A/N: I promise that a new chapter of AMKoL will be up tomorrow or Wednesday, but in the meantime this has been bouncing around in my head and a certain someone (xbox) requested that I write smut tonight, so here it is.
In the months following that beautiful starlit night in the garden Jean tried so very hard to convinced herself that those few precious minutes she'd spent wrapped in Lucien's embrace had been no more than a dream. It had come at a particularly low point in her life; having just rejected Robert's proposal, Jean had drunk rather more sherry than was truly wise, and when she'd gone up to her room she'd been distracted by the sight of her body in the mirror as she dressed for bed. Forty-three now, and showing her age rather more than she'd care to admit, she'd looked at herself, at all the tiny imperfections that she so vigilantly concealed beneath her dresses and foundation garments, and she'd all but wept, to think that she was no longer the girl she had been, to think that the dreams she'd harbored in her heart that one day her dreary life might be blessed by the brilliant light of love once more had been, at long last, well and truly dashed. So she had dressed again, and gone outside to lay beneath the stars, to whisper a prayer, to ask forgiveness from God for her selfish, bitter disappointment, for the wanton yearnings of her heart, to beg forgiveness from Christopher for her thoughts which of late had turned away from her family and her domestic duties and focused instead upon the rather handsome doctor who had so upended her existence.
And then he'd come to her, as if her thoughts of him had conjured him on the spot, as if, devil that he was, he could read her every longing, and sought to fulfill them, no matter how shameful, how base, how crass. To his credit, he had been the soul of courtesy, after, had not brought it up once in conversation, had not presumed to put his hands upon her person, to ask for a repeat performance. At first this had given Jean cause to doubt herself; had he not enjoyed their tryst? She had enjoyed it; the touch of Lucien's hand had rocked her to the core, had woken the slumbering beast of desire that had lain dormant in her chest for so many long years now, had breathed life into her weary soul. Those doubts, vanished, however, as the days wore on. More than once she had helped him find his bed when he was too far gone in drink, and his eyes had watched her every move with a hunger that sent chills down her spine. His hands had reached for her, as she tugged his blanket up to his chin, clinging to her as a child to his favorite toy. And sometimes when he was sober, when they were sharing a meal or she was washing the dishes or he was peppering her with questions about local history and the latest gossip, she would see upon his face the sort of delight that could only be equated with real, genuine affection.
It was the sort of affection, truth be told, that absolutely terrified her.
It was one thing, she knew, to give in to the riotous clamouring of her body, her heart, her soul, on a single beautiful night with no one but the stars to bear witness, to ask forgiveness for having strayed from the path of righteousness, to say her Hail Marys and her Our Fathers and repent, to treasure those memories but know such bliss could never be repeated. It was quite another thing to want it, to long for it, to wake in the middle of the night sweating and gasping and aching to have him between her thighs once more. And yet her thoughts were tormented by him, by the memory of the strength of his arms, the gentle touch of his hands, the rough rasp of his breaths in her ear as he spilled himself inside her, their bodies wound as close together as it was possible for two people to be. Such thoughts were madness, and so she told herself, again and again, that it was sinful, that it was folly, to allow her employer, the man upon whom she depended for food and shelter, to take such liberties.
As the days passed, they managed to find some comfort in routine, and Jean overheard him, more than once, on the phone with Joy McDonald. Though Jean did not trust the woman - did not particularly like her, even - she had to admit that this was probably for the best. Let Lucien fall for Joy, this worldly, wicked woman whose wild heart seemed so well suited to his own. Doctor Blake could hardly court his own housekeeper, but a well-to-do young journalist, clever and university educated just like him, made for a fine match. No matter how Jean might long for him, she understood too well the barriers that separated them, understood that she would never be more than the help, and she tried, as she always did, to find contenment right where she was. Let Joy have his love, then; Jean would have his friendship, and count herself lucky for it.
And then the call came in from one of Joy's journo friends; Lucien's daughter had been found, alive and well, living in China. Of course he had gone to her at once, and Jean, upon discovering that he'd gone, had only wished him well. She knew what it was to love a child, and were their roles reversed, she would have done much the same, would have leapt at the chance to go and wrap her arms around that missing piece of her heart. What troubled Jean about his leaving was not that he had gone, but rather the letter he had left behind.
