"Your patient is down in the cells." Hobart smirked and straightened his tie. "He resisted arrest," he offered as his usual excuse.
Lucien tightly gripped his medical bag in frustration and stormed out of the squad room. That big bastard had to be stopped. Clattering down the stairs, he decided to type up an official complaint to Melbourne as soon as he got home.
Harold Wallace was slumped face down on a cot. Constable Simmons, who'd been escorting Lucien, quickly opened the cell door for him. Rolling the man over, Lucien checked the damage. Harold's face was beaten to a pulp and he reeked of booze, but he was conscious and breathing clearly.
"We're good, Ned. You can get back to your duties."
"Right, Doctor," Ned said, leaving the cell door ajar before walking away.
Harold mumbled something, then winced and tried to touch his split lip.
"Leave it, Mr Wallace," Lucien said, opening his bag to take out a bottle of alcohol and cotton swabs. Ignoring the moans of protest, he cleaned Harold's face quickly and efficiently. "The swelling on that eye will need to go down before you can open it," he said.
"Bloody hell," Harold groaned. "Bastard copper."
Lucien wadded up the soiled cotton and tossed it in the bucket in the corner. "That he is."
Harold propped himself upright and finally focused on the man with him in the cell. "Who you?" he bellowed rudely.
"Dr Lucien Blake, at your service," Lucien said with humour.
"Blake, Blake..." muttered Harold. "Yer Dad was a doc too?"
"Yes." Lucien snapped his bag shut, already mentally detailing the report he'd make to the Chief Constable on yet another victim of Sergeant Hobart.
Harold scratched his head, then winced in pain at his sore skull. "You're the one who's gonna get hitched to me mate's old lady."
Tugging down his waistcoat, Lucien smiled. "Jean Beazley has agreed to be my wife, if that's who you mean."
"Yeah, that's her." Harold swiped his greasy hair back with a shaking hand. "Want some advice on how to handle her." It wasn't a question.
"Excuse me?"
Harold peered up at Lucien out of his one bloodshot eye that would open. "She needs to be put in her place sometimes. She'll think she's too good for it. Ol' Chris had to show her who's the man now and again."
"Excuse me?" Lucien repeated as a rising red tide suffused through his limbs.
"She gets snooty, up herself. Like your dunny door, she needs a good hard bang every now and then." Harold flopped over and mumbled into the blanket, "Chris took care of that, you better too. Just push 'er down give it to 'er. Don't be piss weak."
"Yes," Lucien said hollowly.
"Give it to 'er hard," Harold slurred, his thick tongue protruding from his swollen, bloody lips.
Lucien visualised slamming his jaw shut to cut that tongue right off. Instead, he turned and left the cell without a word, closing the door very quietly behind him. There was a roaring in his ears. He couldn't feel his legs as he climbed the stairs. He wasn't sure how he got back to the squad room. His heartbeat was loud; he wondered if others could hear the thundering. It had been a very long time since he'd felt this angry.
Hobart was by his desk and scowled at Lucien, waiting for the chiding. Lucien blinked, the room coming into focus. He spoke low, so only Hobart could hear him: "Mr Wallace seems to have gotten the wrong impression from your encounter."
Hobart's brow furrowed. "Wha?"
Lucien leaned close. "He told me that you were aroused by wrestling with him."
"Eh?"
"Sexually aroused," Lucien clarified.
Bill's face flushed an ugly red.
"Of course, he put it a bit more bluntly, but that was the gist."
Loosening his tie again, Hobart stormed off toward the cellblock.
Lucien called after him, "Yes, you may want to have another chat with him. I'd hate for him to spread around his misconception."
He gave Ned a stiff smile. "I'll be heading home. I don't think I'll be needed any more today."
"Where have you been?" Jean called from the kitchen table as she heard the front door open and close and the sounds of Lucien hanging his hat and coat. "We've started dinner without you," she said reproachfully.
He stopped at the alcove to reply. "I went for a drive after the callout to the station. Lost track of time."
His dull tone and downcast eyes made Jean stop cutting her piece of chicken and look at him sharply as he entered the kitchen. She started to rise. "I'll make you a plate while you get a drink."
