Spoilers through 5.2!
Jean pushed open the morgue door with her bum, her hands full with a picnic hamper. She'd decided to surprise Lucien and Alice with a dinner when he had called to say they would be working late on a fresh corpse.
"Oh!" she said, pulling up short at the sight of the sheet-shrouded body. It had a significant tenting at the pelvic area. Lucien, who'd been hunched over behind the table, glanced up at her in shock, then down at the corpse.
"Jean!" He thumped something he had in his hand down on the table and it made a tinkling noise. "What are you doing here?"
"I brought some dinner," Jean said, holding up the hamper and trying not to see the spectacle on the table.
"That's lovely but I'm not really hungry."
"Alright." She glanced around. "Where's Alice?"
"She had a consultation on the third floor." He quickly shot a look at the clock. "She'll be back soon."
"I'm sure she'd want a bite," Jean said tartly, still a bit stung at his rejection.
"Jean...I...I think you should go."
Shocked at his abrupt rudeness, tears pricked at her eyes. But when he winced in pain, she was instantly concerned.
"Lucien, what in the world is wrong with you?"
"Please, Jean—"
She came around the table, choosing to ignore the body. Only to see...
"Oh." Her face flamed. "Lucien—"
He passed a hand over his face. "I'm so very sorry, Jean, that you have to see...this."
She was trying very hard not to look at the bulge in his trousers, but that meant looking at the similar protrusion raising the sheet over the corpse. "How could you possibly...I...I should leave."
He caught her arm. "It's not what it looks like...I mean, it is what it looks like, but I don't have any control—"
She raised an eyebrow.
"It just happened! I think it's what's killed Derek Harris here."
"Killed him?" She was suddenly terrified for Lucien.
"I'm sorry to share these vulgar details, but he's...his hand is around...I think he was trying to alleviate his problem too vigorously, and had an heart attack from the strain. Remember, he had that heart condition."
"Dear God." She grabbed his arm. "But how were you inflicted too?"
"I was going through his clothing and found an unmarked bottle in his pocket. When I sniffed it—" She briefly closed her eyes in exasperation. "It smelled of pine bark...You know, that pine bark." His eyebrows raised significantly.
"You didn't!" she gasped.
"Just a little taste to confirm it!"
"Lucien!"
"It was the same," he grumbled petulantly. "But stronger."
"Obviously!" She motioned at the offending lump in his trousers.
"Derek was a chemist at Tyneman Chemicals, right? What more do you know about him?"
"His wife left him recently—"
"Do you know why?"
Jean pursed her lips. This was a terribly uncomfortable conversation. "I heard—" She cleared her throat. "That there were problems in the bedroom." She couldn't stop her gaze from traveling to the hump in the sheet. "For Derek."
"With his manliness, you mean?"
She nod. "Francie said she didn't care, but Derek couldn't get over it. Said he wasn't man enough for her."
Lucien covered his eyes again. "Damn. He must have been one of Nadya's customers, and found a way to concentrate the tea."
"I can see that." She folded her arms. "But what about you? What's going to happen?"
"I've been trying to fix it but it's not working," he whined, "and Alice will be back any moment."
Jean scolded, "You must see a doctor!"
He lifted an ice pack from the table. "I know the treatment for priapism. I've been applying ice for half an hour with no result at all." He tipped his head at the body. "And poor Derek tried another method."
"That's why you must see someone now!"
"With everything that's happened recently to put us the centre of gossip, I can't allow this sort of talk to be pinned on you—"
She motioned to Derek's body. "You'd rather end up like this than embarrass me?"
"I'm not going to die from priapism," he said. "It'll should go away...eventually." He didn't sound particularly convinced and chose not to mention the risk for long-term damage.
"We've got to get you out of here then," Jean decided. "Before Alice returns."
"Bloody hell, you're right," Lucien groaned. "I can't expose Alice to this sort of unprofessionalism. She's put up a lot with me, but she'll never be able to look me in the eye after this."
"I'll drive," Jean said as Lucien slid the body into a cooler drawer, cringing in pain occasionally. She thoughtfully put out a sandwich for Alice before they left the morgue.
Lucien held the picnic hamper in front his pelvis as they passed through the hospital corridors to his Holden. But when she slid behind the steering wheel, Jean said, "Damn! Charlie and Matthew have the lads from the station over to listen to the footy final. They'll be there all evening."
