It was soft, somehow, in a way she had not expected, a way that left her breathless. The way he touched her was soft, his broad, strong hands drifting through her hair, fingertips finding the ridge of her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw. There was wonder in that touch, and joy reverent and trembling. His lips were soft, too, pressed against her own, full and warm, the taste of him not something she could define but something she craved, not overpowering but intoxicating nonetheless. His tongue was soft, sliding between her lips as she gasped and he grinned, breathless and delighted. Beneath her hands his skin was soft, smooth, warm and soothing, the sensation of finding herself in the arms of another for the first time in nearly two decades almost enough to make her weep, so great was her relief, her abundant joy. And there between her thighs, where she cradled him close, she could feel the softness of his heather-grey trunks, the fabric sliding against her tender skin, comforting and erotic at the same time.
Before this moment she had wondered, more than once, what it might be like to finally give in to the longing she felt for him, what it might be like if those hands reached for her, not seeking to offer comfort or support but seeking to know her, to hold her, to ferret out her secrets and reveal all the pieces of her heart so long kept hidden. In those imaginings everything between them was hot and hard and rough, desperate, his strength and his power overwhelming her utterly. He was an overwhelming sort of man, her Lucien, brilliant and passionate and moody and impulsive and so bloody strong, and any time she imagined herself on the receiving end of that strength it had never played out like this. Like his strong arms holding him braced above her, not crushing her but mindful of her comfort. Like his broad chest, brushing against the bare skin of her breasts with every ragged breath she took, but not pinning her down. Like the hard, thick muscles of his thighs beneath those soft grey trunks, poised to drive into her and yet holding back for her sake.
No, he was tender, her Lucien, soft, as if he were awestruck at the very thought of touching her. And she loved him for that softness, for the delicate way he treated her, his adoration of her communicating itself to her in a hundred tiny ways. She loved him, and holding him now, lying naked beneath him in his bed, her heart felt full to bursting with that love. This softness he had given her, this gentle regard, but she had drunk her fill of these silken affections, and now tension and desire coiled in every muscle of her body, twisting, tightening, as need took hold.
If he would not press her then she was determined to press him, and so she slid her hands over the slope of his back to tangle in his hair, drew him down hard against her as she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, lifted her hips even as she tightened the grip of her thighs against him, pulled him into her. Though he still wore his trunks she was bare, and she ground her aching heat against his hardness through the soft material that separated them still, gasping, softly, at the friction between they generated between them. Perhaps she had surprised him; he groaned into her kiss and shifted against her, his thighs tightening as his self control slipped, as he gave into his own longing and thrust into the welcoming cradle of her thighs. He drew his head back, looked down on her with hooded eyes full of lust and more, so much more, and her heart sang in her chest like some wild bird at the thought that it was she who had put that look upon his face, that he was bare and wanton and overwhelmed for her, that all that she felt for him was returned to her in kind.
"Jean," he growled her name, lowered his head to trace the lines of her neck with his tongue. She threw her head back against the pillows, her hips pressed hard to his, the smallest of movements sparking want through her veins like electricity. He shifted, took his weight on his knees so that he could free his hands, learning the lines of her trembling body while still his mouth lingered against her neck. His palms found the curve of her hip, spanned the softness of her belly, slid upward to knead her breasts and draw sighs of longing from her lips. This man would be the end of her, she thought dimly, lost on a wave of pleasure; he would undo her utterly, and she him, and they would forge themselves anew amongst his bedsheets. Desperate for more, now, to unleash him in truth, her hand moved without thought, abandoning his soft blonde curls and slipping between their bodies. She was no blushing virgin, and she had waited too long for him; she would have her fill of him here, now. In a moment she found her mark, palming his hardness through the thin fabric of his trunks, a shiver racing down her spine at the feel of him against her hand, at the way he groaned aloud and thrust himself into her touch. Her fingers curled, seeking to catch hold of him, and then -
And then she woke, gasping, sweaty, mortified. Beyond her window the sun had just begun to rise, a warning to Jean that the time had come for her to do the same, to leave her bed and dress and prepare for the day ahead, but she could hardly move.
What on earth was that? She wondered, lying still and disquiet beneath her duvet. She could not remember the last time such a dream had troubled her; it was not that she was above such human desires, but they rarely manifested themselves in such a visceral, almost tactile manner. As the fragments of her dream gave way to reality she fancied she could almost feel Lucien against her skin, the weight of him above her, the softness of his lips, though the spectral vision she had conjured for herself had left her cold and lonely. It had all felt so real, as if it were memory, and not the sinful meandering of her imagination.
