She can't sleep, her thoughts jumbled, the events of the last few days flitting through her mind like birds in a flock, gliding, diving, blurring together. This happens to her sometimes, her mind too busy to settle down, too agitated for sleep, though you'd think, after working hard in the kitchen, the warm festivities of the day, and the wine she had at dinner, she'd be shattered and relaxed, ready for repose.

Perhaps some water will help, she thinks, sitting up and reaching for the glass beside her bed, only to find it missing.

Damn!

She swings her legs out of bed, feet searching for her slippers as she grumbles, annoyed with herself for forgetting to bring one up to bed with her, then remembering that it's actually all Lucien's fault – isn't it always? The way he'd slipped behind her while she was filling her glass at the sink, gently resting his hand on her hip, dipping his head to press a soft kiss against her bare skin where her neck meets her shoulder... Is it any wonder she'd forgotten everything else?

"Thanks for dinner, Jean," he'd murmured, breath coasting over her skin, making her stomach flutter and her hand tremble, but she'd rallied, turning off the tap, setting aside her glass and turning in his arms, reaching up to kiss his lips. It wouldn't do for her to turn into putty in his arms every time he's near – she wouldn't get anything done, for one, and he'd be far too smug to be bearable.

"My pleasure," she'd replied, pulling back smiling. "It was a good Christmas. I think everyone enjoyed it, don't you?"

"Yes," he'd agreed, still standing close, his right hand still on her waist, his gaze warm and just a little bit hungry.

She wouldn't like to admit this to anyone, but when he looks at her like that, it does things to her, awakens her, like a call from the wild, reminding her of a time when she was young and free to love and be passionate, like Charlie and Rose are now. But though indiscretions of youth may be easily overlooked, forgiven and forgotten, it is not so easy for someone such as her, for whom respectability and acceptance in the community are a matter of survival.

Her glass is exactly where she'd left it by the sink, so she lifts it and takes a couple of greedy gulps of water. The house is utterly silent and still. Everyone else is sleeping and she takes a moment to contemplate that – Matthew tucked up in bed down the hall, Charlie in his room upstairs, perhaps with Rose to keep him company, and Lucien just a stone's throw away, a few yards from her, warm and snug in his bed. Is he asleep? Is he lying awake thinking of her?

"Stop it," she mutters to herself, turning to go back upstairs, carrying the glass of water carefully in her hand lest she spill it as she climbs the stairs in the darkness.

Once in her room, she sets it by her bed and slips out of her dressing gown, hanging it on its hook behind the door before moving over to her bed again. She pauses, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror and drawing closer, smoothing down her nightdress and turning to see her reflection from a different angle. Will he like what he sees, she finds herself wondering, self-consciously smoothing down the fabric again with trembling hands.

It's not her best nightdress – that's still in the drawer since the last time she contemplated doing something like this. She could pad downstairs and slip into his room, slip into bed with him, with no one being any the wiser. She could find out, once and for all, if he likes what he sees, if he pleases her, if she pleases him, see how compatible they really are. And then they'd know, would avoid any disappointments on their wedding night, could reflect on their love making and make it better.

She remembers her first time with Christopher. They hadn't been married either. And if she's honest, it had been rather disappointing – quick and unsatisfying. But they'd got better and she'd enjoyed most of their couplings in the years that followed, even if their life had been hard, she'd felt trapped and restless, and Christopher had become increasingly more distant. And she's missed it – the closeness, the connection of making love, the satisfaction and relaxation that follows. She'll not have trouble sleeping afterwards – she's sure about that.

It's Christmas, she tells herself, trying to stare down her reflection and shut up the voice of reason, of caution, of propriety, of fear in her head. She's finally made her choice – unequivocally binding herself to Lucien in her heart and mind. She's said goodbye to her old life – to Christopher and her church – and she's ready to start afresh. Lucien is a complicated man, who acts before he thinks and who thinks he's always right, but he's a good man too and she loves him.

So much.

They'll be married in a few months, just as soon as they can get everything sorted. And she almost lost him again just this week. Danger courts him like a determined, demented lover and she hates to think she might lose him before she's had a chance to really taste their love, to love him in every way, completely.

"Why not?" she asks her reflection, feeling her heart beat faster as she realises that she wants this, feels the adrenaline coursing through her as she makes her decision, pulling open the drawer of her dressing table before she can change her mind. They'll be no Rose on the landing this time, she tells herself. This is their time – she can feel it.

She shimmies out of one nightdress and into the other, hesitating for a moment before pulling off her knickers too and running a brush through her hair. She reaches for her lipstick, carefully applying it though she knows it's dark and Lucien's sleeping. He'll almost certainly not notice the presence or absence of lipstick if she slips into his bed at night, but it gives her courage to know that she's looking her best. One last, nervous look in the mirror and she turns for the door, slipping into her dressing gown and exiting her room once more.