"Bloody hell," Lucien growled, settling gingerly in the passenger side of the automobile.
"We'll find some place remote for you to...try something else."
She gunned the motor and peeled out of the carpark. Driving away from the town, and down a country lane, Jean finally pulled the car under a glade of trees.
"What is this place?" Lucien asked.
"Didn't you ever come here?" Despite the situation, she had to smile. "All the chaps brought their girls out here for a bit of fun after dark."
"How appropriate," he said dryly, shifting uncomfortably in the seat.
She stared out the windscreen. "Still have the problem?" She refused to look for herself.
"Yep," he said shortly.
"Right then. So perhaps I'll go for a stroll—"
"No, I'd rather be the one to stroll," Lucien said with a shake of his head. "Not in the car...a mess..."
She shuddered. "Yes, rather. Let me get—" She reached back to the rear seat and pulled forward a car rug. "So you don't get grass stains on your pants when you lie down."
He started to tell her that he could easily perform the act standing, then looked at her guileless expression and simply couldn't say anything. She was just trying to be helpful after all. "Thank you," he murmured and got out of the car, clenching his jaw with every movement.
Then she showed him that she wasn't that innocent. "Wait," she called after him. Rummaging through the picnic basket, she quickly removed one of the sandwiches from its bag and passed him the now empty waxed paper receptacle. "Tidier," she said with satisfaction.
"Uh, well, right," Lucien said, summoning what fragments of dignity he had left, and headed to the trees, blanket over his arm.
"And be careful!" she called after him, wishing irrationally that he had that gypsy talisman with him.
When he disappeared behind a tree, Jean stayed in the car, despite the warmth of the late afternoon. She did shrug out of her coat, and tapped a little tune on the steering wheel. Must not think about what Lucien was doing right now. Not at all...perhaps she should turn on the radio...Or would the music distract him? Besides, the battery might run down and they'd both be stuck out there...She sighed. Must not think about what he was doing...She picked up the sandwich she'd set on the dashboard and started to eat.
In fact, Lucien was doing nothing. Or rather, was quickly realising that the situation was past any of the usual techniques. His penis and testicles were so engorged the he daren't touch them, let alone get to it. He tried to relax. To delay starting, he'd taken her suggestion and had spread the blanket, shed his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and undone his tie, and was reclined with his back to the tree trunk. Watch the nearby babbling brook, listen to the breeze in the branches...Not think about Jean sitting a few yards away, waiting for him. Checking her watch? Wondering about what he was doing? For her, he had to try. She'd want to be getting home to start dinner.
After unfastening his trousers and carefully pulling the front of his pants over the problem, he tried a gentle palm, cradling, weighing...now, a light grip—nope. Still hurt too much, which took him right back to that one sadistic Japanese sergeant who'd liked to use wire. He's been relieved to discover everything was fully functional when he was finally free and he'd gotten his strength back, but this particular moment, it didn't seem like a blessing.
Damn, perhaps he should have consulted a physician. But there was no way he was letting that bloody fool Henson, the only urologist on staff, see him in this state.
Perhaps he would have more success if he meditated...
Jean listened carefully. She heard nothing from the trees; it was eerily quiet. Christopher had not been quiet at all. She'd sometimes have to slap a hand over his mouth when the boys were curious enough to investigated sounds from their bedroom. She cracked the car door and cocked her head. Nothing.
Now she was concerned. He claimed that he couldn't end up like Derek Harris, but how would he truly know?
She hopped out of the car.
Lucien was trying to slow his heartbeat, to possibly control the pulse thumping in his groin when he heard his name being hissed urgently from the other side of the tree.
"Yes, Jean?" He must remain calm—
"Are you alright?"
"Yes."
"I was worried. I am worried."
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?" she asked. Her voice sounded very close. He didn't dare open his eyes to see if she was standing right over him.
"I have neither elevated heart rate or laboured breathing."
"But you still have the problem?"
"I'm afraid so."
"I see."
He really hoped that she didn't. Just in case she thought to peek, he flipped his singlet over the situation.
"Have you tried—"
"Yes."
"And it didn't work?"
"The kettle is too hot to touch," he said delicately, "let alone pour out..."