"I'm fine." He dished up his own food, then sat at the table. He had not gotten his usual Scotch.
Jean began to speak again, but the way he was eating automatically told her to wait. She gave Charlie a worried smile across the table.
Not catching her warning, Charlie pressed: "Everything alright at the station, Doc?"
"Yes. The prisoner wasn't in too bad of shape."
She didn't like how blank Lucien's eyes were. This was never a good sign with him. "Someone you know?" she hazarded a guess.
His gaze shot up. After a long moment, he said, "Never met him in my life," but then fell silent.
She finished her dinner, making small talk with Charlie. Let Lucien have a good brood, she decided.
After they cleaned up and moved into the lounge, Charlie finally seemed to sense the tension in the air, and excused himself for the evening, claiming a good book was waiting in his room. Jean didn't suggest that he bring it down to read. Obviously she and Lucien had to sort something out.
Neither put on the wireless or the phonograph. The only sound was the solid ticking of the clock. She got out her sewing basket and he picked up a newspaper but only to flip through it with irritated jerks of his wrist. He still hadn't poured a drink. Deciding she wouldn't get her nightly kiss and cuddle from her fiancé, she concentrated on adding pleats to the front of a blouse she was making over for her trousseau. Feeling his intense gaze on her, she only bent her head lower.
"What date did we finally settle on for the wedding?"
She blinked at the challenge in his voice. "October 28th."
"I thought it was September 12th."
"That was before we booked our holiday. There were no cottages in Lorne available that week."
"Right," he said shortly.
Shaking her head, she returned to her sewing.
"The date was earlier yet, though."
"What?"
"When we first set the date. You've delayed it several times."
She laid aside the blouse and folded her hands in her lap. "We've had to change it as things have come up, yes."
He put down his newspaper as well. He raised chin in that defiant way she knew so well. "Right then. I want you to know, if you wish to cry off, I'd understand."
"Cry off what?"
"The wedding."
She hopped up. "Lucien, what has gotten into you?"
He remained seated. "Just as I said."
"If you don't want to get married, I'm not going to beg you, if that's what you expect." She pushed her hair back from her flushed face.
His jaw tensed but he didn't reply.
Her stomach in knots, she felt as though she was going to lose her dinner. Lucien had been fine before he'd gone to the station— "Who was that patient, Lucien?" she asked in a dangerous tone that warned him that he'd better answer.
"A man named Harold Wallace."
Furrowing her brow, she searched her memory. Finally, she remembered him as a mate of Christopher's... "What did he say?"
"Bullshit. Pure bullshit."
Jean took half a step back. "But you must have taken it to heart. You've been in a mood."
He looked away. "It brought light to some things for me. I put them together and wondered if perhaps you're not keen."
Now she felt like cursing too. "What did he say, Lucien!"
He finally stood. "I'd never want to hurt you, Jean. I've been so intent on my own happiness, that I think I've ignored signs that you're not as enthusiastic—"
"What did he say," she hissed.
"That Christopher wasn't always kind." He turned his back to her and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "That..man...had suggestions how I should manage you... If you wouldn't—." He glanced over his shoulder and looked her up and down.
She staggered back, feeling stripped naked and exposed in her own home. Bile rose again, but she managed to fight it down. She left the room quietly, but when she slammed her bedroom door, it was as loud as a gunshot.
Lucien didn't follow. Ever since he'd heard those hideous words from Wallace, he'd worried over all the times that he'd held her in his arms, feeling the blush under his lips on her cheek, how her thighs pushed his pelvis away as to not have his erection press against her belly, the gasp that would break their kiss much too soon.
First in Adelaide, where he marked it up to the uncertainty of the future, then when they got home, there was Mattie or Charlie under foot, now she seemed to always have an excuse: "Lucien, I'd better put the kettle on—" or the washing needed to come off the line, or surely Charlie would come in on them...and now he could have only one conclusion. She was off sex.
Jean didn't bother to knock, she just banged through Lucien's bedroom door under a full head of steam. She pulled up short at the sight of him.
