27 August 1960
"Shall we, my darling?" Lucien asked, holding out his hand.
For a moment Jean simply stared at him, her heart in her throat, all of her hopes and fears seeming to hang in the balance as Lucien waited for her to accept him, to follow him into the house and into all the joy and heartbreak that awaited them there.
Taking a very deep breath she took his hand, allowed him to lift her gently from the car, to stand for a moment with him on the drive, looking up at their home. The house had never seemed quite as fine, quite as intimidating, as it did in that moment, now that it was hers, truly, her responsibility, her claim, just as was the man who stood with his hand wrapped around her own. This was it, she knew. The house was empty, Charlie would be away for the evening, her very blood seemed to hum and fizzle from what little champagne she'd drunk, and Lucien was holding her hand. Night had fallen, their friends had all gone home, and there was nothing for it now but to step into that house, together, to make their way to bed, to twist and wind themselves in and around one another until they were both of them sweaty and gasping and spent.
Jean was trembling from head to foot.
It was very silly, she knew, to be afraid of him now. It was completely ridiculous, to feel all this anxiety over something they had already done - quite well - once before, something that had resulted in the little life growing inside her. He had seen her already, had touched her, kissed her, loved her, wholly, completely, only three months before. What they had done then, the fervent desperation they had given in to so readily, the eager kisses, the grasping hands, the panting, heaving breaths, that had been a sin. Whatever they did now, however they chose to entertain themselves beneath the sheets would be a union blessed by God, acknowledged by the Church, sealed in ink by the State.
And yet, still, her heart was full of fear, of worries, of questions. She followed along beside him, their fingers still interlaced, until they reached the front door. What does he expect? she asked herself. What does he want from me?
When they had fallen together before there had been no time for such concerns; they were both of them utterly overwhelmed, lost to sensation, acting on instinct. There had been no time to plan, no time to consider much of anything at all; they simply did it, and let the chips fall where they may. Things were different, this time. This time, Jean had spent three months dreaming of him, the breadth of his chest, the solid muscles of his arms, the delirium he brought to her with every surge of his hips. Jean had spent the last six weeks counting down to this day, trying to imagine how it would go, what things might be like between them. And over the course of that time, with each day that passed, her fears mounted. It was one thing, to slip and fall into intimacy, but to approach it deliberately removed some of the charm, to her mind.
At the door Lucien paused and looked down at her strangely. It was not quite a frown she saw on his face, but his brow was furrowed, his sparkling blue eyes uncertain.
"What is it, Lucien?" she asked him quietly. The fear simmered, low in her belly. They had not talked of this, what they might do, how things might go once they were home again. Jean had absolutely no idea what was expected of her and in the absence of such clear boundaries she felt herself to be utterly, completely lost.
"Shall I carry you across the threshold, my darling?" he asked.
Oh, Lucien. It was a kind thought, a gentle one, but still Jean felt frustration rising like bile in the back of her throat. If he had only done it, had only wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up and carried her laughing through the door, perhaps it would have been all right. Perhaps that closeness, that sudden burst of joviality, would have been all that was needed to shatter the restraints of Jean's anxious heart and set their feet upon the path to wedded bliss. And yet he had not taken such liberty; in asking her, so bluntly, while they stood awkwardly together by the door, Lucien had removed any possible charm from the gesture and left Jean feeling out of sorts and distressed.
"I think we're much too old for such foolishness, Doctor Blake," she told him, trying to sound flippant, trying to make him smile. She reached out and smoothed her free hand over his lapel, and when she caught his gaze she did not find his eyes full of rueful affection; if anything his expression appeared almost pained.
This isn't how it was supposed to go, Jean thought in despair. Where was her dashing, reckless Lucien? Why was he suddenly so fearful of her, treating her as if she were made of glass?