"That."
"That," he repeated.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
He licked his lips very slowly at a fresh wave of pain when his erection jerked. This time, it gave him hope; the sensation was the result of actual arousal. Perhaps—No. He couldn't ask this of her.
"Lucien, I want to help. I'll do anything."
The breathless quality when she spoke made him twitch again. But he couldn't ask. "It would be wrong. We agreed."
After their passionate kiss in the kitchen, Jean had come to him several days later, and haltingly explained that her feelings for him were strong but were also adultery, as he was still married in the eyes of the church until the petition for his annulment could be heard. Any happy little thoughts that he'd had about necking on the couch and eventually moving to a horizontal position were dashed. He'd told her that he completely understood and wouldn't ask her to go against her beliefs. Then he had sulked in his office for the afternoon with a fresh bottle of scotch.
"But this condition could gravely injure or even kill you. Surely we've earned a dispensation to save you from harm," she argued.
He glanced up and she was standing beside him, focused across the stream. He admired her profile for a moment. He said again, "I can't—"
She curled on the blanket beside him and put her hand on his thigh. "You can. Now tell me what to do."
Another man's desire may flag from her no-nonsense tone, but not Lucien. A jerk of already taut flesh make him grimace.
"Please, Lucien, it's killing me to see you in this sort of pain."
He released a breath. "Alright."
She unbuttoned her right sleeve and folded the cuff back.
He reacted in horror. "That's not going to work. I've been trying—"
"Surely my touch will be different."
His breath hitched. "No," he stuttered, "I know what I need."
Her chest rose and fell. "What?" she breathed.
"I touch you."
Her brow furrowed. "I don't see how—"
"It will," he assured her. "It'll work."
She looked unconvinced.
He very carefully slipped loose the top button on her blouse. She flushed pink immediately. Leaning forward, he whispered against her warm cheek, "It's been a very long time since I've intimately touched the woman I love. I believe that will be sufficiently arousing to...end this problem."
She tipped her head so their gazes locked. Her eyes narrowed. He kept his face bland. Finally she wrinkled her nose a bit before leaning in to kiss him, her lips already parted to meet his eager caress of tongue and lips. He cupped her face as though bringing handfuls of life-giving water to his mouth. They could drInk deeply, the course of the creek thundering in their ears.
When her palm slid under his singlet, heat across his belly, he was shocked to realise that she'd somehow unbuttoned his shirt without him noticing. "Can I touch you here?" she murmured against his lips, and he could only grumble in discontent that she'd gotten ahead of him.
His fingers crept under her skirt hem, pushing the fabric up with his knuckles as his hand explored her knee, tickling behind it, then sloping along her long thigh...here's where imagination took over; they were in his bed, he was pushing up her nightdress, not sensible skirt...he found the bare skin between the top of her stocking and hem of her undergarment. He set up residence there, stroking the softness with his thumb, even as her legs shifted to shut off his access to his ultimate goal.
He wasn't discouraged. He nibbled her jawline, mindful when she admonished him, "Don't leave any marks now."
"No, I promise," and for some reason that made her giggle. She cradled his head, holding it close to her neck, where he brushed his beard lightly, teasing her to laugh more. He loved that sound.
"Boys always said that up here."
"I can't see you falling for it, even as a girl."
Her smile became fixed, and he wondered as he had before about how young she'd been at Christopher's birth. Better to make her forget all that. "I'm falling behind here," he pointed out, flicking another button free on her blouse. The tip of his nose traced her collarbone and he breathed in the scent of lavender talcum powder on the swell of her breasts.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked, finding one flat nipple to worry like a pebble with her fingertips.
"That's a matter for debate," he grumbled and grimaced in frustration. Her undergarments were simply too well-fitted. His tongue lapped at the edge of her brassiere, discovering the pebbling of her areola, but the satin was too thick to feel what he knew would be skin as delicate as silk. He tugged free her blouse from her skirt's waistband but found only another barrier of stiff fabric. Back under the skirt, his fingers could barely breach the hem of her underwear. They were made of some equally tough material, snug to her damp skin.
"Damn," he growled.
"What's wrong?" she gasped.
"You have too many clothes on."
She glanced around fretfully.
