In some ways, it started slow. A soft smile, a kind word, deep blue eyes, a cup of tea. The brush of a hand, the building of trust, the attempt to understand. Promises and pleas and a thousand favors never requested, always granted. It was a slow, winding, spiraling thing, a path looping round and round the edge of a mountain, switchbacks and curves, the way ahead cloaked in shadow until she burst forth into the sparkling sunlight of the summit. A year, and a few months, and a couple days (and three hours), passing languorous and sweet, summer giving way to autumn, and with it her heart yielding, inch by inch. Slow as the final waltz, swaying, swirling, falling into step.
In some ways it was slow, but in others it had come on so fast she blushed to remember it now. The scratch of a gingham blanket beneath her bare legs, the scratch of his beard beneath her palm. A sharp intake of breath and then a plunge into the unknown, into want, into need, into abandon, dark sky above and the breeze washing across her overheated skin. The wild delight of a dangerous stranger, the heat and the hardness and the pounding desire. And then, oh then, tumbling, again and again, going to confession but biting her lip, holding this piece of her heart in check though she be damned for such deception. Knowing it was folly, knowing it was sin, and yet committing herself to the flames of her own ruination, if only so she could feel the comfort of him beside her while she burned.
She had fallen in love with him slowly, gradually, day by day, as he confided in her, as he revealed himself to her. Eager as a schoolboy, but broken, too, brilliant and tragic and unbearably, unspeakably handsome. Capable of rage and tenderness in equal measure, topful of love for the world and hatred for himself. He was a mystery she wanted to unravel, a heart she longed to mend, a hand she yearned to hold. Kind, and strong, and brave, and shattered.
She had fallen in love with him quickly, the first time he held her close, promised to share his warmth with her, worshipped her with hands tender and true. He was impossible, he was indecipherable, everything about him anathema to her provincial heart, and yet, and yet, and yet she could not stop thinking about him, wondering what he thought of her, longing for his approval, his time, dreaming of him, thoughts conspiring against her. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun, words read long ago coming back to her now in light of her new reality.
However it had happened, however he had captured her, body and soul, the thing was done. She loved him, truly.
And one day, one day soon, she would return to him, to that house that had borne silent witness to a thousand lustful transgressions, that place that had begun to feel more like a home, memories of a long, low, lopsided farmhouse and dirt beneath her fingernails fading in light of more pressing yearnings.
One day, but not yet. Not this day, when she stood in the kitchen of her son's tiny home on the army base, washing the breakfast dishes and pausing, now and again, to gaze out the window above the little sink, a soft, secretive smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as her thoughts returned, again and again, to her beloved.
Lucien had come with her all the way to Adelaide. Hours upon hours they sat together on that bus, hardly speaking, hardly daring to breathe, though he refused to let go of her hand, even for a moment. Even as they rose to their feet, when finally the bus trundled to a stop, even as they disembarked, he clung to her. He had not offered her words, to explain his sudden need to claim her, but his eyes had spoken volumes; he had promised himself to her, in every way, had sworn to be hers, to wait out her sojourn in Adelaide however long it might last, to welcome her with open arms when finally she returned home.
There had been a brief, terrible moment when she caught sight of her son and very nearly pulled away from Lucien. Just an instant of doubt, wondering if perhaps it might be best to keep their newfound (but long established) closeness a secret, wondering if perhaps she ought to have been ashamed. But no more than a moment, for Christopher had seen them and Lucien had waved to the lad with a smile brighter than the sun and Jean had not been able to find the strength to let him go. To whatever end, he was hers, and if Christopher did not know before he would know soon enough, and she would not lie to her son.
She did let go of Lucien just long enough to embrace young Christopher, but the moment she stepped back his palm was flush with hers again, his fingers lacing through her own, curling, clutching, needing. Her son's grey eyes, so like her own, had wandered from her face down to her hand and back up again, and though she was blushing when she caught his gaze he only smiled, softly, for the first time in recent memory.
With Christopher's help they got Lucien settled in a hotel, and then he had whisked Jean away in his car.
The doc came all this way without a suitcase, he'd mused, his eyes staring straight ahead though all his attention was clearly fixed on his mother.
Well, Jean had stammered. It wasn't exactly planned.
Christopher just hummed. I'm glad he's here, anyway.