By the time she reaches the foot of the stairs, her heart is pounding so hard it's the only thing she can hear, and she has to really concentrate to listen to the silence all around her. It's past one in the morning and everyone's asleep. There's a risk, of course, that an emergency will pull Lucien out of bed and she'll be discovered with him, but it doesn't happen often enough for it to be likely, and even if it were to happen tonight, of all nights, she can slip back into her dressing gown and out of his room to the kitchen before Matthew or Charlie rouse themselves and get out of bed, can't she?

Yes, she tells herself, taking a deep breath and quickly moving down the hall to Lucien's door. She hesitates for a moment more, hand on the handle, before she resolutely squares her shoulders and slips into his room, closing the door quietly behind her.

It's dark, but not pitch black, the moonlight streaming freely into the room through the sheer drapes covering the windows, ruffled by a light summer breeze – Lucien clearly forgot to close the thick curtains, or maybe he guessed she was coming tonight and left them open for her. The thought makes her smile and boosts her confidence as she takes a deep breath and crosses over to the bed, grasping the foot-board with her hands as she gazes down at him.

He's lying on his back in the middle of the bed, face turned to the left, left arm thrown out, his right foot sticking out from under the sheet that covers his lower half. She smiles, feeling herself relax a little to see him sprawled across the bed like this, like her Jack used to do when he was little. He seems more approachable somehow, warmer, younger, vulnerable, more lovable and human.

He comes from a different class, her Lucien. The only child of parents who were well educated, well off, people of the upper echelon of Ballarat society, his childhood protected, his adolescence spent at boarding school, his early adulthood at university on another continent, studying to become a surgeon. Sometimes he seems so far out of her league to her, so far beyond her reach, but in this moment he doesn't and she's glad of it, glad she found the courage to slip in here tonight.

He's not snoring, she notes, indulging in another smile before she slowly removes her dressing gown and drapes it over the foot-board, walking round to the side of the bed and gingerly lifting the covers, carefully sliding in beside him and moving closer, her feet brushing up against his leg and causing him to stir, rolling onto his left side with a sigh of contentment. She smiles again, lying still for a moment as her mind fully absorbs this – the sensation of lying beside a man again, the heat from his body seeping into her, warming her through, though they are not yet touching.

Good God, but she's missed this.

She smiles, turning on her left side to face him and moving gingerly closer, spooning herself against his back, her knees nestling behind his as she carefully wraps her right arm around him, her palm coming to rest somewhere between his chest and stomach. He's so wide, his shoulders so broad, his arms so strong and muscly. She turns her head, resting it between his shoulder-blades, marvelling that he hasn't yet woken and feeling relieved that it's a cool night tonight, not too hot for a cuddle. Perhaps she'll just spend the night wrapped around him like this – warm and deeply contented.

But as she sighs softly and closes her eyes, listening to his heart beating steadily in his chest for the first time, she comes to realise that its pace is slowly increasing and that he's not nearly as listless as he's trying to let on.

"Lucien?" she whispers into the darkness.

"Jean?" comes the soft reply, his voice low, filled with disbelief and wonder.

"I... yes. It's me." For a moment, she panics, scared she's made the wrong decision in coming here tonight, but then he's turning in her arms to face her, his eyes shining in the half-light, teeth gleaming as he smiles, arms wrapping around her and drawing her into the strong shelter of his embrace, the scent of him – all male essence – filling her nostrils.

"Jean," he breathes, his voice full of joy and longing, delight and such reverence. "Oh Jean," he repeats before his lips find hers and she becomes lost in him, in the warmth of his body, the power of it, and the glory of his passion for her.

His hands are everywhere, strong and sure, touching, caressing, drawing her closer as his lips and tongue devour her, delving into her mouth eagerly with a fervour and a fury that makes her head spin and leaves her utterly breathless.

"Lucien," she gasps when he finally releases her lips to nuzzle her neck as he shifts his weight towards her, pushing his left leg between her own and rocking her against him, his left hand on her bum drawing her closer, the sensation almost too wondrous to breathe. She doesn't ever remember it being like this – so heated, so intense, so desperate, so glorious.

She wants to protest, ask him to slow down so she can catch her breath and get her bearings, but another part of her – that rebellious, reckless, unfettered part that she's kept locked away since her youth – is revelling in this and she never wants it to end. "Yes," she breathes, hands tangled in his hair and pulling him closer, his growl of arousal doing nothing to douse the flames of her desire.

She feels his hand slide down to her hip, then her thigh, gathering the material of her nightdress up, baring her calves, her thighs and then her buttocks, his hesitation and gasp of surprise when he realises she's naked under the nightie giving her a momentary satisfaction before he slowly lifts his head to look at her and she experiences a flash of panic in its wake. Surely he's not going to back out now!