"No, no," he said reassuringly, even though she hadn't spoken. The pulse was now thumping against his belly in a much more satisfactory manner, but he wasn't going to stop short of his goal.
Back to kissing, and she relaxed against him, running her fingers through his hair, thumbs stroking along the straining tendons of his neck until he purred. Hands under her skirt again, leading her over to straddle his thighs at the same time as he eased the garment up around her waist. To his joy, he found zips on the sides of her underpants.
But he just toyed with them while kissing her jawline, up to her ear. "Please," he whispered.
She didn't seem to hear him. She'd found her own hidden treasures, slipping her hands under the waistband of his shorts, and mindful of his problem, keeping her touch to the fine-textured skin above his hipbones, tracing swirls of agony there.
"Please," was louder.
Tipping her head, she peeked up at him. Her teeth worried at the corner of her swollen lower lip. He pressed another kiss there and her mouth caught his. "Yes," she murmured into the kiss in reply.
Zips down, and he could thumb the swell of her lower belly, trace around the indentation of her navel, cup her bottom to heft the satisfying weight of it. She lay her head on his shoulder, playing with his beard, but her breathing had picked up. Not with passion, he noted with concern, but anxiety.
"Tell me what you enjoy," he asked. She blinked slowly, and her blush deepened. "We could find out together," he coaxed but her response, burrowing her face into his neck, was his answer.
"It's fine," he said, propping his chin on the top of her head and nobly trying to ignore the thudding agony trapped between their bodies.
"I trust you," she said, even as she gripped his shoulder as though clinging for her survival.
First he kissed her again, his tongue as slow and languid as his exploring fingers. Stroking her inner thighs, one then the other, until she finally tilted her hips forward in an invitation, a whine against his mouth punctuating her request. His first caress was light as a moth's wings, and she had to gasp for air. Who was the one in pain now, she thought irritably.
She expected a probing, aggressive and intrusive. This...this was a different sort of torture. Just two fingers captured her clitoris, rolling it so gently that she would almost think it wasn't his touch but desire filling her, suffusing her limbs, sparking up her spine. Her nails turned into his shoulders, and the muscles hardened.
He urged her to rise on her knees, and she clutched his head to her chest—the burn of his beard against her flushed breasts; she didn't care about his marking her anymore. She wanted to be branded. Strong strokes of his fingers, taking ownership—more than any ring, his ability to make her feel this way. In some remote, judgemental corner of her mind, she was grateful for the creek to drown out her rising cries. Repressed for so long, her need crowned, hot with pressure. But he would save her, surely? For the first time, she'd have to give herself over to Lucien wholly.
She decided to give in. Tension left her limbs. Her arms draped around his neck, she gazed down at his upturned face. She could see the same grace of peace coming over his features. But in these last moments, as she felt release spooling out from her belly, she needed more—
"I want you...I wish...can we..."
He shook his head, tears on his eyelashes.
"Please, Lucien—"
"Best not risk it," he gasped even as he slid two fingers inside, both a shock and a relief. Her head snapped back when he stroked right there...She tightened on his fingers, and he gasped, "Oh God," his voice finally filled with relief, not pain, as his hips rose to meet her writhing body.
The low-setting sun lit the leaves above, a green fire consuming them. She tried to hold together his shuddering body but his power surprised and overwhelmed her; she could only cling to him, coiling her flames with his surging heat until darkness fell over them.
She finally cracked her eyelids open. She was draped across him as he leaned back on the tree. His eyes were still closed but his lips were moving silently, so she could assume he was alive. But his problem? Guilty, she remembered that this was supposed to be all for his benefit. However, she was definitely lying on what would have been his problem and it seemed to be no more.
Still she asked, "Are you alright?"
His throat worked as though he was trying to remember how to speak. "Um...why yes."
"I mean, you know—"
"Yup."
"Does it still hurt?"
"Nothing hurts, my love," he murmured, summoning the energy to kiss her temple.
Although he was spent, she was full of a sort of intensity. She scrambled up and tried to sort her clothes. Wriggling out of her girdle and stockings, she peeped at Lucien from under her curls, but his eyes had slid shut again. Loose-limbed, hair ruffled, his shirt and trousers still unbuttoned, he was an adorable mess.