Lit by a single lamp, he sat on his dressing table bench, naked but for his shorts, holding a single sock in his right hand. He'd been staring blankly at the wall and turned his head to meet her indignant gaze.
She snapped her shoulders back. "Right." She had his ring balled in her fist and slapped it on the corner of the dressing table. "I'll give you what you want." The emerald winked in the low light, mocking them both. She'd been so pleased that he hadn't offered her Genevieve Blake's ring again, and had purchased a modern setting with a single brilliant stone. Now that was ruined too. This man...
"It's not what I want," he protested.
Folding her arms, she glared down at him. "I don't want your pity. I couldn't abide being married to a man who saw me as some sort of damaged..."
He leapt up. "Never. I never would have known—"
She should have taken pride in that, but the pain on his face was an indictment.
Suddenly chilled, she rubbed her arms. She should have put on her thick pink wrap instead of this light dressing gown over her silk pajamas. "It was nothing, Lucien. Christopher would just have one too many at the pub occasionally, that's all. Not able to see how tired I was, or really hear me say no. It was nothing," she repeated. "But to have you think that I wouldn't be a good wife to you because of that—"
Lucien didn't know what to say or do. Everything he'd done so far had been very wrong. He snatched his dressing gown off the end of the bed and tugged it on. He became utterly fascinated with the sash, turning it over and over in his hands. "I've been so intent on being the sort of man you would want, that I hadn't paid attention that you may not want a man at all."
"Excuse me?"
He winced. He'd done it again. "I mean, that being with a man may be too upsetting, that's all."
"I told you, it was nothing really. It was years ago; I don't even think about it." But she was doing that thing where she buried her chin in her chest that gave him physical pain to see.
Then she gave him even greater anguish. "I'm not special in any way, you know. It's just something that wives expect to happen." The flap of her hand was like a fluttering broken wing of a small bird.
"Yes, I know." The vision of Mei Lin's scarred back came before him and he thought he was going to be ill. All the other women he'd seen and couldn't help; walking wounded in the streets of Singapore, a parade of wives in Ballarat, all protesting just as Jean was that it was nothing really—
Christopher Beazley had been only a two dimensional vision of light and dark to Lucien, someone who he had felt slightly guilty toward for stealing his wife fifteen years after the fact. Now he wished nothing more than to have the man standing before him so that he might beat the life from him.
Gulping his fury down, he managed to say, "But it's not the sort of husband that I would be. I know it doesn't mean much to hear it, but it's true."
She was trying to be so strong, but her fingers quivered when she pressed them to her lips. "I know that, Lucien."
"Knowing and feeling are two different things though."
Taking his seat on the dressing table chair, she nodded. He watched her think. It was one of things that he loved about her, how she thought everything through. But at times like this, just going on gut feelings may be better—
Her first question wasn't what he expected. "Did you hurt Harry?"
"Harry?" Lucien shook his head. "Oh, Wallace." He raised his chin. "I didn't lay a hand on him."
She squinted at him. His face remained impassive.
"Right then. If we're going to do this, I think we could give it a try."
"What?"
"I told you," she said patiently, "I won't have you to pity me. I say that we give it a go and you'll see there's nothing wrong."
His mouth actually fell open. He glanced up at the ceiling.
"Short of this house crashing down around us, I don't think Charlie will be sticking his head out his door tonight."
Lucien said carefully, "I'm not sure if I understand what you're suggesting."
Sighing, Jean stood. "Let's do it." She nodded towards the bed.
"It wouldn't be right—"
"I won't have you think—" she said combatively.
He closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her, pinning her own arms to her sides. She clenched her teeth at her sudden panic.
"I'm sorry, Jean," he murmured in her ear but didn't release her. "I'm so very sorry."
"Of course I'm upset. You're holding me tightly," she sputtered.
He released her and stepped back, but she was still furious, in a hot, blinding way.
"I don't want to be one of your patients," she spit out.
"And I won't treat you like one of my experiments. You're not a pig's head to test wound patterns on."
She flinched. His fingertips grazed her cheek that had twitched. "I love you, Jean. I want to make love to you. To treasure your body. Adore you."