Without another word Lucien turned and unlocked the door, and Jean followed along behind him. With their feet planted on familiar ground they both breathed a sigh of relief, some of the tension easing from their shoulders. You can do this, Jean told herself. All it would take, she knew, was a little courage. A few well placed kisses, a few whispered endearments, and they would be well on their way to enjoying one another fully and without shame.
Lucien hung his coat and hat upon his usual hook by the door, and turned the lock into place with a casual flick of his wrist. The sound of the lock echoed loud as gunfire in Jean's mind; the door was closed, now, locked, now, the entire world shut out, no one left save for Jean and Lucien and the burning hunger they carried for one another. That hunger had been with her, simmering low in her belly almost from the moment he first arrived in Ballarat two years earlier. It had ignited, the night he proposed to her, had burned her to ashes and she had been reborn as this new defiant creature who stood toe to toe with Lucien now, her belly just a little bit rounder than it had been three months before, her heart aching and yet eager for him. Funny, how three months and a few words from a priest could turn an act from sacrilege to sanctity; though ostensibly they had now been blessed to do whatever they wished to and with one another Jean could not shake the sense that it was wrong, that time and prayers had not removed the stench of sin from her desires.
Still, he was her husband, now. He was handsome, and kind, and smiling at her softly in the darkness of the foyer. Be brave, she told herself. You have said the words and you have confessed your sins and all is well. You both just need a little confidence.
And so she took a deep breath, and slipped her arms around his neck. Jean lifted herself up onto her toes, intent on kissing him, on unleashing the desires they had both of them bottled up for so long now, but her lips collided with his chin, and not his mouth, as he lifted his head at the last moment. Cheeks burning, utterly mortified by her boldness and his apparent rejection Jean made to step away from him, but Lucien caught her with one strong arm around her waist, drew her in close to him.
"I want to show you something first," he told her, his lips against her temple and his gentle words taking some of the sting out of it.
He led her down the corridor, and she smiled to herself as she realized what was happening. He was leading her to the studio, of course, to show her what he and the other gentlemen had been working on for weeks now. Though Jean had long since come to a conclusion about his activities there she had allowed him his air of mystery, knowing he took an almost childlike delight in keeping this secret, only to be shared on the day they were wed. Well, they were married now, and Jean supposed that tonight was as good a time as any for them to begin spending their time there. At the studio door Lucien took a deep breath, and then swung the doors open with a flourish, giving an exaggerated bow as he invited her to step inside.
Jean gasped; she couldn't help it. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw now. The studio she recalled had been dusty and piled high with boxes, the detritus of Genevieve Blake's life and passion scattered from one end to the other. Oh Jean had straightened it up a bit when Lucien first reopened it, but for the most part it had remained a somewhat dark and drafty place, ghosts whispering softly from every corner. Now, though, now it was transformed.
The walls had been scrubbed and painted, the clutter removed, the floor polished, the windows washed; every inch of it gleamed, clean and bright and beautiful. A fire was crackling in the fireplace - though how Lucien had managed that, she wasn't entirely sure - and the large leather sofa had been reupholstered, no longer cracked and faded but soft and comforting, begging Jean to come and sit and prop her feet up and forget her worries before the fire. A little cart stood beside the sofa, stocked with champagne in an ice bucket and a pair of glasses. Jean turned slowly on her heel, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the vast bed stood against the far wall, the heavy, dark wooden headboard, the matching sidetables each with their own little lamp, the soft navy coverlet. There was a dressing table, and two wardrobes, each made of the same dark wood as the bed, and still Jean turned slowly, taking it all in.
The studio had been divided up, before, between the vast, high-ceilinged main space that Lucien had turned into their bedroom and a smaller, somewhat cozier nook that was almost - but not completely - walled off. That area, which had been full of tables and paints and all sorts of things, was now utterly bare, but Jean knew what Lucien intended for it. Their child would sleep there, when the time came, when they were ready, in their room and yet with his own space to occupy. A rush of tears choked her, and she turned away at once, not wanting to think about the baby or the future or how eager Lucien was for all of it when her own heart remained so reticent.
