She's uncomfortable in this place, far from her usual watering hole. The stools are uncomfortable, with low stiff backs, and the covers are tatty. She attempts to sit demurely, her legs crossed at the ankle, but her skirt slides up uncomfortably high and she tugs at it.
The various men around her seem not the least bit discomfited by the expanse of thigh, and she tries to swallow past the flush rising over her skin. When the man behind the counter brings her a glass of red wine, she downs it quickly and motions for another. The smooth and smoky flavor warms a path to her belly and she feels the alcohol go to work untangling her jangled nerves.
A few men cruise by and lean on the bar, offering different variations of the same lecherous smile. They take in the loose silk blouse, gaping just a bit, the pale skin on her third finger, the skirt and creamy leg and swing in for a chat. At first her demurs are borne of nerves. Later, with the merlot igniting her courage, she flashes a bored smile and turns away, ignoring the mutters of "bitch" at her back.
It's easier to be aloof here, where nobody knows her name or her past. She can almost see the benefit of seeking nameless companionship in a darkened bar, knowing that what happens here will never quite find its way home.
She hears her next suitor approach and she fixes the nonchalant disinterest on her face. He doesn't speak but quietly orders a whiskey rocks before settling into the stool beside her.
She watches his hands from the corner of her eyes, fingers flexing and tapping at the oak bar, all nervous energy. When his drink arrives his fingers curl around the glass, tap the bottom rim on the wood, swirl and he finally sips.
She has to turn to watch him bring the glass to his mouth and when she does, he tips the glass in her direction, a small toast before downing the drink in one swallow.
He knocks the bar again signalling another.
His eyes are dark in the poorly lit hotel bar, his smile crooked, and the scent of his cologne warm and close beside her. He's a far superior specimen to her earlier suitors and she stops herself before she licks her lips. It wouldn't do to appear too hungry or too eager.
When his drink is delivered she clinks her glass to his before finishing up her wine. She is about to slide off the stool, gathering her senses and signaling the tender to gather the check. The man finally speaks.
"Going so soon?"
"Early morning," she explains, taking the ticket at writing her room number on it before signing. "Heading home."
"All the more reason to stay out a bit later, enjoy your last evening."
"I'm quite tired." She hands the check to the bartender, who is looking between them with a wary glance. She shakes her head - she's fine - and the young man ambles away with a suspicious backward glance. She watches her companion sip at his whiskey, watches the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned and his shirtsleeves rolled. When she meets his eye there's a wicked little glint there, as though he's caught her at something naughty.
Her back straightens. She won't offer him a win that easily.
"Well, I hope you enjoy your evening Mr…"
"Lucien."
"Mr. Lucien."
"Just Lucien."
"Well, Just Lucien. Enjoy your evening."
He waits until she's a few steps away before he speaks again, his tone challenging.
"Where's your husband this evening?" She looks down, panicked, at her empty hand and closes her fist around her fingers.
"What husband?" She asks, but her voice is a bit too high.
"You've been playing with your ring finger since I sat down. You're not used to how it feels without it yet, are you?"
She narrows her eyes, clutching her purse across her middle like a shield.
"You're awfully observant."
He shrugs. "I am when I like what I see." His look is pure innocence but his eyes dip over her body and circuit back up. She feels it like a physical caress and she damns the wine silently. It wasn't a good idea to drink.
She coughs and tightens her grip on her purse and takes a few retreating steps. He turns to face her fully, leaning onto the bar. He is nonchalant and relaxed.
"Do you need help getting home?"
She can't quite smother a small laugh. "It's a hotel. I'm sure I can make my way just fine."
"What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't escort a lady to her room?"
She wavers, thinking it's all too easy, that she should put up more of a fight. But her feet are sore, it has been such a long time, and she really does have an early morning. He's already settling his tab.
His hand is light on her elbow as he maneuvers them in the direction of the bank of lifts. The lobby is practically deserted, the evening nearing midnight on a Tuesday. He strikes up more small talk as they wait for the lift, his fingers lingering on her arm.
The touch burns through the delicate material of her blouse.
"Why are you in Melbourne?" He asks casually, leaning into her as though she is about to impart a secret.
"Just some shopping." She thinks of leaving it there, making him work a touch harder for it. But his expression is open and his eyes - crystalline in the light from the chandelier overhead - are twinkling. "How about yourself?"
"Pleasure." He rumbles, and his thumb roams over the skin on the inside of her elbow. She jerks slightly, but does not pull away.
"Oh." She says, lamely, relieved with the lift doors open. It is overwhelming to be caught in this man's gaze, his sole focus turned on her.
"Floor?" He asks and she indicates the fourth. A quick trip and he knows it, so he crowds in close, his breath on her neck.
She thinks he might be looking down her shirt.
"And what's your floor?" She whispers, watching him with wide eyes as he leans casually on the back of the lift. The walls are all mirror and various version of themselves reflect back. In each she finds herself looking slightly different - rumpled and overwhelmed, in control and flirtatious, caught by a more wily opponent, or desperate and hungry.
"I haven't found the right room yet."
"Oh," She says again and she knows it must be the wine that has dulled her usually quick tongue. Or it's the hand that has swirled around her waist and rests there tentatively. Or it's the puff of his breath against her cheek. "I hope you're not expecting me to…"
He pulls back, all mock indignation and horror. "I would never…"
"Then tell me, why are you following me to my room at," she checks her watch. "Eleven fifty eight?"
"I told you. I'm just being gentlemanly."
She rolls her eyes and the lift doors open. She is just down the hall to the left and she steps away from him, already missing his warmth.
"And what kind of gentleman doesn't walk a lady to her door?" She echoes his earlier comment and then heads towards her room. It takes him two loping steps to catch up to her and his palm splays over the small of her back.
At the door to her room she turns, quickly before she loses her nerve, and curls her palm around the nape of his neck. His mouth forms a startled 'O' before her lips close over it. She closes her eyes on her mortification, backing into the door and drawing him with her, knowing that she would never do something like this at home. He, however, seems to have no such misgivings. His hands curl around her ribs, brush the undersides of her breast, then draw her closer. His tongue draws over her pulse and her fingers root through his hair, holding him against her.
She yearns for so much more, time and absence had an impact on more than just her heart, and she felt the tingle of desire spread low in her belly. When she finally pulls away, she presses her forehead to his cheek, fumbling in her purse. Their breathing is harsh in the empty hallway and she thinks if she doesn't find her key right now, she'll have him right here.
With a triumphant gasp she withdraws the key and holds it up between them.
"Ah, Mrs Blake, you are a wonder." She turns in his arms and smiles, unlocking the door. His hands are heavy on her waist as she unlocks the door and leads him into the room. "So how'd I do?"
She shrugs and grins, indulgent. "Passable."
"Passable?" He is thoroughly affronted. "I mean, the lady did invite me to her room."
She nods and throws herself into his arms. "The lady was low-hanging fruit. The lady missed you."
His arms curled around her back and drew her against his chest. It had been weeks since she'd felt this complete and she momentarily pushed him away and fumbled for her ring. Sliding it into place she took up her spot in his arms, burrowing against his chest.
"You're saying it wasn't my charm that brought us here?" He asks against her hair.
"Lucien," Jean speaks slowly, backing out of his embrace to unbutton her blouse. "Does it really matter?"
The silk falls to the floor. Lucien looks dumbly at the underthings she'd chosen especially for this night, for this reunion. He snorts once, like a bull, before he charges.
They hit the mattress with a bounce.
It doesn't matter, not at all.
(1/1)
Just a little exercise to break up another project. Borne out of a silly conversation on tumblr. Is this AU? Who knows. It could be.