That strong wave washed over her head, and she had that sensation of panic and fear again. Every time he touched and kissed her, she had felt it. She'd tried to overcome this before. Was she just rusty at the ways of men and women, afraid of being out of practice? Or because that the last time had been unpleasant?
No. It was this. She'd known how to respond to what Christopher did, but this... A sense that Lucien would take all her carefully built control away, leaving her with a great unknown in its place. What woman would she be then? She must find out; she leaned into his touch.
His eyes went a darker shade of blue when he saw her reaction. His lips spoke against her neck. "Trust me. I can stop any time."
Trust him; she could do that. But could she trust herself? Here came the wave again— She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging on to save her life. He swept her up and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her on his lap.
But he only rocked her, and her heartbeat slowed.
"We can't—" he dared to say.
When she whispered, "No one will know," in his ear, she felt the tug of an undertow, pulling her even further beneath the surface.
He quickly licked his lips and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I don't want to be responsible for ruining your reputation," he said primly.
She had to laugh and once she started, she couldn't stop, tightening her grip on his neck. He held her close, his arms loose around her waist, his own chuckles resonating through her body.
But he stopped laughing when she spoke. "What if we marry and I don't please you. I couldn't do that to you, Lucien." She wanted to straighten this out now.
"Jean—"
"Lucien."
"You always please me."
She wiggled on his lap, half trying to get free, and half trying to get more comfortable. "Don't patronise me."
"I don't—"
"You do, sometimes."
She felt his huff of discontent but he didn't protest further. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck. "And sometimes you make me feel marvellous, like no one ever has."
His fingertips travelled along the neckline of her pyjama top. "I can make you feel...more marvellous."
She traced his collarbone with her thumb. "I thought you didn't want to—"
He laughed again, but raw and rough. "I want to be your husband, Jean. Not prove a point."
"And I want to be your wife, Lucien. In every way."
Pressing his lips to her cheekbone, he whispered so low that she almost didn't hear, "Do you trust me?"
"Of course," she murmured back.
He tugged her gown open and flicked the buttons free from her top. A shudder passed through her body before he even reached the bottom button and he immediately stopped.
"It's alright," she quickly said.
His hand remained still and he just gazed at her. "Trust me to stop whenever you need me to. You don't have to even say it. I will stop."
Biting her lower lip, she scrambled off his lap. He gripped his knees tightly.
She stood before him, her gown and top hanging loosely open. Fiddling with the final button, she finally slipped it undone. He remained perfectly still, but bit the corner of his bottom lip as she shed her nightclothes quickly. Fighting a hysterical giggle, she kicked aside the bottoms to stand naked before him.
His gaze shot up to meet her eyes and stayed focused there. Her nipples tightened from the chill and anxiety, but he didn't look. Instead, he held his arms open, and she stepped into their cradle, sliding her palms up his forearms, over his biceps, to come to rest on his shoulders. The muscles bunched when she squeezed them.
Again, just his fingertips touched her, but he touched her everywhere. Down her spine, stroked over the swell of her buttocks, tickled at the back of her thighs until she gasped a giggle. His mouth started on the front of her. The brush of his beard on the tops of her breasts as he lapped at her collarbone, the tip of his tongue up the cord of her neck, the warmth of his breath as he suckled her earlobe. She sagged against him as though he'd yanked her to him with great force.
"Yes," he groaned, "Let's."
She felt as weightless as a feather when he somehow lifted her to lay across the bed. Her gasps sped, but he didn't crawl on her, or shove down his shorts. He barely touched her at all. Once more, just his fingers, dancing down her stomach, followed by his lips. The sweetest of suckles at her nipples, one, then the other. The prickle of his beard was the harshest part of it all, and made her writhe as though he was slapping her. He breathed in her breast, but just with the slightest pressure of his tongue sliding against its weight.
She grabbed his hair, frustrated to blindness at finding no purchase in the short strands. If she was urging him on, he didn't seem to notice. His thumb slowly circled her belly button as he swept her hair back with the turn of his head, his nose shockingly cold against her flushed skin. The tip of his tongue found the swirl of her ear. It was as though he knew where every scrap of delicate skin was on her body.