"Jean," he murmurs, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek, his eyes brighter than before, full of emotion.

"Don't tell me to go," she whispers quickly. "I want this, Lucien... if you do too."

"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice almost cracking with hope and longing.

"I'm sure."

He nods and she thinks he looks relieved though it's hard to tell in the dim light. "I'll be careful, Jean, and gentle. I promise."

"I know you will," she agrees, reaching her hand up to cup his cheek. He looks so different like this, his hair silver in the moonlight and tousled, his curls unruly and free. "It's been a very long time," she confesses, "but I'm ready, Lucien."

"It's been a long time for me too, but I'll not disappoint you, Jean." He leans down to kiss her softly, with more restraint than before, but she's already burning up inside for him, craving the return of his passion and lust from a moment ago.

She kisses him firmly and sits up, quickly divesting herself of her nightdress and tossing it over the foot-board, next to her dressing gown, before returning to the bed beside him and reaching for the buttons of his pyjama top, enjoying the way his eyes gleam with passion in the moonlight.

"You're so beautiful, Jean," he murmurs, his hands reverently tracing her skin, palm running along her side, knuckles grazing her stomach and making her tremble.

"Help me get this off," she replies, pealing apart his pyjama top, eagerly gazing at his broad chest, her fingers threading through the dusting of wiry curls she finds there before he turns and sits up, pulling the top off and turning to her once more. "This too," she says before he can settle, tugging on the thin fabric of his pyjama bottoms that's covering his hip and watching with fascination as he complies, pulling them down over his hips, lifting his knees and removing them altogether, tossing them carelessly to the floor where they join his pyjama top.

He turns on his side again to face her, watching her face as she wordlessly gazes at him – her soon to be lover and husband too, before too long. He's truly something to behold, her Lucien, a beautiful specimen of a man for his fifty odd years of age – still strong and lean and virile. She reaches for him with her hand, running her palm along his length, watching him shudder as he groans in pleasure, closing her hand around him, marvelling at how thick and hot he is, and how beautiful.

"Jean," he gasps, reaching for her, left leg slipping between hers as he cups her face in his left hand and meeting her lips with his own, leaning over her, his body pressing her into the mattress as his right hand tangles in her hair and his left begins its journey south, his lips devouring her with the same passion as before, leaving her trembling and breathless in the wake of his onslaught, her hands grasping at his shoulders for purchase, desperate to draw him closer, desperate for more.

His hands are magical, his lips doubly so, everywhere they touch burning with an aching desperation, her desire coiling inside her even before his lips begin to worship her breasts and his leg pushes her open so his fingers can reach inside her. She gasps at the invasion, surprised by it and the fact that it's his fingers he's choosing to place there, but all thought soon leaves her head as he begins to move them, his thumb brushing deliciously over her most sensitive spot in a way that she hadn't expected a man to know about. He's a doctor though, her Lucien, and maybe that has more benefits for her than she realised. And that is the last coherent thought she has for a while as she loses herself in the glory of what he's doing to her, her inhibitions slowly unravelling, her body tingling with energy and taking over her mind, the noises escaping her lips utterly foreign to her, her hands drawing him closer as her hips roll against him, faster, harder, deeper, chasing the wave of ecstasy she feels building inside her until she catches its edge and she breaks, riding it to shore with an earth shattering moan of rapture.

When she opens her eyes, he's there, gazing down at her with a satisfied smirk on his lips and passion brimming in his eyes. "Lucien," she breathes, momentarily overcome by emotion. Never has she felt anything like this before.

"You're spectacular, Jean," he replies, grinning wickedly down at her, "and I am going to adore being your husband. What say you, we set a date for January?"

She laughs breathlessly at that, wanting nothing more than to agree with him. She'd planned on tonight and then waiting until they are married, but she's not at all sure she can manage that any more.

She's about to answer when he gently pulls his fingers out of her, the sensation causing a moan of protest to escape her lips instead. He grins, his gaze holding hers as he lifts his hand between them, bringing it to his mouth and slowly licking his fingers, her eyes going wide in shock.

"Lucien!" she gasps, wrapping her hand round his wrist and pulling it away from his mouth. "You can't do that! That's..." She almost says dirty, but catches herself in time, embarrassed and also rather turned on by the experience, which only makes her feel worse.

"I assure you that it's not, Jean," he replies, eyes softening as he looks at her, clearly very aware of what she's thinking. "Trust me. I'm a doctor," he adds, seeing her doubtful look. "Now," he murmurs, pushing her back against the mattress with his broad chest and resting his forearms on either side of her head, "Where were we?" And he kisses her, his passion returning in an instant as his tongue invades her mouth and she grasps his shoulders to steady herself, sure she will fly apart under the onslaught.