Addressed to her and written by a shaking hand, he had signed it yours, with much affection. She had stared at those words, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, for longer than she cared to admit. Yours. Oh, how she wished. With much affection. Without a doubt, but what sort of affection? The sort of affection a man has for his housekeeper, his friend, the sometimes matronly figure who fed him his meals and made sure he found his way safely to bed? Or the sort of affection a man might harbor for a woman, a woman he wanted, a woman he loved? Jean did not know, and though she cursed herself for her weakness, the moment her tears subsided she made her way upstairs and pinned the brooch he'd given her for her birthday to her chest. During the long weeks of his absence she wore it more often than not, running her fingertips across it and indulging herself in thoughts of him, this man who had given her this gift, this precious gift meant for his wife, this gift he'd held for seventeen long years, only to bestow it upon her. It meant something, she was certain, this thoughtful gesture, and she treasured it, even as she berated herself for needing a physical reminder of him during their separation.
And now he was back. The moment she saw him turn to her on the pavement beside the bus her face had split wide with a smile too bright, too brilliant to be restrained; she only just stopped herself from flinging her arms around his neck, from holding him tight to her and whispering that however much affection he might harbor her for, her own for him was boundless. Yet before she could, there came Joy McDonald, and with her all the hard truths Jean had studiously ignored while she spent long nights dreaming of Lucien's homecoming. You're just the housekeeper, she reminded herself firmly, even as she whisked Lucien away to the latest crime scene. He may have held you once, but you cannot ask for more.
And so it was that she brooded on the futility of her heart, that she tried to silence the bitter longing of her body, shivering each time he drew near, and set about making his supper once again. This was her role; she might wish that things were different, might dream of him, still, but she could not ask for more than this, to have him in this house, smiling at her softly. She would content herself with this; to ask for more would be madness.
"Something smells good," came the sound of his voice, rich as honey and hoarse from a long day's work, sending a chill racing down her spine as he spoke to her from the kitchen doorway. She glanced at him over her shoulder, hoping he would blame the flush in her cheeks on the hot stove, that he would not recognize that she was afflicted by an altogether different sort of heat. Damn him, damn his soft, warm gaze, the strain of his biceps against his shirtsleeves, the way she could not stop her eyes traveling over him, following the crease of his trousers and remembering what lay beneath. Jean could not recall having been so affected by desire since the heady days of her youth, when Christopher first touched her and set her ablaze. It was as if, having had a taste of him, of what they could be together, she was now ravenous for more. Long months without him had not quelled her yearning; if anything, doing without him for so long had only increased her need of him, and now that he was near, she found she could think of nothing else save having him, the taste of him, the delirious heat and hardness of him once again. Maybe, she thought desperately, offering him a weak smile, maybe just once more. Maybe if I could just have him once more, I could be satisfied. Maybe things would be easier, if we just released this tension.
After all, it had worked before. They had drawn closer in the wake of their frantic love-making, had learned to trust one another, and they had both of them seemed more comfortable as a result. And she had been so terribly lonely for so very long, with Danny off in Melbourne and Mattie working hard on her study. He had eased her loneliness, before, and if the way he was looking at her was any indication, he was more than willing to do it again. She heaved a little sigh, releasing the restraints she had placed upon herself with the rush of her own breath. She would not ask for it, would not ask for him, would not stoop to such lasciviousness unprompted, but if he came to her, if he placed those broad hands upon her hips and pressed his lips to her neck, she knew that all her intentions of being no more than his housekeeper would disappear like smoke on the wind, that she would turn to putty in his arms. Let him come, then; she had no defenses left.
