For once, Lucien had perfect timing. Just as Jean was putting supper on the table, he returned home in a cloud of dust and with his trousers torn.
While he'd been out with Matthew on their investigation, she'd given a quick vacuum around the rooms. Evelyn was a dear for cleaning while they were away, but Jean felt better knowing the housework was up to her own standards. She'd also unpacked their suitcases. The heavy luggage from the ocean liner would arrive by carrier tomorrow. Lastly, after putting dinner on the stove, she'd made their new bed with fresh sheets, an expectant smile on her face.
Lucien tossed his dirt-smeared jacket aside and loosened his tie. "Now where was I?" he asked rhetorically, pulling Jean into a kiss.
When they eased part, flushed and breathing rapidly, Jean gave his chest a light slap, bringing up a puff of dust: "Silly man," she scolded. "Look at the state of you."
Then she glanced behind him. "Where's Matthew? It's just stew, but I'm sure he'd welcome some home cooking after dining out so much."
"He said not to expect him," Lucien said speculatively.
Jean immediately caught his tone. "What is it? Or who is it?"
Lucien didn't want to distract Jean from their love life with his theories about Matthew's. He took his chair and tugged her down onto his lap.
"You're being silly again," she scolded, but wound her arms around his neck. "Bit hard to eat this way," she mused after they'd had a few clumsy and off-target mouthfuls.
He chuckled. "I'm not that hungry," he admitted. His palm settled on her hip. "At least not for food."
"What are you in the mood for?"
His hand started to make circles on her flank. "We've had such a long day. We should get to bed."
She glanced at the saucepan on the stove.
"Leave it," he murmured.
"I am awfully tired," she agreed and he smirked with satisfaction.
But she insisted on putting away the leftovers, shooing him off to the bedroom first.
He scrambled out of his dirty clothes, showering in three minutes flat, wincing at the sting of water on his latest injury, a long scratch on his calf. With a winter chill settling on the house, he paused to build a fire. Nonetheless, he was in fresh pyjamas and stretched out on the bed by the time Jean appeared in the doorway.
She looked around the large but intimate bedroom created out of Genevieve's old studio, and sighed happily. "The honeymoon was wonderful, but it's good to be home."
He patted the bed beside him. "Indeed."
Tipping her head, she examined her husband and he passed her approval as well. His blue satin pyjamas and fawn-colored cashmere dressing gown complimented his sandy hair and twinkling eyes so well. However, she decided to toy with him just a bit. She gave a face-splitting yawn. "This was a splendid idea. I'm utterly exhausted." She drifted to the wardrobe. "And this cold! Where's my flannelette nightdress and woollen slippers?"
With her back to him, he couldn't see her grin when she heard his whimper. She chose the nightdress made of the thickest fabric with a long flouncing hem and a high collar. Shaking it out garnered a low whine from Lucien, so like a puppy denied his bone.
She headed toward the bathroom with her gown and dress over her arm, then did a U turn to her dressing table, planning to pick up one more item in preparation for when she'd relent in her teasing and stop Lucien's suffering.
But the small box wasn't on the table. She quickly looked through her cosmetic case. It wasn't there. With a sense of doom, she hurried to the bathroom to check her travel toiletries bag, ignoring Lucien's questions.
It was nowhere in the bathroom. The last place she looked was their empty suitcases, checking the shoe pockets, and patting the lining for the vital item but it wasn't there. She rocked back on her heels, disappointed.
"What is it, darling?" Lucien asked.
She tried to remember the last time she'd seen it. This morning in their stateroom, Jean had discovered that her monthly had ended. She decided to awake Lucien in a manner she knew he'd welcome, when the steward had suddenly arrived, insisting on taking the large trunks in preparation for the docking in Melbourne. In the toilet, she snatched up the item to hide before the young man saw it...where had she put it?
She had pulled her sheer negligee off the back of the door, another thing she didn't want a boy young enough to be her son to see, and had quickly rolled the garment around the item...and had shoved it in the top tray of the steamer trunk before firmly locking it.