She felt as though she should be returning the favour, really, but all should manage was to weakly grasp at his solid body. He remained on his stomach nearly out of her reach, only his head and shoulders close to her seeking hands.
"Lucien," she finally whined.
He shifted and she desperately clawed for him, only to find that he was rolling her over. Face down, blind, at the mercy of his hands again, squeezing tight, twitching shoulders, his thumbs stroking the sides of her breasts, then down the dip of her spine, his lips following. Finally his teeth nipping gently, a tickle at her ribs. She grabbed great handfuls of the bedcovers and twisted them when he kissed at her bottom; a ridiculous, delicious sensation. Then his nose dipped between her clamped together thighs and her eyes snapped open when she felt his tongue sliding...there.
"What are you doing, Lucien?"
He rocked back on his heels, his breathing loud as thunder in the silent room. He didn't reply.
Her own breathing rasped, and she turned her face to look away from him. He wasn't going to try and convince her of anything. It had to be her choice. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she eased her legs apart.
Like a cooling breeze, he stroked her hair off her damp neck, and pressed kisses at her jumping pulse. His hand slid across her shoulder, down her back again, and over the swell of her bottom. By the time his fingers sought entry, her hips were rising to meet them. Still, she was too tight, anxious in a bright, angry moment.
He murmured wordless reassurance against her shoulder blade. His palm cupped her, just that lightest of touches between her folds, finding what arousal there was and teasing it free. Her eyelids drifted shut again, closing the curtain on her shame and inhibitions.
The mattress dipped as he lay on his back beside her but to her confusion, he was gently urging her to straddle his shoulders. She felt silly—but his finger slid into her and this time she was ready, bearing down with a groan. He finally showed some of his tight control; he bit her belly, but his tongue quickly swabbed away the pain.
"Here, right here," he urged, guiding her to scoot higher, his kisses peppering her lower belly, the point of her hip, his nose pushed through damp curls—she had a moment of nearly overwhelming uncertainty, even as she grabbed for the headboard as though gripping a lifeboat in a storm.
Then his mouth found flesh, swollen to the point of pain, and her head snapped back. She knew nothing but this sensation, this need. She gasped a moan as another finger slid in, giving her fullness to match the throbbing under his tongue, the rush of blood thudding in her limbs.
"Oh God, Lucien, Lucien, God—"
She could vaguely hear the headboard thumping on the wall as she yanked at it, and thought she should stop that, surely Charlie would wonder at the sound, but she couldn't stop, at anything...Not at grinding down on Lucien's hand, not jerking in rhythm to his lips and tongue. She had no idea what this was or how he was doing this. Her only clear thought as she suddenly collapsed was that was just like him to show her something she didn't know existed and now couldn't live without.
She felt resentment at that thought, and discomfort at his fingers. She fumbled down to grab his wrist and he immediately slid them free.
With strength that she didn't know she had, she quickly scrambled off him. Only now did he grab her with a good-natured, "Don't run off."
He sat up and once more, she was swooped up and into his embrace, this time to rest in the cradle of his bent legs. Her palms stroked over his shoulders and thick arms. He hid this power well, and she appreciated it.
She started to kiss him but leaned back to peer at his sticky face and beard. He only grinned, his bright teeth shining in the dim room. Fumbling around, she found his shorts which had somehow ended up discarded on the bed beside them. She wiped him dry fussily.
He took that as encouragement and kissed her deeply. Draping her arms around his neck, she grasped her elbows, holding him fast to her. Their slick skin slid chest to breasts, her bum along his strong thighs, her knees griped his flanks tightly. She liked this—
His erection pressed against her belly, the skin hot and tight. She gave a nervous huff and snuggled her face to under his raised chin.
"I suppose we should do something about that," she said brightly.
"Hmmm?" He lifted her sweaty hair off her neck to blow cool air on her sticky shoulder.
She reached between them and lightning fast, he grabbed her wrist. For the first time, she felt real fear when she saw his expression.
He carefully placed her hand on her own thigh. "It's fine. This is about you."
