hands smooth down your back, then up your sides, thumbs tickling along your ribs, before nestling your face in his palms, an offering brought to his lips—another kiss, laggard and measured. Nothing is urgent to him. Your heartbeat is a bird frantically beating its wings against the bars of its cage, but his touch remains slow and steady. Down to your hips, guiding only the slightest of movement, ever expanding ripples of a raindrop falling on still waters.
You are cleaved, uncertainty and fear slowly breaking apart with this steady pressure until your heart will be exposed. The pain is exquisite. More, there must be more... Arching back, his knees catch you and his hands find your breasts, his lips rest on the pulse at your throat. One hand slides between your bodies to mimic the circling of your hips.
"Oh God!" is much too loud. Outside the room, footfall and voices of the night's guests finding their rooms. Surely they can't hear the slight squeaking of the bedsprings, the thundering gasps of your breathing?
You drop your mouth to his damp shoulder to stifle your rising cries. The first release had been shocking in its suddenness, sharp in its urgency. This is a growing fire, the eagerness is how flames ignites tinder, engulfs limbs. And in it all, you hold him tighter and tighter, even as he splits you wide open, a once granite form shattering to sharp-edged fragments, collapsing into his embrace.
"That's my girl," he soothes, bringing you down to the mattress, lying you among the rose bouquets on the bedspread, blissfully soft and cool after the heat of coupling. He follows, his smile bright in the now-dimming room. "So beautiful," he says once more, pushing the curls off your brow.
"Stop being silly." You can barely lift your hand to pat his cheek.
He just laughs, all delight. His eyes shine with tears.
A clock is ticking on the bedside table. Every click is a moment to touch him, trace the edge of his Adam's apple, the crevice between his pectoral muscles, press a palm to the flush still awash on his collarbone. Fingertips slide over the slight rise of his belly...
"Lucien?" You curse your lack of experience, the instant, crushing uncertainty, so long forgotten. He's not Christopher, but that doesn't mean that something isn't right for him too.
He scrambles from the bed, a jumble of long limbs. You're bounced aside in an undignified fashion. But he goes no farther than the foot of the bed, standing stiff and shaking like a frightened stag. Regaining your balance, you follow, and are relieved that he doesn't shy away from touch.
"I'm sorry, Jean. Sorry," he babbles.
"I suppose I should be apologising. Obviously I couldn't give you...what you needed."
He shakes his head. "No, no...It's me. It's...It's been a long time."
Try for humour even as the words want to stick in your throat. "Forgotten how things work?"
He does laugh, notes of relief for both of you. "I've a vague memory; much like getting back on a bicycle. No, it's that for a very long time, I had to control my...response. In the camp—" His breathing becomes more rapid. "I couldn't let them win, you see. And later, it was something I had to do sometimes for a reason other than enjoyment. It was a job. Suppose I just forgot to flip the switch back on."
Leaning your forehead to the top of his spine. Thinking, turning this over in your mind. Not accepting his excuses. You aren't a torturer or assignment.
That clock keeps ticking.
"I'm still leaving, Lucien. Not matter what happens." A ripple of tension in his shoulders. "Is this how you want to end things?" You can manipulate as well as him.
"I won't ask you to stay. Your family needs you and I'm not worth the fuss."
The mirror across from the bed reflects a man and a woman. Her pale hands roam his chest and belly, travelling lower. Despite his reluctance, he's still aroused—from fear? The woman takes him in hand, the weight and heat exciting her to kiss his neck and press her body against his back. This is all hers, as the shadow of the clock's hands moves slowly across the room.
"What do you want, Lucien." It's not a question. You know the answer, and it's thrilling to push at him. It's the reason people ride horses, to feel the power and strength so much greater than their own. "This is all we have. Are you really going to leave?"
Your other hand goes lower, hefting his testicles, already tight. A farmgirl at heart, you're not squeamish. His head snaps back and there's a sound happening at the back of his throat that you enjoy hearing.
"Jean, I don't want to hurt you."
Your hands leave him and his head drops with relief. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm a coward? Can't take it?"
His gaze shoots up to meet yours in the mirror. That is the cruellest thing you could have said to him. Your chin is high; your eyes dry. Your curls are wild and mad. He takes a deep breath, as though he's going to dive into the lake's darkest depths.
He whirls and he's on you. You squeal and lose your breath, your head swirling. He's heavy and powerful, and then thrusts hard enough to make you gasp. Legs wrap tight around his ribs, ankles locking behind his back. He won't get away again. As he grabs the headboard above your head, you grasp his strong arms, squeezing the constricting muscles. The bed thumps, the springs squeak and you don't care. But when you hear his moans rising to a full cry, you slap your hand over his mouth. The heat of his tongue pressed to your palm is like the grind of his pelvis to yours and shockingly, you find that you are crying out too, loud enough for both of you.