The sight of Jean standing by the stove in her soft floral dress, her apron firmly in place, her dark curls escaping their pins at the end of a long day to draw his eye to the tantalizing curve of her neck, was almost more than he could bear. Since that night in the garden Lucien could not count the number of times he had taken himself in hand, thinking of her breathy moans, the heat, the rapture, the beauty of her, longing for the real thing but knowing she was too good, too determined, to allow him a second showing. He had spent weeks without her in China, and though at first his heart had been full to bursting with love, with hope, with thoughts of his daughter, his dreams had been dashed when he came face to face with Li. She had been distant, unwilling to trust this man who claimed to be her father, this man who had abandoned her and her mother to an uncertain fate. Those had been terrible days, after the devastation that had been their reunion, he so full of joy, and she so full of doubt. Thoughts of Jean had stayed him, when he very nearly turned tail and ran from his own child and the recrimination in her eyes; what would Jean think of me, he'd asked himself, if I just left, if I didn't even try? And so in the end he had convinced Li to let him write to her, believing that if only they got to know one another better, she might one day willingly call him father. Jean had done that for him, had kept him from falling headfirst into the bottle and the local brothel, and he felt himself deeply in her debt as a result.
And then he had come home, and she had been waiting for him, as beautiful as he remembered, her smile as bright as the sun. Though Lucien had welcomed Joy McDonald's company on the long bus ride to Ballarat, he had all but forgotten about her the moment he laid eyes on Jean. Jean was a vision, beautiful and familiar, and he wanted nothing more than to drown in her. For a moment, only a moment, he could imagine that she was his wife, the way she chided him, the way she straightened his lapels, unable to keep her hands off of him, the affection in her voice intoxicating in the extreme. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to stop him sweeping her into his arms, spinning her in a circle out of sheer exuberant relief, kissing her soundly there on the pavement as if she were his to kiss whenever he wished. And then Joy had made an appearance, and Jean's smile had dimmed, and his heart had sunk, to remember that she did not belong to him at all.
Not yet, at any rate. He had comforted himself in the months since their night in the garden by repeating, over and over, that she must surely one day be lonely again, and that when she was, he would be there for her.
Is she lonely now? He wondered as he watched her at work, hungrily drinking in the sight of her, the neat flare of her slim hips, the soft curve of her bum, her smooth, graceful arms. He thought she might have been; something in the way she'd been watching him since his return, something in the flush of her cheeks, the flickering of her eyes as they wandered over his figure, told him that perhaps she had longed for him, just as he had longed for her.
Tea first, he told himself. Jean was lithe and quick as a deer, and skittish, too, unwilling to flirt too close to the line of impropriety. That she had welcomed his embrace one night so many months before did not necessarily mean she would welcome it now, in the kitchen, with the sun sinking low on the horizon. And so he would make them each a cup of tea, and offer it to her as he might offer an apple to a doe, speaking to her softly and praying that she would make her way towards him.
The problem, as it were, was that the tea cups were housed in the cabinet directly above where Jean now stood, and she did not seem in any particular hurry to move as she faffed about with something Lucien could not comprehend on the stove top. To reach them, he would either have to ask her to move, or allow himself to draw closer to her than he had done since that night in the garden. One option was right and good and proper, the other totally unacceptable, but he knew which he preferred.
The problem was, as he saw it, that he had only had such a little taste of her. He had not truly seen her, his vision dulled by the darkness that surrounded them. He had watched her lying beneath him, but he had not been allowed the extravagance of burying his face between her thighs, of tracing the curve of her bottom with his tongue, of mapping each freckle and line upon her body as if they were constellations. He wanted more, wanted everything, and he was determined to start here, now, by pressing himself against her back in order to discover how they fit together, if she were amenable to exploring this forbidden longing that arced between them.
In an instant he was behind her; mindful of his dual mission - to feel the heat of her beneath his hands and retrive the teacups at the same time - he pressed himself against her and placed one hand on her shoulder, reaching up with the other to open the cabinet. It would be her choice, now, to chide him for his impropriety, to push him away, or to beg him for more, and he would be guided by her in this as in all things.
"Excuse me," he breathed, his voice low in her ear.