"Do you like it?" Lucien asked, somewhat apprehensively.
"It's perfect," she told him, reaching for his hand once more. And of course it was; the studio boasted its own private bathroom, and was more than spacious enough for she and Lucien and the little one who must soon follow. Best of all, the studio represented Lucien's devotion to her, the labor he had done just so that she might be happy, that they might have their own private sanctuary, cut off from the brutal world beyond those four walls.
In the flickering light of the fire Lucien smiled at her, lifting her hand to his lips so that he could place a gentle kiss against her skin. That air of heady expectation - and the latent threat of disappointment that came with it - returned at once, stifling, overwhelming. What if the beauty of the connection they had shared months before had been borne only of desperation, what if now that this thing between them was no longer forbidden it ceased to hold any appeal? What if-
"I wanted to have your things here, waiting for us," Lucien told her, "but I didn't want to intrude, and I didn't want to spoil the surprise. I will help you, tomorrow if you like. We can sort through everything and I will be your personal pack mule, my darling."
See? She told herself. That look on his face? That is love. That is all that matters.
"Well," she said. "Tomorrow, then."
Tomorrow she would sort through her few precious belongings, pile Lucien's arms with skirts and blouses and dresses and boxes of cosmetics, send him trooping up and down the stairs until at last everything was arranged to their liking. And then she would take up residence in this place, with him.
His respect for her privacy was a wonderful thing, but it also presented a challenge to Jean. He was treating her so gently, she knew he would not simply ravish her, would not initiate anything between them until she had given him some sign that she was ready, and when the thing was done she would have no choice but to sleep beside him naked, for her clothes were all upstairs. That in itself was not such an alarming prospect - to the contrary, it sent a shiver of anticipation racing down her spine - but come the morning she would have no robe, no comb for her hair. What was she to do then, slide back into her wedding dress for the trek upstairs, or go traipsing through the house naked? Of course there would be no one to see her save Lucien, and certainly as her husband she could not object to him watching her as she wandered around the house nude, but still. Arrangements would have to be made, to spare herself embarrassment come morning. And besides, she had not intended to go to her marriage bed still wearing her wedding dress.
"There's something I need to do," she told him, rising up on her tiptoes to plant a gentle kiss against his cheek. And before he could protest she slipped from his grip and left the studio - their bedroom, now - to make her way upstairs. There was a beautiful chiffon nightdress waiting for her upstairs, purchased for exactly this occasion, and she hoped that wearing it would give her some courage. She hoped without the distraction of her various and somewhat complicated undergarments things might go a little easier between them. She hoped that taking a few minutes for herself, to remove the pins from her hair, to remove - or perhaps reapply - her makeup, to take a deep breath and remind herself how she loved him, how she wanted him, how beautiful the love between them truly was, would be enough to quiet her fevered worries. She hoped for many things, on this night.
Somewhat aghast at his new wife's hasty departure Lucien plopped down on the end of the bed and reached for the knot of his tie. Though he had imagined this night more times than he could count so far things between them had been more awkward than passionate, and he did not know what to do. You should have kissed her, old man, he told himself as he dropped his tie on the floor and shucked off his jacket. You should have just taken the risk, and let it all unfold the way it did before.
For months he had been dreaming of her, the softness of her skin, the sound of her voice crying out for him. The room had been dark, his memories of her body hazy but delightful, and he had been very much looking forward to seeing her in the light, mapping every exquisite inch of her. But Jean had closed herself off from him, reminded him less of the wild thing she had been in his arms the night he proposed to her and more of the prim and slightly disapproving woman she had been when they first met. He rather got the sense that this - that he - frightened her somehow, and he had no idea how to overcome this particular obstacle.