She groaned.
Lucien leapt from the bed and rushed to her side. "What is it?" he repeated.
"It's not here."
"What?"
"It," she said significantly, tipping her head toward the bed.
His brow furrowed. Then cleared. "It?"
"Yes," she said sadly.
"Your diaphram?"
She shushed him and looked around quickly. He found himself lowering his head and peering furtively over his shoulder, despite knowing they were alone.
"Yes," she hissed.
"I see," he said, confused. "What do you want it for?"
She turned to him and raised her eyebrows. "Nothing, it seems," she said in clipped tones and leapt to her feet.
But when he said, "Oh," with such dawning understanding that she had to forgive him with a kiss.
He cradled her face with his large hands, and fought his disappointment. It seemed ridiculous, considering it had been too many years to count for him, and even longer for Jean, that not making love in the past five days for Jean's period had felt a hardship. Not that he hadn't offered to soldier on...only to receive that singular expression she possessed which encapsulated fury, confusion, and discomfort.
She was offering now, and he wasn't going to lose this chance. "There wouldn't be much of a risk," he said as he carefully drew her to the bed, "at our age—"
Bouncing off the mattress, she flared up higher than the fire. He backtracked. "Biologically, the odds are lower, that's all," he murmured, tugging her back, and skillfully and efficiently undressed her. No longer offended, Jean managed to get his dressing gown and pyjamas off as well, so they could fall onto the bed in a tangle of naked limbs.
He snuggled in the nest of her open legs, grinning between kisses. She scolded him for being silly, but returned the smiles. His fingertips danced down her body, from shoulder, tickling her ribs—garnering him giggles—stroking over the swell of her belly, to slide through curls and and into dark warmth. Ready, she arched up to his touch.
"Yes, Lucien, please—" she moaned, but when he took himself in hand and nudged at her opening, she immediately stiffened.
He instantly moved back. "What is it, darling?"
She carefully shifted out from under him; not a good sign. "Exactly how high is the risk?" she asked in a small voice.
When they'd had an uncomfortable conversation about birth control options before the wedding, she'd confessed the circumstances of her first marriage. Frankly, he'd been surprised she was acknowledging the chance of pregnancy at all, and even more, would want to hinder it. But he had to admit in his heart of hearts, he wished their family to be just the two of them, with occasional visits from grandchildren, who could then be sent home in a timely fashion. For their upcoming honeymoon trip, he'd suggested she be fitted for a diaphragm instead of starting the new oral medication. It had been a mature discussion between two adults, seriously considering the probability and outcome. He couldn't dismiss her concern now.
"Well...you are at your most fertile time," he had to admit. "But in theory, it still shouldn't be that high of a risk—" He wasn't going to mention their ages again.
She sat upright and pulled the satin bedspread to cover her bare breasts. He bit his lower lip. His reassurances weren't working.
Snatching up his dressing gown, he gave a strained smile. "I'll tell you what. You stay right here and keep the bed warm, while I pop over to the surgery for some Johnnies."
Harrumphing at his coarse language, she crawled beneath the covers. Pushing a pillow under her head, she gazed up at the gold-speckled ceiling. It was simply wonderful to be home.
He was gone longer than she expected. Faintly, she could hear thudding of cabinets and drawers opening and closing. His returning footfall was much slower than his exit. He came and sat on the edge of the bed. "I can't find the box. I suppose Dr Harvey dispensed them all while I was gone?"
They both looked at each other with dawning speculation.
"You don't think?" Lucien tipping his head in the direction of Matthew's room.
"Did she say anything to you?"
"Why would she tell me?" he sputtered.
"You're like a brother to her."
"Would you tell your brother about this?" he asked, nodding to the bed.
Grumpily, she reached for the flannelette nightdress she'd tossed aside. "Tell him about what? Nothing happening here."