To his delight and his undoing, she gave a little gasp, the spoon she held clattering down onto the side. She did not turn to him, but nor did she push him away, and he took this as a point in his favor. She was so small, a head shorter than he and slightly built, enveloped now within the circle of his arms, and he felt a fierce, overwhelming desire to protect her, to shelter her, to cherish her with everything that he had. She was trembling, but somehow he knew it was not from fear; she was not easily frightened, his Jean. Abandoning all pretense of making tea Lucien reached out and turned off the heat on the stove top, not wanting any distractions - such as the ruination of their dinner - to interrupt whatever came next between them. Mattie was away for the evening and for the first time since the night in the garden, they had the house entirely to themselves, and he did not know when next such an opportunity might present itself.
"Jean," he breathed her name as his hand came to settle on her hip, giving her one last chance to push him away before his desire for her utterly consumed him. In response she only sighed, leaning back in his embrace, her head upon his collarbone, the swell of her bottom pressing deliciously against his slowly wakening hardness. The reality of the situation, the possibilities afforded to him now, the thought that he might once again have the chance to taste her, wrought havoc on his senses, left his heart pounding feverishly in his chest. Please, he begged her silently, his hands cradling her close. Please.
As if she'd heard him she turned in his embrace, her arms snaking round his neck, and he caught only the briefest glimpse of flashing grey eyes before his lips descended on hers and his world erupted into light and rapture.
This was what he had been missing during the long days of his sojourn in China; the heat and the softness and the furious strength of her. She was resilient, was Jean, had overcome heartbreak and financial calamity and the shattering of her dreams to become the sort of woman who stood toe to toe with him, who shouted down his demons and made love to his better angels, who spoke to him in a voice so gentle yet unyielding as stone. She was glorious, and kissing him with everything she had, sucking his bottom lip between her teeth, having already discovered that such a move left him ravenous for her.
Beneath his hands she had come to life, no sign of the sad, somewhat bitter woman she had been in the wake of his father's death. She was surging up towards him, drawing the breath from his lungs and giving it back in turn, her body arching into his as his hands drifted down the perfect curve of her spine, coming to a rest on her bum, where he kneaded her flesh none too gently, drawing a heady moan from deep in the back of her throat as he rocked her against his hardness. They had not spoken of this, had not given vent to their frustrations and their sorrows as they had done the last time, but then he felt they did not need to, now. Now they knew one another, understood one another, so much better than before. Being inside her had changed him, and if the frantic way she was loosening the knot of his tie was anything to go by, it would seem that it had changed her as well. He made no move to stop her; he was hers to do with as she wished, and if she were half as desperate as he to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips then he would not deter her progress.
The question of her own garments swam through his chaotic thoughts; he needed to see her, needed it more than his next breath, but in order to bare her to him fully he would first have to contend with the myriad layers that protected the softness of her flesh from the cruel world beyond. Apron first, he decided, so as his tongue slid against her own his hands abandoned her bum and traced their way back up to the nape of her neck, untying the fastenings there so that the flowery fabric flowed away from her. With that task complete he turned to the zip of her dress, dragging it down her spine and relishing the sound of it rasping loud as thunder in the silence of the kitchen.
"Lucien," she gasped, tearing her lips away from him long enough to speak. He took the opportunity to look at her, really look at her, the flush in her cheeks and her lips swollen from his kisses, the straining swells of her breasts rising and falling with each of her panting breaths. Would she ask him to stop? Would she tell him they had gone too far already, that to proceed down this road was madness? She had called him the devil once, and he thought it must be true, for he knew that he tempted her, dragged her away from the gilded path the church had laid before her feet and onto the mottled road of darkness upon which he himself trod. In that moment, though, struck dumb by her sheer beauty, he found he could not repent for this sin.
He ducked his head, pressed his lips against the column of her throat and allowed his hands to splay across her back beneath her dress. She was fragile as a bird, so small he felt he could easily encircle her waist in his hands, could lift her up as easily as if she were weightless and send her soaring to the very heights of pleasure, but only if she willed it, only if she asked him to.
When she did not speak he kissed her still more soundly, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the salty sweetness of her neck, and in his arms she shivered, and relaxed against him, pressing her cheek to his chest.