And now she had left him, to what end he was not certain, and there was nothing for him to do save wait, and agonize over his next move. Should he just take her in his arms, overwhelm her with his ardor, or would such advances merely send her fleeing from the room? Why should she be so frightened of him now, when they had already fallen together once before? She was a complicated woman, his Jean, and he was beginning to suspect that a lifetime would not be sufficient for him to learn everything there was to know about her.
At long last she returned to him, slipping through the doorway quiet as a mouse, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her.
Between the light of the fire and the two little lamps beside the bed he could see her now as he never could before, and she was radiant. Gone was her stiff satin wedding dress and the rigid set of her hair. Instead her curls hung soft and loose around her angel's face, and she wore a night dress in a shade of pink so pale it was very nearly translucent. The lace around her neck revealed more of her soft skin than any garment he had seen before, left her lean, perfect arms and shoulders bare for his inspection. Beneath the floating fabric he could almost make out the softness of her body without the support of her usual undergarments, and her face was fresh and clean, bare of any makeup at all. The pale pink of her lips, the gentle lines around her eyes, the natural blush that painted her cheeks; everything about her was heart-stoppingly lovely, and he could not so much as blink as he stared at her in all her glory.
"Jean," he croaked, his voice a ragged, needy thing.
She approached him slowly, hesitantly, as if she knew how her appearance inflamed him, and was frightened of that desire. Her feet were bare, and he noticed absently that her toes were painted the same fierce shade of red as her fingernails. How very Jean, with her meticulous attention to detail, he thought as still she drew closer to him.
Though he wanted, very much, to stand up, to go to her, to wrap her in his arms and feel the softness of her nightgown beneath his palms, to kiss her, to hold her, he found he could not move, stunned into near insensibility by the ethereal picture she painted. Guileless, utterly without artifice, she remained the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she owned him, every piece of him. It fell to Jean to close the space between them, and so she did, until she was standing right in front of him, hesitant and yet not withdrawing from him.
"Do you like it?" she asked self consciously, her fingers catching in the fabric just below her hips, tugging it just a little as if she weren't quite comfortable, as if she had no idea the effect her appearance had on him. "I bought it for you. For this. Before I...I suppose I should be grateful it still fits. I can change, if you'd rather-"
"You are a vision," Lucien breathed, cutting across her at once. He reached for her, his hands curling around her hips, drawing her still closer to stand between his knees. Jean's hands fell to his shoulders, supporting herself as she stood above him, looked down on him in wonder. His heart sang, to know that she had purchased the nightgown for him, that following the proposal, even before they'd discovered her condition, she had gone out and done this thing with thoughts of their wedding night foremost in her mind. Even then she had wanted this, wanted him, and that was a beautiful thing. The fears that had manifested earlier in the evening slowly dissipated as he drank in the warmth of her beneath his hands. She was here, and they were together, and suddenly nothing else seemed to matter. They did not need a plan of attack, did not need to organize their approach to one another, did not need to think at all. All that mattered was that he loved her, that she loved him, and that in this place they could allow that love to run free between their two battered hearts.
With that thought in mind he drew her closer still, until he could rest his chest against her chest, just below her beating heart. Jean's hands glided over his shoulders until she could run her fingers through his hair, and a shiver ran through him at her gentle touch. She was his wife, now, and he adored her with everything he had.
Planting his feet more firmly upon the ground Lucien pulled her into his lap, delighting in the breathless sound of laughter that left her as she settled herself with her knees on either side of his hips. She looked down on him in wonder, this beautiful woman who was his wife, the mother of his child, and when he reached for her, tangled one hand in her soft hair and drew her towards him, she moved with him willingly, her lips slotting into place over his. Lucien groaned into her mouth, overwhelmed by the taste of her, the warmth of her pressed against him, and Jean just sighed, and opened her lips to his.