His shoulders slumped while she pulled it over her head and her lovely breasts disappeared from his view. But he was only thwarted for a moment. He slid under the covers, still naked. "You know, Jean, we don't have to..." Reaching for her, he flicked loose her nightdress's buttons and nosed under the fabric. He latched onto her nipple and she gasped. His beard tickled her breast when he grinned, and she giggled and moaned in the same breath.
"There's other ways to enjoy each other," he reminded her, the rumble of his words shaking her bones. Four months of experience with this man; she knew exactly what he was talking about. His attention could be focused as a welder's flame, and just as heated.
She clawed at his bare back, biting into the hard muscles and smooth skin. "Yes, but..."
He raised his head and cocked and eyebrow at her. "But?" he said huffily, rolling off her.
She patted at his arm. "Truly, Lucien, it's wonderful." It. A different it, this one was his skill with his fingers and mouth, how he'd discovered places all the secret places on her body. Which was truly wonderful, but different from what she wanted at the moment. Sometimes, a woman just wanted...it. Yet another it; a hard solid it. Her face flaming and eyes shifting, she couldn't possibly verbalise these roiling emotions. All she could managed was a weak, "But..."
"But," he echoed. He settled back on his pillow and stared up at the ceiling, now glowing red from the dying fire. Too bad his fire wasn't banking. This wasn't helped when Jean nestled under his arm and set her head on his chest, her hand making slow circles on the swell of his belly. He gave a shaking sigh.
"I'm sorry," she offered.
"It's fine," he said, sounding not the least bit pleased.
She carefully shifted back, pulling her arms in so not to touch him. Her sigh was equally loud in the silent room.
After a very long moment, Lucien said, "Now that I think about it, I may have something—" He scrambled from the bed, and started searching through the boxes in the cabinets.
"What is it?" Jean asked.
He brought an old Army tin box to the light. She propped herself up on her elbow to watch, curious. He put aside a few old ties, a pair of ragged pants with a hole smack in the bum, and a few spare socks with no mates. Then a razor and shaving brush, the sight of which made Jean stroke his beard. He gave her a quick smile, and dug deeper.
"Ah, here we go!" He triumphantly held up a small worn cardboard packet.
At the sight of the red lettering Checker, Jean drew back. "What did you have those for?" she asked coldly. Joy McDonald's face came to her, and Jean immediately felt a combination of anger and guilt.
Lucien was so excited to find them, he didn't catch her mood at first. "What?" he replied, puzzled.
"Those," she hissed.
"These?" He held the packet up.
"Yes."
He finally understood. "I carried them around a long time ago. Long before I came back to Ballarat," he assured her. Then peered at the production date on the back. "In fact, I hope they're still good." He opened the flap and carefully removed the wrapper. "Where were we?" he said, all business.
She instantly became agreeable again, and wiggled out of the nightdress, then stretched out beside him.
Everything heated up quickly, with relaxed deep kisses and her strong fingers stroking him until he was shuddering like his father's old car. He gripped her wrist. "Careful there, my love."
She lolled on the crumbled bedspread, her tongue caught between her teeth as she grinned.
"Tart," he said affectionately. "Let me suit up..."
He fumbled with the wrapper. It had been a long time, perhaps too long... He managed to get it open, but the latex stuck to his fingers. The lubricant seemed to have dried to tacky. He shook his hand, trying to get it loose, only to have it stick on his other hand. Focused, he ignored Jean's giggles. When he tugged it free though, it snapped sickeningly, and the condom flew across the room, right into the fireplace. Both stared at the sudden flaming of the fire.
Jean shoved her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing outright. Lucien furrowed his brow awfully at her.
"Don't distract me. I must concentrate," he said as he took the second wrapped condom from the packet. He closed his eyes so not to be looking at her curled by his side, so like a lean cat that he wanted to stroke until she purred.
He got the condom on and crawled on top of her, wincing a bit. "Forgotten the feel of these things."
"Like wading in gumboots, Christopher used to say."
He frowned at hearing about her first husband. She caught his expression and wrapped her leg around his calf, drawing him to her. He hissed when her heel ran up his fresh cut.