And as if to prove his point, Christopher had invited Lucien round for dinner, three times, and three times he had accepted. They had hardly seen one another otherwise; Ruby was in a dreadful state, lethargic, prone to weeping at the slightest provocation, still mending from a painful delivery, and Amelia was an unhappy child, unwilling and unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time. It was Lucien, dear, sweet Lucien, who had discerned the cause of her distress the very day they arrived from Ballarat, the first time he came round for dinner. It seemed that the only thing Ruby would eat was peanut butter on toast, and it seemed that particular diet was not agreeing with little Amelia. With a voice calm and soft as if he were coaxing a wild horse Lucien had convinced Ruby to try something else, and within a day it was as if the sullen, squalling baby had been replaced with another child altogether. Seeing Amelia content lifted Ruby's spirits, and in less than a week the entire atmosphere of that little house had completely changed.
Thanks to Lucien.
Lucien, who would be going back to Ballarat the very next day.
Christopher had once more invited the good doctor for dinner, and Jean was quite looking forward to seeing him, though she was admittedly rather cross that they had not managed to spend any time alone together. There was just so much to do; the house needed cleaning, and Ruby needed constant encouragement, and there were nappies to change, and Jean could hardly sneak off for a tryst with her one-time employer, no matter how she might long for it. The thought of going days, or even weeks, without seeing him left Jean feeling rather bereft, as he had been a constant presence in her life for so long now that she had grown quite accustomed to him. The one bright spot, however, was a brief conversation she'd had with Christopher, in which her son had whole-heartedly agreed that there was no need for her to stay on permanently. Maybe a month, he'd said, softly. Maybe not even that long. Honestly, mum, you've helped so much already.
A gentle knocking on the front door startled Jean from her reverie, but even as she turned away from the sink, curious as to who might be calling at this time of the morning, Ruby was answering the door and young Christopher was walking in the kitchen.
"Mum," he said, his voice drowning out the sound of Ruby and their guest speaking in the foyer. "The baby's just gone to sleep, and it's beautiful day. I think I might take Ruby to the park, if you don't mind watching Amelia?"
Jean smiled. He had always been such a sweet boy, her Christopher, and though Ruby was not the sort of girl Jean would have chosen for him, it warmed her heart to see how he doted on her.
"Of course," she said. It would be no great imposition, to look after her sleeping grandchild for an hour or two, especially now that Amelia was so recovered from her poor humor, and in truth Jean was rather looking forward to the chance to spend some time alone, in peace and quiet, to consider the state of her life, all the things she wished for, all the dreams that now seemed within her grasp.
He returned her smile. "Good. Thanks."
And then he turned away, and as he left the kitchen he passed their guest.
"Doc," he said softly as he went.
"Christopher," Lucien murmured, grinning fit to burst. "Enjoy the park."
Jean stood spellbound, staring at him, feeling rather lost. Where had he come from? How? Why? Had they planned this?
They must have done, for Christopher had not been surprised to see Lucien, and by the time Jean gathered her wits her son and his wife were already out the door, speaking softly to one another while Lucien lingered on the edge of the kitchen, tugging awkwardly at his waistcoat and looking at her with hopeful eyes.
"Hello, Jean," he said to the accompaniment of the sound of the front door closing. They were alone, now, properly alone for the first time since the hotel in Ballarat, and Jean found her heart suddenly racing. Strange, that he should inspire such a response in her, when she had already tumbled beneath the bedsheets with him more times than she could count, when she had shared her meals with him most every day, seen him in his pajamas, darned his socks. Surely, she thought, such constant familiarity should with time ease the sudden flush of yearning that filled her when he looked at her, and yet, she found if anything his proximity only delighted her more with each passing day. Especially now, now that they had been so honest with one another, now that she knew for a certainty that the burgeoning feelings of love and devotion that had been steadily growing in her chest for over a year now were returned.
For a moment she was torn between the urge to rush across the kitchen and straight into his arms, and the urge to scold him for conspiring with her son to arrange this little liaison. A fleeting, uncharitable thought occurred to her as she watched him fidgeting there in the doorway; had he only come to get into her knickers? They had developed a rather bad habit, over the course of their acquaintance, of solving problems with fervent kisses and grasping hands, rather than sitting down and talking as civilized people. Much as she enjoyed - and hungered for - his attentions, she knew that at some point they would have to still their wild hearts and be frank with one another.
He seemed so earnest, though, so pleased to see her, so hopeful, so full of his boundless, characteristic exuberance that she dismissed any thought of his harboring nefarious intentions. He had come to see her, had spoken with her son and likely charmed the lad and Ruby as well, and arranged for them to spend a few stolen minutes together, and she was grateful to him.