He loved her like this, above him, around him, holding him, a goddess come to light upon his lap. In this position she could control how much of herself she gave to him, how much heat, how much friction they could generate between them, and yet his hands were free to wander, and so as he occupied her mouth with lips and tongue he began his gentle exploration. His hands ran the length of her back from the nape of her neck to the curve of her hips, fingertips pressing against muscle and bone, the heat of her seeping through the thin fabric that separated them still. She shifted on his lap and his hardness surged up towards her, eager to reach her even from the confines of his trousers. He set a course for her thighs, catching her nightdress in his hands, sliding beneath it, eager for the silk of her skin beneath his palms, and she shifted again, a soft sound of want escaping her as his hands found purchase against her. Gently he kneaded her, felt her trembling at his touch, and this time when she ground down against him and sighed in pleasure he knew that she had done it with intent, that she wanted to feel him, hard and straining for her, the she exulted in his desire for her even as he did.
Carefully, not wanting to startle her, Lucien turned them, lifted her slightly to settle more fully upon the bed. She was watching him through hooded eyes, his beautiful Jean, already panting and breathless from his attentions. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to strip her bare and sink himself inside her, but he resolved himself to patience, knowing how hesitant she had been, knowing how conflicted she was given the circumstances of their hasty wedding. He would take his time with her tonight, as he had not been able to do before, and he hoped that if he was gentle, if he moved slowly, if he showered her with every inch of the love he felt for her, she would accept him, that he might lay her fears to rest.
With that in mind he began his exploration of her, kneeling before he and lifting one of her delicate feet in his hands. He had touched her there before, of course, had pressed his thumbs against her heel and heard her moan in sweet relief, but always he been separated from her by the barrier of her stockings. Not tonight, and so he placed a tender kiss against her ankle. With hands and lips he charted a course up the length of her calf, smooth and soft to his touch, felt her shiver even at that most simple of ministrations. The nightdress retreated as he advanced, slowly revealing more and more of her to his hungry gaze. When his lips found their way to her inner thigh Jean sighed, softly, her legs parting as if of their own accord to allow him more room to work, her hands reaching for him, fingertips trailing over his hair, the shell of his ear, the line of his neck. He shivered at her touch, eager as a puppy to please her, but still he stayed the course. He did not allow himself the distraction of rising higher, throwing back her nightdress and burying his face in the same warm, wet place where he longed to bury his cock. Instead he moved his attentions to her other leg, lips soft against her inner thigh, teeth scraping lightly, and began the descent towards her other ankle. As he moved her hands could no longer reach him, and so she propped herself up on her elbows, watching him with sparkling eyes. This he wanted to do for her, to show her that every inch of her was precious to him, to build up her arousal second by second until she forgot all her worries and remembered only him.
As he reached her ankle he kissed it once more, and then wrapped his hands one around each of her calves, ghosted his palms along her skin and slid slowly up her body until his hands were clenched around her thighs and his face was hovering just above hers. He lingered there, close enough to bow his head and kiss her, and yet not closing that distance, her breath washing warm and sweet over his parted lips, her eyelashes fluttering closed at his proximity. There was so many things he wanted, in that moment, but most of all he wanted Jean, wanted her to accept her own desire for him, to push them both from this precipice.
And then she did; having grown impatient with him she lifted her chin, full lips parting, and he was on her in a moment, his tongue sliding against her own, his hands traveling the length of her thighs intent upon her hips. Their kiss began languidly enough, but as his hands rose higher so too did the tempo of their passions, Jean growing more insistent, shifting closer to him as if begging him for more. It was in his mind to remove her knickers, but when his hands found the curve of her hips he discovered - to his very great delight - that she wasn't wearing any at all.
"Clever girl," he breathed into her mouth.
"Girl," she chided him, nipping at his bottom lip with her teeth.
Lucien pulled back from her with a grin, and dove at once between her thighs. He pushed her nightgown out of the way, revealed the length of her legs in all their glory, the dark thatch of hair at her center, the softness of her belly. There was much left for him to do, so much of her as yet unexplored, his own shirt and trousers still firmly in place, but the only thought that registered in his mind was that he simply had to taste her.