His chin falls to his rising chest, and he sags, even as his hips still surge at you. He's wringing the last bit of passion out. A fleeting memory of caution tossed to a breeze, and a wedding in a dress tight around the belly four months later. But that's a worry for another day and time.
He rolls off and nestles beside you. "That was bloody fabulous," he gasps.
He sounds just like when he's complimenting a particularly delicious roast dinner, but you let it pass. You fit under his arm and his bicep makes a comfortable pillow. His fingertips stoke lazy circles on your brow. He presses soft kisses to your temple and then his mouth comes to rest there. His breathing slows.
"Don't fall asleep now."
"I was just thinking that we should get under the covers." He pulls you tight to his body, sharing his warmth.
"You must go."
His deep sigh lifts and drops you like riding a swell to the shore. "Can't have any gossip."
That, and it's all too much. After so long with nothing, to have his smell and the taste of his skin on your lips, the very bulk of him weighing down your bed…it's blinding.
He swings around to sit and the mattress bounces back up. "Where'd my bloody socks get to?"
Finding your own dressing gown, you join in the search for garments, helping him to dress.
He kisses the top of your head as you fasten his belt. "Careful there. Dressing me is having the same effect as taking my clothes off."
Instead, you lean in, pressing against the bulge in his trousers. He's yours; to excite, to entice, to reject.
He buries his nose in your hair. "Floozy." His strong arms wrap tightly around your waist, and you feel fragile and feminine, enough to lay your head on his shoulder.
"May I come to Adelaide? To visit? Not just…for this. But a proper visit."
"I think I'll be on the couch for the first few weeks. Until a feeding schedule can be settled and Amelia sleeps through the night. Then I'm to rent a worker's cottage. There's not enough room in the house."
"I'll come in a few weeks then."
You smooth his tie and tuck it into his waistcoat. "Yes. Do come."
As always, he wants more than what is offered. "I will take you to the bus stop tomorrow. To see you off."
"You're still working on the case. I understand that you're busy."
He hums and the brightness in his eyes dims. "I'd better go then."
You tighten the sash on your gown. "Right."
His arm comes around your waist and pulls you into a breath-taking kiss. Even when his mouth eases free, he leans his forehead to yours. "Right," he whispers.
He's gone through the door before you can find your balance again. Only then do you see that he's left his scones. Wiping tears away carefully, you find your towel and toiletry bag and go down the corridor to the bath. Bathing washes away his scent but that's for the best. It was just meant for an afternoon.
The bed holds the smell, though, and your night's dreams are a tangle of passion and loss.
The next morning, you dress carefully. Your prettiest dress, one that he hasn't seen before. Let this be a meeting between two lovers, not the doctor and his housekeeper. But it's not he who raps on your door. You're not surprised, but oddly disappointed. Thankfully Mattie doesn't mention the tears glistening in your eyes.
At the bus stop, the sun is bright, and the busy street keeps you on edge. You try not to be watching for him, but you are. A set of wide shoulders, a tilt of a Fedora, sandy hair at the nape of the neck, but it's not Lucien. Some lover you are. Your man's body should never be mistaken for another. Perhaps it was nothing to you as well as him.
Finally, the driver calls out to you: "Miss, we have to go, I'm afraid."
Take your seat. The dress was to symbolise not being his housekeeper anymore, and that it does. Leaving that life to become a grandmother. Down Armstrong Street, ready to turn the corner—but the bus lurches to a stop instead. Impatience—you must leave Ballart now.
The late passenger comes up the bus's stairwell and his gaze immediately seeks yours. Somehow he knew where you'd be seated.
Your mind goes completely, utterly blank. Your first immediate thought is, why is he here? You wanted him to come and why is he here? He's coming down the aisle; his gaze has never left your face, even as he sits beside you. Somehow you shifted over to make room—you have no memory of doing this.
You're not a heroine from a favourite picture, ready to fall into your lover's embrace. You are Jean Anne Beazley, and nothing like this happens to widowed farmer's wives who've been forced into domestic service. Once again, you're reminded that impulsive actions can have repercussions.
He's looking at your mouth; he'll want to kiss you. There's at least a dozen people on the bus who you know. Him chasing the bus to stop it—so like him; why not make an extreme gesture if you're going to make any at all—will be bad enough. If he were to kiss you know, it would be the kiss of a man who'd made passionate love to you.
"Jean, I..."
He must be stopped. "No, don't say anything." You barely have the strength to shake your head. "Not yet."
You grab his hand as an anchor, and once again, he envelopes it with his two hands. With nowhere else to go, you collapse onto his shoulder. You feel his lips at your hairline. You hang onto that hand; the ship isn't going down. He's still mercifully, blissfully, silent. There's nothing to be said. Not yet.
There was so much unsaid with Christopher, never to be spoken to him now. You won't make that mistake again. When you do speak, you'll tell Lucien that once you've assured that your son's family is settled, you'll come back to Ballarat. Tell him that you'll come home.
~end