Jean knew she had to do something. After weeks and weeks of being plagued by her dreams of Lucien, going to confession and praying and finding no relief, she needed to find something else to perhaps dissuade her subconscious thoughts from her base desires.
She had begun watching him closely, carefully. Averting her attention had only spurred her imagination. And so she wanted to see him as he truly was, find something, anything to dampen her inappropriate attraction to him.
At first she considered that perhaps with his erratic lifestyle and work and drinking that perhaps he would be messy or unkempt in some way. But no, his clothes were always clean, his hair and beard neatly trimmed and coifed, and he smelled absolutely delicious. Even the gray in his hair and beard were endearing, giving him a distinguished, worldly appearance.
She tried to see the ugly side to his features. His face had lines of age and stress, particularly on his forehead and cheeks. But all Jean wanted to do was trace every line, kiss every mark.
His eyes. That bright, shining blue she loved so well. But he had heavy, puffy bags beneath them. Exhaustion and alcoholism surely brought those.
"Lucien, have you been sleeping well?" she asked, more concerned about his wellbeing than she was about ridding herself of her attraction to him.
"No, I've been waking up during the night more than usual," he told her.
She frowned with worry. "Are the nightmares bothering you again?"
"Not nightmares, no," he replied somewhat cryptically. "Here, let me give you a hand with that," he said, quickly changing the subject.
Lucien walked past Jean at the kitchen sink to take a towel to dry the dishes for her. As he moved behind her, he placed his hand on the small of her back. He lingered for perhaps a bit longer than he should have. Long enough for Jean to feel the heat of his touch, the sheer size of his hand in relation to her body. She stiffened, tightly clenching the pot she was washing, at the realization that he could probably encircle her waist with just his two hands.
When he moved away to a safe distance and began drying dishes, she as able exhale. Jean watched him carefully pick up each dish and wipe it with the towel and gently pile them all up on the counter. So much strength in those hands. Large palms with long, thick fingers. Steady hands of a surgeon, nimble fingers of a musician. Slightly calloused from hard work that he chose to do. Healing, beautiful, magical hands.
Those hands tracing her body. Palming her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers. She arched into his touch, gasping at the beautiful sensations. His hands moved on, squeezing and massaging the flesh of her thighs and bum, pulling her legs apart. His fingers danced over her like they danced across the piano keys, stroking at her folds, curling inside her, making her scream with delight. Those gorgeous hands then held her close as her body came down from her climax. He cupped her cheek and placed gentled kisses on her lips and eyelids and nose. He traced lazy patterns on her bare back as she nuzzled against his chest. She had never felt so satisfied and loved in all her life.
Jean didn't awake as violently as usual from the dream this time. Perhaps she had gotten used to them. A horrible, horrible reality that she couldn't escape, constantly tormented by her longing all day in his presence with no reprieve at night, when her mind was plagued by every fantasy she wouldn't allow her waking mind to consider.
The need for him was palpable. That dream was so vivid, as though he were in her bed with her, touching her, coaxing her into a state of unbridled arousal, loving her so completely. She tried to roll over, squeezing her thighs together as though she could will away the ache so easily.
She couldn't get comfortable. And she didn't dare get out of bed, not knowing if he would be up and about and somehow guess why she couldn't sleep. Jean turned over again, lying on her back and staring at the dark shadows on the ceiling. She pulled the bedsheets up to her chin, hiding her body from the outside air, the body that had been betraying her for months. The very idea that she could be so distracted by her sinful desires that she couldn't sleep for the want of him...
Jean's hand traveled down her belly and under the waistband of her pyjamas. She shouldn't give in to her lust like this. She knew that allowing the sin to overtake her in her waking hours was wrong. If she were stronger, she would banish all such thoughts. But she wasn't strong. She was utterly weak for Lucien Blake. Too weak to sleep off the ache. Too weak to prevent herself from doing something about it.
Slowly, tentatively, her fingers grazed over the soft curls between her legs, tracing her folds, feeling the overwhelming wetness caused by her dream.
She closed her eyes, envisioning that it was Lucien's hand touching her this way, his fingers rubbing and stroking her, just as she had dreamed. A sort of whimper escaped her lips and she bit her tongue, trying to keep herself quiet. Her heart fluttered in her chest and her breathing was heavy and fast through her nose as she curled her fingers inside herself, searching for the release she so desperately needed.
And as her climax radiated through her body, her muscles clenching over and over and causing her to tremble where she lay, tears bloomed in Jean's eyes. She rolled over as her body quieted, and she silently cried into her pillow, just as she had done far too many times when she had these awful, wonderful dreams. Her strength and resolve had failed her again. No matter how many rosaries she prayed, how often she went to confession to beg forgiveness from God, she was only falling further to damnation.
Somehow, someway, Jean knew she needed to find a way out, a way to cease the torture of loving and wanting and needing a man she would never, ever have.