And so he did.
He had not done this for her, before, had been too distracted by other pleasures, but now it became his priority, to shower her with such pleasure. Above him Jean made a soft sound of distress, perhaps at having been so suddenly, so wantonly revealed to him, but he pressed on. He slid one of her perfect legs over his shoulder, her heel coming to rest against his back, and reached for her, tracing the shape of her folds with his tongue and soaking in the sense of relief that filled him when he found her hot and wet for him already. He groaned against her and doubled down, using every weapon his arsenal to reduce her to a quivering mess above him. With lips and tongue he teased her, coaxed her higher and higher into ecstasy, sliding into her as far as he could reach, retreating only to wrap his lips around the bundle of nerves at her certain. With a cry Jean arched up off the bed, her heel drumming against his back, but Lucien held her in place with one hand on her hip, urged her to remain in this moment of abandon with him. Nothing he had ever experienced was as glorious as this rapturous Jean, and so determined to send her falling into bliss his hand joined his mouth, to fingers sliding into her slick heat as still he licked and sucked at her, curling into her, searching out all the little ways he could make her whimper his name until at last it all became too much for her to bear. With no one there to hear she shattered for him, cried out as her head snapped back on the pillows, her fingers fisted in the sheets, her heat clenched tight around his fingers, her wetness coating his lips and beard. And in response Lucien only grinned and guided her through, still thrusting against her gently, drinking her in, his heart full to bursting with love of her.
At last she collapsed, boneless and spent, the last tremors of her release fading away, and Lucien stretched himself out over her, supporting himself with his forearm pressed to the mattress while with his free hand he wiped her sweaty hair back from her brow.
"Hello, my darling wife," he breathed when her eyes opened.
Jean smiled at him and made to kiss him, but stopped when she caught sight of his lips still wet with her. Shaking her head at him she shifted, and Lucien raised himself up, gave her room enough to remove her nightdress completely. She used it to wipe his face and then casually threw it aside, and he was left in awe of his beautiful wife, naked and confident beneath him. Immediately he made for her breasts, but Jean had other ideas, it seemed, for her gentle hands caught his shoulders, and pushed him to the side. He followed her unspoken command, flopping onto his back and flinging his arms out wide, grinning up at her.
"Let me see you," she murmured.
He wanted to make a joke, to say something clever about how he much preferred the view of her, but then she straddled his hips and the breath rushed from his lungs in a strangled moan, every thought drifting away until all that remained was Jean, transcendent and naked above him. His hands smoothed a path from her thighs up to her hips, and Jean shivered, running her fingers through her hair and smiling down at him beatifically. What did she see when she looked at him this way, he wondered, when her soft gray eyes found his face, his hair mussed from her attentions, his eyes focused on her, his whole being consumed with love of her?
With gentle hands she reached for his shirt buttons, a serious look upon her face, and Lucien let her do what she would, delighted as he was to watch the flicker of the firelight across her pale skin. She was lovely, this new wife of his, soft and perfect and real, comfortable, here, perched on top of him without a stitch of clothing to protect her from his hungry gaze. Unable to resist temptation he allowed his hands to wander, over her sides, his thumbs brushing against the swell of her breast, his cock twitching in eager response to the shiver of delight that passed through her at the sensation. But then his buttons were undone, and she was tugging at his shirt, so he regretfully released his hold on her just long enough to free himself from shirt and vest, collapsing back when his chest was bare and open for her perusal.
At once she fell upon him, palms pressed to his skin, ducking her head to drop a series of suckling kisses against his collarbone that had him thrusting up towards her mindlessly in a moment. It would seem she was as enamored with his body as he was with hers, as she took her time, touching, kissing, exploring him, his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his belly. As she bent over him he could do more than feather his fingers across her back, but he contented himself with this, delighted in the heady feeling of Jean lavishing her love upon him, this sure and certain sign that she was ready, that she was willing, that she loved him, as he loved her.