She furrowed her brow, trying to read him. He just gave her one of those smiles that she knew well as a door closed.
"I don't need to penetrate you to make love to you, Jean," he said and she winced at his honesty.
She hummed in the back of her throat, and began touching him as lightly as he'd caressed her. She traced the groove in his cheek and he turned his mouth to kiss her palm, making her gasp when his tongue found the most sensitive spot there. Damn this man...
Pressing her mouth to the leaping pulse at his throat, scratching her teeth along the light stubble coming to the surface. Skimming her thumbs down his arms, over the swell of bicep and divot of tricep, her palms pressing into the swell of his pectorals, whispering the names just like reading them off the anatomical chart on the surgery wall.
He chuckled into her cheek, his hands going on their own journey. Now he knew everywhere that made her whimper and moan—he was a quick study.
When he put his arm between their body, it was to both ward off her reach and find his own goal.
"Lucien—"
His fingers, tantalisingly gentle on tender flesh, sank inside her again, and she could only drop her head back at the sensation, protests dying on her lips. She undulated slowly, pressing down on the heel of his palm.
"That's my girl," he murmured and this snapped her into anger. Rising on her knees, she slid free of his hand but he shifted away before she could mount him. He braced back on his hands, and she clung to his hips tightly with her knees, keeping him from escaping. She could only rub at the base of his length, but it was enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut in agony.
She knew better than to ask him what was wrong, because he would say nothing. Or to ask who had hurt him like this; he would just say no one.
Cupping his cheek, she made him look at her. "I need you to protect me, Lucien. I need you to shield me."
Daring to loosen her grip on him, she went onto her back, reaching up for him. "Make me safe, please, my love."
His jaw worked before he could chew out words. "I'm afraid of hurting you."
"You're hurting me now."
After moments so long she could hear the ticking of the bedside clock, he carefully crawled between her legs, holding himself over her so no weight bore down. Still, she felt her breath quickening at his looming bulk.
Looking up at his face, she focused on his fear-filled eyes, the way that his lips quivered, the jump of a nerve on his cheek. She stroked that away, pulled his mouth down to hers for a kiss, deep and slow.
His weight settled on her like the night, dark and swarming. But when her palm came to rest on his ribcage she could feel his skin rippling with anguish. For the first time, she felt the spiderweb-fine ridges of scarring, then down to his hip, where a thick ridge of angry flesh dipped over his hipbone to his groin. His erection bobbed, thick and heavy, met her hand, and there was terror for both of them in the way it surged into her grip.
She put all her fear into her kiss, biting at his lower lip, tugging at his tongue, gasping for just enough air to keep all thought from her mind.
Falling out of the kiss, she stared up at him. His features were twisted in pain, but she thought that she saw hope in his gaze. Shifting her knees up, she pulled his hips to hers.
"I'll catch you," she promised him. "It's alright, come on, just—"
His fingers went between their bodies, holding her open. He was slow and careful as he slid in, and she bite the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out, her gaze never leaving his. Releasing a deep breath and tipping her hips, and he was there—Lucien was there.
She leaned up to kiss his chin. "I'll catch you," she repeated. "Always."
"I'm afraid of hurting you," he half sobbed.
"No, no you aren't. You're just afraid."
He clenched his jaw tightly and she wondered if it was to keep from cursing her or to not cry. She chose to believe the latter.
"I've got you. It's alright," she promised once more.
He didn't move. She wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed. Still nothing. She put her hands on his hips and pressed, having the silly notion of trying to find the on switch. Her thumb brushed the scar on his groin and he surged forward. Perhaps there was such a thing...
Suddenly everything was moving and real. It had all felt a dream before, but now every pore had a sensation; of pain, of pleasure, of explosive energy. His muscles bunching and stretching under her frantic grasp, the solidness of his bones when she gripped his elbow and hip, the grind of his pelvis to her, causing great flashes before her eyes and the pounding waves of ecstasy to shock through her limbs, and most of all, this thrusting length, pulling her open to feel exposed and revealed as a wanton creature who could tear at a man's back, thrash with pleasure, kick at his legs as if he were a willful pony. She flung her arms behind her and found the footboard. Leverage, to push back even more against his thrusts and the room went bright white. She wasn't sure if she screamed or if she only wanted to, but there was that sudden shame that surely Charlie would rush down now. They must hurry, hurry—
Lucien was shaking, his expression nothing but agony. She realised that he would have forgotten how to have joy; it had been too long.
