Alone in his quarters, Javert proceeded in his usual routine for sleep. Removing his uniform, blocking his hat, polishing the scuffs of his boots formed a concentrated method for him. Everything perfect in its place. Unlike that woman. Why couldn't he force her from his mind as he usually could with his problems, for that's all she was. A problem. How he hated when things did not fit where they belonged, like a noblewoman in the gutter of a prison cell, like an acquitted prisoner who refused her freedom. What had come over him to agree to her suggestion, what compelled him to offer her a room in the Préfecture for the night? And why did those piercing, unmistakable eyes penetrate every thought that passed through his logical mind?
His years of service gained him a name that was feared in every shady corner of Paris and in every cold, murderous crime-driven heart within his jurisdiction. But those eyes could send a tremor down to the polished, gleaming heels of his boots. He should have left the harlot in chains as 3072 instead of this dissenting Comptesse, instead of Cécelie.
He drew the stiffly starched, white linen sheets of his bed, folding them perfectly down to place himself in bed. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was that tossed hair, that chained, supple neck and those damned eyes. His mind flashed to where he had left her not moments ago, as she prepared to clean up, bathe and prepare herself for bed as a noblewoman should. Then, she would lay under similar sheets, her rounded, womanly figure forming a different silhouette beneath the linen…
Javert's eyes opened wide into the darkness of his room. This was not like him. This did not fit who he was any more than Cécelie fit any of her own negotiable labels. Witch of a woman. He should have left her bound by her ankles and wrists. Closing his eyes again, he considered if he still return her to chains and bars. She would be asleep, unknowing and appearing more innocent in repose than she ever did in consciousness. He could still take his chains, his shackles, and grab her milk-white ankles again, locking them firmly together and chaining her to the wooden posters of the bed. The same could easily and quickly be done with her wrists—locking them firmly above her head, helpless and captured. And then she would return under his mercy again, though no longer the silent, still, enigmatic prisoner that subtlety strained his every expectation. Unsuspecting until it was too late for her to escape his power. As her superior, he'd have every right to punish her as he saw fit, he sneered into the darkness.
His breath came harder where he lay as the images flashed over his mind, and that was not the only thing harder, he noticed. With a groan, he sat up on the edge of his bed, unable to ignore the prominent ache, the protrusion in his nightclothes. Hardly anything ever excited him in this way, he groaned. Another example of the day's abnormalities—his pulsing, swollen dick.
Lifting away the bottom of his nightshirt, he gripped his cock tightly in his hand, and the still unfamiliar feeling sent a jolt up his spine. This was a pleasure he always denied himself, one of the many. But now and again, especially after the strangeness of the day, he saw no harm. Quickly, his large, rough hand beat back and forth along his considerable length, steady in his timing, unyielding in his pressure. The dry, rubbing beat excited him even more.
In his mind, he still pictured her body, prostrate, spread and supplicating, those damned eyes wide and startling as they had been since he noticed them that day. The rhythm of rubbing numbed his mind of conscious thoughts, the sensation over his dick enough to occupy him for the moment. Hard and firm, like the iron of the bars, the metal of chains. The chains around those pale legs, the iron that circled her perfect neck. Images flashed quicker as he sped up his own pace. Already the pressure swelled inside, and with one last flashing glimpse of violet eyes in his mind, he stifled a groan, spilling his seed onto the stone floor with a final spasm of long-denied pleasure.
Neat and orderly, he immediately wiped the offending ejaculation from the floor with a soiled kerchief. Not a trace left of his indulgence. Even since he reached this mark of maturity, this pleasure, this exhaustion still affected him with self-imposed inexperience. And lying back down beneath his sheets, he took one last pleasure in laying on his back, resting his arms beneath his long, loose dark hair and taking a deep indulging breath. He could manage to control this intoxicating, forbidden change in the morning, once he was rested and attentive. Finding his release, it was his duty now to sleep.