Her gaze fell on his jacket. He always had a hankie in his pocket, a nice big white one. She knew because she put it there every morning. Fetching it, she wet the handkerchief at the creek. A quick cleanup made her feel much better and she tugged down her skirt and buttoned up her blouse. Her clothing was terribly crumpled but at least she should be able to slink into the house with her coat on and not garner notice from the rambunctious footy fans.
When she turned back, she discovered that Lucien had somehow risen, stripped off his singlet which had taken the brunt of the damage, and was back into a semblance of order with shirt and waistcoat buttoned, although his tie still hung loose. She offered him the wet handkerchief and he wiped his hands, his gaze locked with her. As a fresh wave of desire washed through her, she realised they were in terrible, awful trouble. His expression mirrored hers, greedy for everything now that they'd had a taste, and despair that they couldn't have it.
"Best get back then," she said brightly, but her gaze darted away.
Efficiently, he rolled up their discarded clothing in the car rug. His strong arm went around her middle and pulled her close. "Yes, we should," he murmured into her hair.
She sagged against him, thankful for his understanding, and put her hand over his at her hip. They walked back to the car like this.
As they drove away, another auto pulled up, with two young couples in it. Jean slid down in the passenger seat in the vain hope that they wouldn't see her and Lucien.
x
Lucien answered the front door, yanking it open a bit too vigorously. "Patrick! How are you this fine day?"
Patrick did not return his grin, but raised an eyebrow. "A minute of your time, Lucien." It wasn't a request.
Lucien ushered Patrick into his office, a bounce in his step. "A nip of something?" he offered and his guest accepted.
After pouring out two glasses of Scotch, Lucien leaned on his desk beside a seated Patrick. "What can I do for you?"
"Derek Harris...you performed the autopsy."
Lucien tipped his head and regarded the blank-faced businessman. "Yes."
"Did the inventory of his possessions?"
"Yes."
"I believe there was an item which is the property of Tyneman Chemicals."
Folding his arms, Lucien looked down his nose at Patrick and waited.
"An experimental drug that Harris was working on for us."
"Hmmm...I can't rightly remember anything like that." Lucien took a sip of whisky. "But I'm curious. What was this substance for?"
Narrowing his eyes, Patrick drank from his glass before replying. "Harris believed that he could cure a particular ailment that some men suffer from."
Lucien raised his eyebrows.
Patrick sneered, "And they're willing to pay well to be cured. Very well."
After putting down his glass, Lucien stroked his beard, leaving Patrick impatient. Finally he said, "You know, I saw quite a bit of this with Oriental medicines. Men thinking that if they simply regained their...vigor...they were good husbands and lovers. I'll say this. I never saw a woman looking for these cures for their man."
Patrick cleared his throat, but Lucien was on one of his rolls. "Men would be better served to find what pleases their lady. Perhaps that's the cure for what truly ails them."
"Bloody hell, Blake," grumbled Patrick, irritated.
Jean came into the office. "Do you have a patient—Oh, hello, Patrick," she said happily. "I don't want to interrupt."
Patrick was gave her a look that she could only describe as a warm-hearted leer. "You look very well, Jean," he said.
"Thank you," she replied brightly. "I'll get tea."
Both men watched her leave the room. Patrick had always discreetly enjoyed the swing to Jean's hips, but there was a laguard sway that made their movement even more entrancing. It was as though some mechanism had been well-oiled— He turned back to glare at Lucien.
Lucien smiled blandly. "I'm sorry, Patrick, I've never seen any bottle."
"I didn't say it was a bottle."
"Didn't you?"
Jean returned, and set the tea tray down with a rattle. "Oops," she said gaily, "I'm losing my touch."
Lucien gazed at her, besotted.
Patrick rolled his eyes, but said, "No, it would appear that you've found your touch."
The couple look instantly guilty.
Patrick rose. "I'm sorry, but I don't have time for a cuppa. I just dropped by to let you know that I'll be getting in touch with some contacts that I have at the diocese. They've been dicking around with your annulment for too long."
They gaped at him in unison.
He did enjoy having the last word. "After all, it looks as though the sooner that you get married, the better, am I right?"
And he was correct. There was nothing to be said to that and he was escorted meekly from the house.
~end
E/N: Thank you to so much to and HikerLady for the 'technical assistance' and Aussie Girl for the Aussification, as usual!