"Hello, Lucien," she answered softly, and the warmth in her voice had a smile blossoming across his face in an instant.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, beginning the long, slow journey from his post in the doorway to her side. "I thought we needed to talk, before I go back to Ballarat, and this seemed the best way. Christopher thought it might do Ruby some good to get out of the house."
Jean hummed her agreement. Ruby was an anxious, somewhat neurotic girl, always looking for reassurance, always certain that every minor inconvenience was a disaster, and spending every moment of every day at home caring for an infant had left her wrung out and wrecked. It would be good for her to get some fresh air, to do something as simple, as normal as stroll through the park with her husband.
"I just need to finish washing up," Jean told him, turning her attention once more to the sink. "There's tea in the kettle, if you like."
"I'm quite all right, thank you, Jean," he answered, and she smiled, just a little, thinking how very familiar this scene was, the pair of them in the kitchen of a morning, Lucien dawdling behind her while she washed the dishes and the sun shone on her face. It was...nice. Comfortable. Right.
As she mused on this, the way they seemed to have fallen into the patterns of a married couple long before such an arrangement had been offered or accepted, the soft sound of his footfall echoed behind her, and in a moment his hands, broad and warm, took up their accustomed place at her hips while his lips descended upon the column of her neck, soft and enticing, the brush of his beard against her skin sending a shiver down her spine.
"Lucien," she breathed out a warning, but her lover only laughed, gently.
"I've missed you, Jean," he told her. "Not just this," he added quickly, giving her hips a little squeeze. "I've missed the sound of your voice. It isn't the same, coming over here for dinner. I want you, in our house, with me. Always."
Perhaps it was a bit presumptuous, a bit possessive of him to speak to her in such a way, but Jean could not fault him for it, for she wanted the same things. She wanted him soft and sleepy in the mornings, warm and intently focused on her in the evenings, wanted the brush of his hand against the small of her back and the lull of a meandering conversation. Our house, he'd said, and it warmed her heart to hear it, to hear him acknowledge that the house on Mycroft was every bit as much her home as it was his, that it worked best when they were there, together.
"I'll be home soon, Lucien," she promised him. Behind her he lowered his head, rested his chin against her shoulder, and she fancied she could almost see his pout.
"I know," he sighed. "And you're doing the right thing, helping young Christopher. You always do the right thing, my darling. And i don't want to take you away from your son."
"I know," she answered, reaching out blindly to pat his cheek with a damp hand. And she did know, for Lucien understood better than most the importance of family, having lost his own.
"You stay as long as you need to," he said. "I shall wait eagerly for your return, however long it takes."
"Not too long, I hope," Jean told him in a playful voice. This earned her a smile; she could not see it, but she could feel it in the brush of his lips against her neck.
"No," he breathed against her skin. "Not too long. I need you, my darling Jean."
She recognized that tone of voice; perhaps it was the familiarity of their current situation, or perhaps it was the warmth of her body pressed snug to his own, or perhaps it was just that his want of her lingered, always, just on the edge of his consciousness. Whatever the reason, it would seem that Lucien was interested in more than words, now, that his restraint had reached its breaking point. His hands slid across her body, palms pressed flat to the plane of her stomach, rising, slowly, ever so slowly, deliberately, intently. She knew what it was he wanted, and she made no move to stop him, merely sighed and leaned back in his embrace, her head resting against his collarbone.
"You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he told her as his hands molded to the curve of her breast, kneading her gently. A soft, mewling sort of sound escaped her at his touch; the knowledge of just what he could do to her with those hands had her hungry for him in a moment. She did not take offense at his words, knowing that he had only meant to compliment her, that he earnestly believed them to be true, and chose instead to revel in the knowledge that this handsome, worldly man found her so captivating.
He was beautiful, too, her Lucien, clever and strong and powerful, and she adored him with everything she had. And so she did not stop the journey of his hands, did not pull away when in the shifting of their hips she felt the brush of his growing hardness between them. The baby was asleep, they had the house to themselves, and it would be weeks before they had such an opportunity again. She wanted to take it, to seize this chance for bliss, before it was too late.
With the flexing of his arms and the movements of his body he coaxed her, shifted her, nuzzled at her neck until once more his lips found skin. This was a dangerous game they were playing, but it was Jean's favorite, without a doubt.