Fingers laced behind his neck, pull his face down to breathe the words at him. "Fall. Just fall. I'll catch you. Promise. Always. Always."
He grabbed the footboard above her head and bore down. Now she felt pain and it was a pleasure. She'd take this from him, and hold it inside.
"I...You...You...Jean..." He tumbled down beside her, limp as a baby and she sobbed with happiness. "You...always, Jean. Always love," he mumbled into her damp hair. She rocked him and nodded, brushing tears from their cheeks with the back of her shaking hand.
He was so still and quiet that she assumed he was sleeping. She was wide awake, her eyes open in the dimness. She supposed that she should feel ashamed or confused about what had just happened, but instead she only felt the urge to laugh. She stifled it by pressing her mouth to the back of his big hand. Something told her that even Lucien wouldn't understand a fit of the giggles at this moment.
She felt him watching her and glanced down. He was peeking up, his expression worried. She kissed the tip of his nose as a reply to his unspoken questions. Sometimes he talked too much and she didn't want to have a conversation about this now.
Their skin cooled and chilled, except where their legs were still tangled and his heavy arm draped over her middle, keeping her secure to his side. It was uncomfortable, as was the wet beneath her bottom. She counted days in her head and had a flash of worry but then dismissed it. After all, neither of them were going anywhere.
It appeared this was true literally. Lucien remained where he'd fallen, just his lips working along her bare shoulder. Best to state the unromantic obvious. "We'll catch the death of our colds if we doing get under the covers."
"Right," he mumbled and reluctantly released her. With groans and moans, and cracking of joints, they each crawled off the bed. But as she turned down the covers, deciding not to bother with her discarded nightclothes—his bare skin felt so delicious on hers after all—he was dashing across the room.
"Lucien, what in the world—"
He scooped something off his dressing table and her befuddled mind was only able to realise what it must be when he slid under the sheet with her and pulled her close again. His leg went between her shins and his chin her shoulder again and she decided this would by their spooning position from now on.
He pulled her left hand out from under the covers. He had the ring. Without hesitation, she gladly let him put it back on. It was their ring and all that meant.
"Let's get married tomorrow," he said.
"Silly." She kissed his cheek and laced their fingers while still admiring the ring.
"We've got the licence. Let's do it."
She smiled at him. "Alright." Then glanced up at the ceiling. "We'd better, or Charlie will surely report us for deviant behaviour."
"Another reason to get married," he pointed out.
But it was he who had second thoughts. "You'd miss out on the big wedding though. Everything is booked and planned."
At his words, her limbs relaxed. Until he said that, she hadn't realised how fretful that she'd been feeling. Everyone was already gossiping about them and why Father Emery wouldn't allow them to marry in Sacred Heart. Instead they were to be on display, paraded before the most of the town during a ceremony at the RSL Hall.
The two of them, fingers twined as they were now, being married quickly and simply at the town hall. Then home to eat a slice of cake, and retiring early to this...
She lifted his hand to kiss it. "It'll be perfect."
He started to protest, then noticed how happy she seemed. He could feel it in the way she curved into his body, the light brush of her thumb on his palm. He pressed a kiss to her temple.
"Will you marry me, Jean?"
"You've got this backward, duffer." She gave his shoulder a light slap. "And you already got a yes out of me."
"I'm figuring third time's a charm. Practice makes perfect."
Now she started giggling. He hadn't thought he could be more in love.
"We can keep practising on everything," she suggested, feeling a bit wicked and immensely powerful at the same time. .
His mouth opened, but he closed it without speaking. Who was he to argue? He was ready to be her husband.
E/N: Apologizes for the subject matter, but there's just too many red flags on Christopher Sr for me. Thank you so much to Aussie Girl for australiafying the fic, as well as get the right tone for gross ol' Harold.