"What is it?"
"Just a flesh wound," he assured her.
"Lucien, you must take better care!"
Ignoring her concern, he lifted her easily, making her gasp with his strength, tilting her hips up to meet his thrust. His pain forgotten, her head fell back, exposing her long throat to his lips and teeth. Her writhing, pulsing body excited him. Planting his hands on the mattress, he started pounding into her, her cries of encouragement urging him on. Only to slip free in a particularly vigorous moment. Fumbling around between their bodies and trying to ignore her grumbles of discontent, he found that the damned condom had come off.
"Bloody hell," Lucien growled. "Major Blake, you're out of practice."
"Lucien!" Jean howled at him.
"I know! I know!" he muttered, reaching for the third and final wrapper. This was it. He had to make this shot. He turned away from Jean, her heated skin, her intoxicating scent, all was a terrible distraction. He quickly dried his hands on the sheet before tearing open the paper and carefully removing the prophylactic. When he touched himself, the jerk of heated flesh nearly knocked the condom from his fingers. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and visualised Edward Tyneman's dead body. That cooled him down. The sheath rolled on smoothly.
He lay back on the bed. "Alright, Jean, let's do this very carefully."
"You make it sound like defusing a bomb," she said huffily.
"It is rather," he noted, leading her to straddle him. "This position should be more stable."
"This isn't very romantic," she fussed, but still rose to her knees and slid down as he carefully held the condom securely in place.
"You want romance?" he threatened, narrowing his eyes.
The flash of her grin made him melt. Her palms on his chest, she lightly balanced her weight as she rose and fell lazily, finding a controlled rhythm.
"Oh Jean," he breathed with approval.
"Yes," she replied, understanding perfectly.
The fire was low, casting deep shadows across Lucien's body, but his eyes glowed from the darkness, two pools of deep water. She leaned forward and kissed his fluttering eyelids, nipped at his jerking Adam's apple, brushed her nose against this bristled beard before rising back up.
He traced the patterns of red flame on her skin, rolling her nipples to tightness with his thumbs, stroked the rivets of sweat down her torso to part curls and caress her swollen flesh.
"Damn you, Doctor," she gasped, brushing loose her damp hair clinging to her neck.
He laughed, arching up and making her gasp. "Only you could make doctor sound erotic."
He'd said she was at her most fertile, and that's how she felt at the moment. Blooming, her skin blushing like one of her begonia blossoms, fragrant and trembling...she was suddenly overwhelmed and swept away by her orgasm, and her fingers clutched at his arms for support, her nails turning into his muscles. He held her, strength and power, surging up to meet her arching body. With a crack of heat, the last log broke and collapsed with them, plunging the room into darkness.
"Damn, out of practice on this part too," Lucien said, fumbling to hold the condom as he shifted away from Jean. He managed to rise and stagger to the toilet for proper disposal.
He barely made it back to flop facedown on the mattress beside Jean. The chill goosefleshed his skin. Jean rubbed his bum to warm it and he managed to laugh into the pillow.
"You're my good boy," she said affectionately. "Thank you for this."
"Third time was a charm," he moaned.
"The trunks will be here tomorrow afternoon with it," she promised him.
He made a grumpy sound. There was no way he could even move at the moment, but there was nothing to say he wouldn't be ready to go by dawn. And there were no more condoms—
They heard the front door open and close. Footfall came down the hall. Both of their heads popped up, exhaustion forgotten.
"Matthew's home," hissed Jean.
Lucien cocked his head. He caught a lighter, tapping step. "And he's not alone," he whispered.
Jean burrowed under the duvet as though Matthew and his companion were going to burst through the door. But Lucien got up and tugged on his dressing gown.
"Where are you going?" she gasped.
His grin was bright in the dim room. "To see if they've brought home another box."
~ end
Thank you to Aussiegirl for Aussifying the fic, and to the fangirl who inspired this plot, as well as those friends who had all sorts of helpful ideas.