One of his hands remained firmly fixed to her breast, thick fingers caressing her, taunting her through the layers of her clothes while the other drifted down, fisted in the fabric of her skirt and drew it up so slowly that Jean was left trembling with anticipation. How many times, she asked herself, had they started in this fashion, standing together in the kitchen, Lucien suddenly intent on baring her stockings and knickers to his feasting eyes? He had told her, more than once, that her workaday underthings were more alluring to him than any lingerie sold in any shop, and she had confessed to him that she found his smartly-tailored suits almost indecent. Such was the nature of love, she supposed, that even the most mundane of characteristics could take on an almost heavenly beauty, when they were bound up in the form of one's beloved.
"Jean," he whispered her name like a prayer, his body curling around hers, nimble fingers dancing across the exposed skin of her thighs above her stocking-tops. "My Jean."
Always he had called her that, from the very first time he had taken her, but it was not until that night in the hotel room that she'd understood just what he meant. She was his, body and soul, each of them a part of the other, now, inextricably linked, destined, perhaps, for this all-consuming love. In response she reached behind her, one hand curling around the back of his neck, holding him tight to her.
"Yours," she told him, knowing how that word inflamed him, reassured him, knowing that he belonged to her just as fully, as completely, as she did to him.
He was quick and clever with his hands, her Lucien, a surgeon and a musician and quite a skilled lover, and it was no difficult thing for him to find his way beneath her knickers, the angle not quite right as she stood boneless in his grip, her thighs parting for him, his fingertips brushing through the raspy curls at her center.
"I want you with me," he told her as he ventured onward, finding her slippery and swollen with want of him, teasing out the secrets of her desire and smiling against her skin. "Always. I want you by my side, in my bed. I want to hear your voice, and see your face, every moment of every day."
He had always been effusive, her Lucien, and she knew she shouldn't be surprised by how articulate he could be with one hand clutched to her breast and the other in her knickers, tracing the shape of her folds, finding the little nub at her center with expert precision and caressing her towards her bliss, but still, sometimes, it caught her off guard. His feelings for her, the depth of them, had often been a mystery to her, but not now, not in this moment when his hand was slick with her longing and his voice rumbled through her body like the blood in her veins.
It was not in her nature, however, to make such grand declarations. Vulnerability did not come easily to Jean, who had been taught from a young age to keep her chin up and her lips closed. The habits of a lifetime could not be broken overnight, much as she wanted to reassure him, and so she only breathed his name. This seemed to be enough for him, for he captured her earlobe between his teeth and sank one finger into her trembling heat.
Anything that feels this good must surely be a sin, she thought dimly, though her hips worked against his hand of their own accord, her body already eager for the delights he promised her, if only he would continue. It was a sin, she knew, but a delicious one, and perhaps one day, one day soon, when Amelia and Ruby and Christopher were settled, Jean and Lucien could go about the process of ensuring that their future embraces would be blessed by the church. It was a cheerful thought. One last time, she told herself. One last temptation, and then, oh then…
All reason left her, however, as Lucien continued to press her, his hardness now making its presence known against the swell of her bum, the advances of his hand growing ever more insistent. Though this was beautiful, in its own way, though she loved him for taking the time to shower her with such pleasure before she'd ever properly kissed him, it was not enough for Jean. They did not have a great deal of time, and there was something else she wanted from him, something more.
It took him quite by surprise, when Jean whirled in his arms, and he had only an instant to take in the mischievous look in her eyes before she threw her arms around his neck and claimed his lips in a searing kiss. He responded to her at once, soft lips pressing, gasping, nipping, tongues sliding together wet and hot and eager. His arms bound her close to him, this delicate, indestructible creature he loved more than life. She was small but she was fierce, a force of nature more powerful than a typhoon, burning through him hot as a brushfire, and he adored her, truly.
"We don't have much time," she gasped against his lips, and he understood her intent in a moment.
The house was small, and rather cramped. The kitchen opened out in the sitting room, and a short corridor led from the sitting room to two bedrooms and the loo. Little Amelia would be sleeping in one of the bedrooms, and so as Lucien gathered his beloved into his arms and began their stumbling progress away from the sink he did not guide Jean to the other. He did not want to risk opening the wrong door and waking the child, and likewise did not want to risk the sound of their passions disturbing the baby's slumber. There was a more than serviceable sofa in the sitting room, and so it was there his steps led them.