He presses himself against her body and she can feel his hard length against her abdomen, patiently – and sometimes, not so patiently – waiting for admittance, while he kisses her thoroughly before moving onto her neck, where she's sure he'll leave a mark, so intense is his passion.

"Lucien," she breathes, trying to lift his hips, the ache between her legs intensifying, a hollow that she's sure now only he can fill.

He growls and lifts his hips a little, pushing his right knee between hers and forcing her legs apart, the hot, hard tip of him nestling eagerly between them, gently pushing against her as he seeks access to her core and the heat waiting for him inside her. She whimpers, tilting her hips to direct him and moaning in delight when she feels him nestle against her entrance, pushing her body towards him and feeling him slip inside. Above her, he groans and stills, his face buried in her neck, perhaps scared to hurt her with his considerable girth, but she's sure that he won't – she wants him so badly now.

"Lucien," she whispers, sliding her hands down to his hips and pulling him gently towards her, wrapping her legs around him to draw him closer still.

He moans, but gets the message, moving his hips to slowly ease himself inside her, each stroke brining him further and further in and causing her to gasp and tremble and begin to see starts. He's perfect, so solid and thick, and it feels so right to have him here that she could cry as he stills with his length sheathed inside her, as deep as he can possibly go.

"Jean," he whispers into her neck, then lifts his head to look at her, eyes shining with emotion. "I love you," he says and kisses her lips softly. She moans, overwhelmed by him and all he makes her feel, grasping his head and drawing him to her as she presses her heels against his buttocks, her insides clenching around him, desperate for more, to consume him whole. She hasn't felt so free, so reckless in so long, but tonight she can't seem to hold back – she wants it all and bugger the consequences.

He growls deep in his throat as he begins to devour her, her ardent kiss unleashing a torrent of passion in him, snapping every thread of self-control, freeing him of the shackles of propriety and expectation, releasing the wildness inside him, the recklessness that she knows he struggles so hard to contain, the fervour and abandon of his passion impossible to resist, and all she can do is hold on tight and let him sweep her with him into ecstasy and beyond.

She's lost track of time, track of where she is, track of how she came to be here, but not who she's clinging to as the waves of their pleasure crack and sizzle and dissipate around them, his body almost crushing her, her arms still wrapped around him, clinging to the strong, devastating, dazzling reality of him. Lucien – her fiancé, her lover now, her friend, the most precious person to her in this world, and perhaps, beyond it too. As much as she's been reluctant to admit it to herself, she rather thinks that Lucien, not Christopher, is the person she was born to love and share her life with.

"Bloody hell, Jean," he mutters into the pillow beside her head, making her smile and then giggle as he turns his head and nuzzles her neck, his left hand appreciatively and shamelessly running down her thigh to her buttocks.

"Lucien!" she protests and attempts to swat his hand away, only to give in rather quickly with a sigh of deep pleasure when he merely squeezes her bum and lifts his head to kiss her senseless.

"I should get back to bed," she whispers somewhat reluctantly when they break apart for air, acutely aware of the time and the ever increasing risk of them being caught out.

"Stay," he replies, reaching between them and gently caressing her breast causing her breath to hitch. "I'll make it worth your while. Just give me another minute or two, and I'll be ready to go again."

He dips his head towards her breast, but she captures it in her hands and guides him to her lips instead. "I'll stay, Lucien," she says after she's released his lips, "for a little while, but not for that. I'd much rather have a cuddle. It's been so long since someone held me close."

He smiles, looking almost boyish in the moonlight with his unruly curls free of the Brylcreem he combs into them every morning. "I'm quite good at cuddles," he replies, moving himself off her and stretching out beside her, grabbing a pillow and wedging it under his head before opening his arms to her. "Come here," he says.

She smiles and shuffles into his arms, humming in contentment as they wrap their arms around each other, and closing her eyes with a deep sigh of pleasure, and it's not long before she begins to doze in his arms, fighting the pull of sleep lest she forget herself and end up spending the entire night here.

"Best bloody Christmas ever," she hears him murmur after a bit, his hand sliding down her back and beyond with a deeply appreciative sigh of pleasure.

"Boxing day," she corrects sleepily.

"Christmas," he insists. "Boxing day doesn't start until sunnup."

"I think you'll find, you're wrong about that." She smiles into his neck, loving their banter.

"And I think you'll find that arguing with me, heats my blood, with very specific consequences for beautiful women already naked in my bed," he growls in her ear before pressing his tongue into her ear canal and causing her to gasp and shiver, the arrows of pleasure shooting through her taking her completely by surprise.

Where did this man learn to make love like this, she finds herself wondering fleetingly before replying breathlessly, "It's not an argument if I'm right," and relishing his growl and all that follows, her worry over being found out by Matthew or Charlie or Rose floating out through the open window and into the night on the wings of their passion and the utter bliss and sheer rightness of their love making tonight.