"Yes," she breathed, a single word of capitulation that had him racing into action in a moment. She had no sooner spoken than her dress was pooled on the floor at her feet. Beneath it she was still cloaked in a variety of soften, satin garments, all clasps and ties and convoluted hindrances, but before Lucien tore down those last remaining walls between them he followed through on his earlier suppositions, resting his hands on either side of her waist, his fingers nearly touching as he clasped her to him, feeling the rushing of her blood beneath her skin.
"You're beautiful, Jean," he whispered against her neck, fighting the impulse to sink his teeth into her, to consume her whole.
She sighed, threading her fingers through his hair, but she did not respond, just held him to her, just offered him the acceptance, the peace, the comfort that he craved, that he had only ever found in her arms. For a moment they stood together, poised on the precipice of utter abandon, their hearts beating in time to one another, lust and hope and love and fear churning within them, their bodies burning everywhere they touched. But such contemplation would not sate him indefinitely, would not satisfy the ache that had manifested deep in his soul. He pulled back from her slightly, brushing his lips against her temple as he set about methodically divesting her of the last of her armor. She helped him wordlessly, her eyes flickering across his face down to his chest and back again, a question there he could not fathom, but which he hoped to answer with every touch of his hand. The moment she was naked he pressed one hand flat to the small of her back, her body arching reflexively at the touch, thrusting the soft swell of her neat breasts toward his questing tongue, but he had no sooner kissed the tip of one pale pink nipple than she was pushing him away, nimble fingers intent on unfastening his shirt buttons.
It was his turn, then, to stand wholly at the mercy of her ministrations, and so he did, tracing his fingers up and down the unbearably supple skin of her back, taking in every curve, every dip, every line and plane and nuance of her body. She was truly beautiful, his Jean, with that challenging swing to her hips, though she was bereft of her bravado now, no longer the formidable Mrs. Beazley but Jean, just Jean, a woman flesh and bone and utterly lovely. She made quick work of his shirt and his vest, though her fingers trembled as she reached for his belt buckle. So she felt it, too, he realized, felt the same desire, the same insecurity that had him longing for her and doubting himself in equal measure. That comforted him more than he could say, and the soft jingling of his belt and trousers piling on the floor galvanized him into action. Before she could remove his trunks as well he cupped her face in his hands, drew her to him for another kiss, sweeter than the last as her breasts pressed against the hard plane of his chest. He traced her lips, her tongue, her teeth, learning the shape of her, seeking out the secrets she'd kept hidden from him, even the last time they had done this. There would be no corner of her left undiscovered by the time he was through, of that he was certain.
And then Jean did something he did not expect, something that decimated all his careful plans of making love to her slowly and loosed that furious passion he had tried so very hard to control up to this point. She hooked her hands in the waistband of his trunks and sent them tumbling to the floor, reaching out to clasp his hardness in her hand, pumping him a few times with deliberate strokes of her small, graceful hands. He groaned, biting down on her lip rather harder than he had intended, overwhelmed by the heat of her touch, and in response she whimpered, arching into him as though desperate for more. It would seem that however wild the passions of his heart her own matched him like for like, and any thoughts of taking things slow between them evaporated in an instant.
Defty he turned her in his arms, his hips pushing her forward toward the countertop, his hands rising up to knead her breasts as roughly as he dared. She threw her hands out in front of her, bracing herself against the countertop as she ground back against him, the lithe curve of her spine pressing her into him everywhere they touched, filling his hands with her breasts, teasing his cock with the softness of her bum. For a moment he worried he might be hurting her, might be clutching her hard enough to bruise, but the thought of the imprint of his hands upon her flesh only made his cock twitch in hopeful anticipation, and the sound that escaped her, a heady, desperate sound of want, told him that - as difficult as it was to believe - she wanted this as badly as did he. He kept one hand wrapped tightly around her breast, anchoring her to him, as with the other he took hold of himself, thrusting his hardness between her legs, across her slippery folds, both of them moaning at the sensation. She was wet already, soft and receptive to any advances he might make, and he wondered at that, gave thanks to a god he didn't believe in for the glory of this woman who understood him better than any other he had ever known.