He paused for a moment, his hands in Jean's hair, her own clasped tight to the curve of his bum, drawing him flush to her as her hips swayed in an intoxicating rhythm against his own. How best to do this, he mused for a moment, but only for a moment, as it seemed his lover had already asked herself that question, and already found an answer to it.
With a gleam in her eye she stepped away from him, and with gentle hands against his chest she pressed him back so that in a moment he was sitting on the sofa, his hands on his knees, staring up at her in wonder. As he watched she smiled, and unzipped her skirt.
His mouth went dry at the sight of her, the smooth, elegant curve of her long legs, the lace of her stocking tops, the span of her hips, everything about her feminine, and soft, and lovely, but then she was grinning at him, slipping out of her undergarments and revealing that most intimate part of herself to his hungry eyes. He would never tire of this, of the sight of her, her beauty, the truth of her person revealed to him without all the bindings their society had placed upon her. He reached for her, desperate to touch her, but she slipped out of his grasp, dropping to her knees as graceful as a dancer.
A strangled groan escaped him as she nudged his thighs apart, making room for her to kneel between them, still wearing her starched blouse, though he had undone a button or two and could see the satin of her brassiere as her breasts strained against the fabric with each of her panting breaths. She ran her hands the lengths of his thighs, from his knees to his hips and back, teasing him, and he felt his longing for her manifest in the almost painful throbbing of his cock. The sight she presented, coy and yet prostrate at his feet, grey eyes wide and bright and fixed on his face, was quite the most enchanting thing he'd ever seen.
She did not make him linger too long, there in that moment of impossible yearning. Those fine, delicate hands he loved so well reached for his belt, her forearm brushing against his hardness through the fabric of his trousers, taunting him. Christ, but he wanted her, could envision her taking him into her mouth, though he be damned for such salacious thoughts, could almost feel the heat and the wet of her around him. She took her time, relieving him of his belt, but when her hands curled around the waistband of his trousers he lifted his hips at once, helping her as she drew down trousers and trunks together to tangle around his ankles, his cock springing forth proud and ready for her at once.
For a moment she simply looked at him, hunger and devotion and want in her eyes, and the thought that it was Jean, looking at him this way, seeing him for his baser self and yet adoring him anyway, was almost more beautiful than he could bear. He loved that woman, with everything he had, and he wanted, very much for her to touch him.
"Jean," he breathed, reaching out to tangle his fingers in her hair.
Her thick eyelashes fluttered against her porcelain cheeks at the touch of his hand, and then she reached for him, one hand curling around the hard muscle of his thigh while the other wrapped around the base of his shaft and he was forced to use every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep from groaning aloud in want and desperate need.
This side of Jean had been a revelation to him, the wanton, willful creature she could be. He had supposed that given her limited experience and her puritanical background she would shy away from such undignified desires and yet at every turn she had surprised him, had been eager to touch him, to taste him, to learn what he liked. And though he had tried so very hard not to push her, to respect whatever boundaries she chose to draw for herself, he had delighted in this most salacious of educations. She leaned towards him, full lips parting, and the wash of her breath against the head of his cock sent a shiver down his spine.
But then, oh then, those soft lips were on him, warm tongue flicking against overheated flesh, following the thick vein that ran the length of his shaft down and back up again, and his vision went black and his very soul seemed to cry out for her. In that moment she controlled him utterly, could have done anything she wished with him, and he would fall at her feet and thank her for it, so delicious was the sensation of her mouth upon him, the vision of her prim and proper as a schoolmarm and yet kneeling at his feet and doing such wonderful things to him.
It was not the first time she had bestowed such a gift upon him, and he prayed it would not be the last. Slowly, ever so slowly, she took him into her mouth, watching him with eyes that burned straight through the heart of him, his hand still tangled in her hair. He did his best to control himself, not to thrust up against her, to let her guide him through this pleasure at her own pace, but he was burning alive with need of her. The press of her lips, the swirl of her tongue, all of it combined into a heady cocktail he was not certain he could survive. Yes, he was enjoying this, rather more than he should, but there was more he wanted from her.
"Jean," he gasped, dangerously close to losing all control. "Come here, my darling."
She smiled at him, around him, and then scrambled up to straddle his lap in a moment. They laughed, bumping noses and elbows as they rearranged themselves, but then she was rising up on her knees and her hand was wrapping around his cock and he was groaning her name and then, oh then…
"Fuck, Jean," he gasped, the curse falling from his lips more readily than it had done since his days as a soldier, and in response she only whimpered as he breached her, throwing her head back in bliss, sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly he felt he might perish with the want of her.