Then again she supposed she should not be surprised by this visitation; her thoughts had lingered on him more and more, of late. There had been that day in the garden, that day when he had held her hands, encouraged her to reach out and take what she wanted for herself when they both knew that it was Lucien she wanted, more than anything else. Or at least, she thought he knew, must have known, by the way he looked at her, the way his hands found their way to her hip with such alarming regularity these days, that he was the one she burned for. And then there had been that moment, also in the garden, when he had caught her daydreaming about him while she hung the laundry out to dry, when his gaze had traveled to her pink knickers and his eyes had gone wide and dark with interest. That had been a troubling experience, not because he had seen her knickers or watched her hang his own trunks on the line but because it had forced her to confront the truth behind her decision to buy the knickers in the first place. They were meant to be seen, and Jean had not gone to bed with anyone for seventeen long years. She had done it on purpose, she knew, thinking somewhat absently about how if the occasion did arise when someone else might see her underthings - though she had done nothing else to bring about such an eventuality - she wanted them - him - to be pleased with the vision of her. And perhaps such a thought was fine in the abstract, but that day in the garden had forced her to admit that the reality of the situation was somewhat more complicated.
It might be very nice, to go to bed with Lucien, to feel free enough, brave enough, safe enough to make such a choice. It would have been a lot more than nice, in fact, but it could never be more than a dream. He was her employer, the man she depended on for room and board, the man who paid her wages, and as such utterly out of reach. They were not wed, and she could not imagine such an arrangement between them, and the church's stance on relations outside of wedlock was very clear. It would be social suicide to fall in with him, for one thing, and for another it would place her life into a tenuous balance. What would become of her, should he tire of her affections? Should they have a colossal falling out, as lovers so often did? What would become of her, shamed and desolated, if she had to search for work elsewhere amidst all the whispers? And more than that, as much as she cared for him, as much as she longed for him, Lucien himself gave her reason to pause. He was impulsive, reckless, wild; could she really tie herself to such a man? Could she really allow herself the vulnerability of love with a man who was so often distracted, who so often turned his back on friends and responsibilities when a mystery consumed him? She could not bear it, she thought, to finally open her heart to another, only to find herself cast aside in favor of more interesting pursuits.
He would not do that to you.
It was a fleeting thought, dancing across her mind as she rolled out of bed, and prepared to start her day. Always, Lucien had been kind to her - well, she amended to herself, almost always. He had not been particularly kind in the beginning, but he had found a shred of humility and told her how he needed her, and from that day to this he had been courteous and considerate of her. He had come back to her, after his trip to China, had come home, had showered her with presents at birthday and Christmas, had held her hands in the garden, had very nearly kissed her in the sunroom. And oh, but she wished he had, wished the infernal phone had not rung, wished they had seized the opportunity presented to them to finally act on the tension that swirled between them.
Jean lingered for a moment in front of her dresser, the draw the held her underthings open as she stared down at it, thinking hard.
What would be worse, she asked herself; would it be worse to fall in with him and have it turn to ruin, or to spend the rest of her life wondering what might have been if only she'd found the courage to reach for him? It would be hard, damn near impossible, to start over after such a catastrophe, but to never know the touch of his hand in passion, never know what they could be to one another, to never love, as she so longed to love; that would be a slow and terrible kind of death.
She reached into the drawer, felt the slide of silk and satin and the hint of lace as she searched for something to wear. A very special day lay ahead for Jean; it was her birthday, and she would get to spend it in the company of the Ballarat Drama Society. She would see to breakfast at home first, of course, but then she would be off to the Colonists'. She would assist with the preparations in the morning, rolling out chairs and tables and laying the decorations, and then Cec would serve her and the other volunteers a nice lunch. And then they would rehearse and adjust the lighting one last time, and then slip out of sight for costumes and makeup and a light supper before the show began. Jean would be there, on stage, with Jacqueline Maddern, and the very thought thrilled her; it was not often that Jean got to be the center of attention - though she supposed she wouldn't really be that evening, any way - but being in the chorus would still put her front and center, and she felt a spark of anticipation at the thought. They would be watching her, all of Ballarat's high society, and she would wear a beautiful costume and speak the ancient words that would fill that audience with awe and wonder. It would be a beautiful night, a wonderful night, and her birthday besides; what if, she wondered absently, Lucien had a gift for her this year, as well? What might it be?
A little smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she found what she was searching for; a brand new pair of soft, daring black lace knickers. Finely made and exorbitantly expensive the knickers had remained at the back of the dresser drawer - along with the matching brassiere - unworn from the day she'd purchased them. But they were beautiful, so beautiful, and it was her birthday, and while she had found no answers to the questions that swirled through her mind she felt a sudden urge to wear them today. Yes, it would be a special day, and Jean would quite like to feel special, even if this was a secret she would keep for herself, unable to share it with anyone else.
Carefully she slid free of the knickers she'd been wearing, and pulled on the new ones. There was rather a lot less material here than she was used to wearing, and she felt as bare as if she wore nothing at all. But when she glanced in the mirror and saw the black lace stark against her pale skin, she smiled. No, she was not brave enough to be Lucien's lover - yet - was not as glamorous as Jacqueline Maddern or as powerful as Susan Tyneman, but standing there in those knickers she felt beautiful, and strong. And maybe that was enough; maybe it was enough for her to see herself this way, to see not just a poor farmgirl or a dowdy housekeeper, but a woman, complex and layered and full of surprises. Maybe it was enough; it would have to be.