"Jean," he gasped, wanting to be sure, needing to hear her say it, needing that one last confirmation of all his hopes and dreams.
"Please," she begged him, her voice low and throaty and desperate as his own had been.
His fingertips ran circles around her nipple, coaxing it harder and harder as he carefully lined himself up with her; she canted her hips, leaned forward on her hands, and the next thing he knew, he was slipping inside her. As the tip of his cock stretched her she writhed beneath him, the sound she made low and soft and indescribable.
He withdrew and pushed in again, deeper this time, feeling himself sliding into the warmth and wet of her, the sheer blistering heat of her setting his every nerve ending alight.
"I'm sorry," he told her softly, and before she could ask what he meant, he withdrew again, and plunged into her in earnest.
Jean could not breathe, could not think, could barely hold herself upright as Lucien began to pound into her relentlessly. It had been so long, so very long, since last she had a man behind her, inside her, holding her tight to his sweat-slicked body and feverishly thrusting within her. Christopher had been like this in the beginning, rough and demanding, tearing the breath from her lungs and leaving her trembling and begging him for more, but that had tempered with time; once she became the mother of his children, he treated her more gently, and though she found her pleasure nearly every time he took her, she had missed this, this wildness, this desperation, this pain so sweet it nearly brought tears to her eyes. So long, so long, she though, the words pounding out in time to each of Lucien's thrusts. Each time he filled her anew the head of his cock brushed against the place deep inside her that turned her bones to jelly, and so powerful was the movement of his body against her own she found herself squealing with every thrust of his hips. She would be bruised tomorrow, from the countertop battering against the tender flesh of her hips, from his hand clutching her breast so tightly, her lips still swollen and tingling from his kisses, but she relished every second of it.
And still he moved, harder and faster, the strength of him, the length of him inside her overwhelming her utterly. In his arms she found true abandon, that state of euphoria so far beyond the rigors of her normal life, felt herself being melted down and made into a new creature, a woman who was not complete without him there inside her.
Lucien could not speak, his breaths hard and heavy by her ear as he bore into her relentlessly. For her part, Jean had lost all sense of herself, could not even hear herself whimpering please please please over and over again. She felt herself clenching and fluttering around him, drawing him in deeper and deeper; please please please, she gasped. Together they climbed higher and higher, Lucien's free hand rising up to cradle her other breast, his broad chest pressed flush against her back, their skin feverishly hot, molding into one another. She was nearly there, so close to her rapture that she could have screamed with dire need if only she'd had breath enough to make such a sound, but as it was she could only tremble, tears sliding freely down her cheeks, shaking like a leaf on the wind until finally he drove into her one last time, and she shattered.
Bliss, everything was bliss; her heart stopped beating, her lungs stopped expanding, the rush of blood in her ears so loud it drowned out her cries, her inner muscles clamped down so hard upon his length that he could not withdraw, could only slam his hips into her and groan in exaltation as he spilled himself inside her, collapsing against her so that they rested together against the countertop, his hands still clutching her chest.
Lucien could not say how long they stood thus entwined, his slowly softening cock still clutched tight within her welcoming warmth, but in the end he came back to himself, and realized that he must have been crushing her. Regretfully he withdrew, and tried to fight the surge of pride that filled him as he took in her trembling legs, the sight of his release sliding slowly down her thighs appealing to him in the basest, most common of ways. His own legs were no stronger than hers in the wake of their feverish lovemaking; he turned to lean against the countertop, and instead found himself slowly collapsing onto the floor so that he was sitting at her feet. In a bemused state of wonder he reached out and traced the curve of her calf with his fingertips; Jean whimpered, and in the next moment he found her sprawled across his lap. With his arms encircling her he drew her close, her nose brushing against the coarse line of his beard as he rocked her as if she were a child. There were so many things he wanted to tell her, so many things he wished he had the courage to say, but in the end he could think of nothing profound enough to explain what he was feeling. And so he only held her, kissing her temple gently, and for a time they rested together. For the first time in a very long time they were both of them whole, and well, and at peace.