"Good things come to those who wait," she told him. With her hands on his shoulders she leaned towards him, her forehead resting against his own, their noses slanting together, their lips millimeters apart, sharing the same panting breaths as she moved above him, over him, around him. The soft, fluttering muscles of her sex clutched at him, drew him in, deeper and deeper. With his feet planted flat on the floor for leverage he thrust up against her, matching her languid rhythm, utterly undone by the intimacy of this moment. They were both still wearing their shirts and his trousers were in a tangle at his feet but she was close, so unbelievably, brilliantly close, warm and soft, a living, breathing piece of his heart. She was wet and welcoming, as if she had been formed to fit him, and he felt every nuance of her pleasure as she ground down against him. He wanted to take her breasts in his mouth, wanted to leave the marks of his teeth against her skin, wanted to clutch her bum, wanted to reach between them and push her over the edge into ecstasy, but the nature of their position on the sofa and the way she'd wound her body around him necessitated a focus on the immediate. There was nothing but this, the sound of his gasps, her whimpers of pleasure, her curls brushing against his temple light as a feather, the rising and falling of her hips, the plunge of his cock within her, over and over again. Half-dressed and yet stripped bare they moved together, rocking, grinding, shifting, desire coiling low in his belly. She was a vixen, a siren, a goddess, and he was helpless before her.
She called his name, softly, knowing she could not be as loud as she might have wished, and he felt her begin to tremble, felt her sex clutching at him as at last euphoria began to overtake her, and he watched as in his arms she fell apart, tensing, arching, yearning, her thighs gasping at him, her hips grinding against him, hungry for him, for all of him, every inch, every ounce. She keened, high and sweet, until at least she broke, and the glory of her abandon was his undoing. He tightened the hold of his arms around her body, bound her to him, and thrust into her pleasure until she was almost weeping, delirious and oversensitive, and he at last tumbled from the precipice himself, her name a fervent whisper on his lips.
They remained where they were for a time, sated and spent and deliriously happy with one another. Her arms were looped around his shoulders, his own gathered loosely around her waist, their foreheads touching gently.
"What did you tell him?" Jean asked him. The question had been on her mind since she first saw Lucien, and now seemed as good a time as any to ask it, when they were content, at peace with one another and the choices they had made.
Lucien hummed, a soft, questioning sort of sound.
"Christopher. What did you tell him, to get him to agree to this?"
"Oh, that," Lucien said, and she felt the rumble of his words where their chests were pressed flush together. "If you must know, I told him that I needed to speak to you. I told him that want, very much, to make you my wife one day, if you'll have me."
Jean raised her head to stare at him incredulously, her heart hammering in her chest once more. He had never, not once, stated his intentions so plainly, and the fact that he had found it in himself to be so honest with Christopher of all people - before he'd even asked her! - was at once both strange and rather...nice. It was nice, to think that he might have such an open, friendly relationship with her son, that he might take the boy's feelings into account before stepping out along the path he'd chosen for himself.
"You did what?" she asked him faintly.
Beneath her Jean's lover just smiled, and reached up to brush back a lock of her hair.
"I told him the truth," he said simply. "I want to marry you, Jean."
She gave a little hmph, trying to mask her pleasure at his words, the way her heart sang out in joy.
"A girl does like to be asked, Lucien," she chided him gently. Desperate for something to do, some way to keep her mind occupied and keep the tears of relief from spilling out of her eyes she reached between them and fussed with his waistcoat, now wrinkled beyond all repair.
"Oh believe me, Jean," he told her. "I will ask you. When the moment is right. When you come back to me, my darling."
For a moment she simply stared at him, his impish smile, his neat beard, his warm blue eyes, and wondered at how strange, how marvelous, how lovely it was, that they had found one another, that they had trusted one another, that they had somehow, despite the differences in their character and experiences, found one another. Before Lucien, Jean had given up all hope of every claiming such love, such passion, such comfort for herself; she had loved her Christopher, loved him truly, and before Lucien, she had believed that she would never again be so enraptured and delighted. And yet he had come to her, this handsome, wounded man, with a heart that understood her own so well, and they had fallen into love and into lust, and here he sat, nestled between her thighs, promising her everything. Promising himself, his devotion, his name, his home, his very life to her. There was nothing in the world Jean wanted more.