As much as he was enjoying, it however, it was not enough. Jean's hands seemed content to remain restricted to his torso, and an ache was building low in his belly where he could feel her hot and wet, pressed against him. This was very nice, but he would need to speed things along between them before the night came to an unsatisfactory - and rather abrupt - conclusion.
With that thought in mind he caught her hips in his hands and turned them once more, rolled her beneath him, groaning softly when her soft thighs rose up on either side of his hips, cradling him close. The smile she bestowed on him then was like none he'd ever seen before, and filled him with a sense of wonder. He did not have the faintest idea what she was thinking, he realized, did not know yet what her preferences were, if she object to his handling of their circumstances thus far, but when he gazed upon her now he could see love, written in every line of her face, could see her desire, her need of him.
He kissed her once, softly, because he could, because he missed the taste of her lips, but then he began a slow, languorous descent, intent on mapping her chest just as she had done to him. Her racing pulse, the ridge of her collarbones, the soft slope of her breast; these places he explored with his lips, his tongue, the palm of his hand. As his mouth closed around one soft, pale pink nipple a sharp gasp escaped her, her back arching up off the bed and her hand reaching for him at once, though whether she meant to draw him closer or push him away he could not say.
"Careful," she told him, her voice a shuddering, breathy moan as his teeth scraped ever so gently against her nipple.
His heart gave a great leap in his chest; he had, somehow, inexplicably, forgotten that she was pregnant. Her belly was soft and gently rounded, but she was still impossibly slim, lithe and lovely. There was no sign on her body, as far as he could see, of the burden that she carried, and in his hunger for her he had let all thoughts of it slip from his mind. Her breasts would be sensitive, then, he reminded himself, and so he did not linger there over-long, did not suck his mark into her tender skin the way he longed to do, for above all he wanted Jean to be comfortable and happy, here with him. He continued on his journey, pausing to press a kiss to the rise of her stomach just above her belly button. Above him Jean gave another gasp, her hand coming to rest on the back of his head. He looked up at her, fear in his heart when he saw tears shimmering in the corners of her eyes, but still she smiled at him. She knew what he had done, why he had chosen to kiss her there, what he was trying to tell her though no words had passed his lips. Lucien loved this woman, with everything he had, and so too he loved the child she carried, this baby who had already changed the course of their lives so irreversibly.
"Come here, Lucien," she whispered, and so he did. He rose above her, sliding the length of his body along her own, and when his face drew level with hers she cupped his cheeks in her hands, drew him down to her for a long, beautiful kiss, a kiss full of passion, of love, of need, of everything they felt for one another. When she seemed content that he was not going to stop kissing her anytime soon Jean pulled her hands away from his face and made instead for his belt buckle.
And so they were, at last, utterly without inhibition, their passion for one another unleashed in full. He kissed her ardently, desperately, hungrily, her fingernails scraped against his belly as she struggled with his trousers, but then, oh then he was kicking them off and they were sliding skin on skin and the sensation was so utterly intoxicating he could not help but sigh her name in bliss. He reached for her, his hands behind her knees, arranging her body beneath his own, and she reached for him, her hands wrapping around his cock and drawing forth a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his very soul.
"Now, Lucien," she told him.
He could deny her nothing, and so he did as ordered, his hips thrusting forward, following the steady guidance of her hands as she brought him to her, as slowly, ever so slowly he sank into her tender heat. She whimpered, just a little; three months was a long time, long enough for them both to forget just how utterly magnificent it was, to be bound together in this way. He did not push her, did not challenge her, only moved in time to the roiling of her hips, the sounds she made and the fluttering of her inner walls around him guiding him on, telling him what it was she needed from him. They understood one another so well, after all this time together, anticipated one another's needs, and they gave and took from one another in equal measure in that place.
His head hung low between his shoulders, his forehead almost touching her, her panting breaths washing over his skin. Her hands scrabbled across his back, stuttering against the scars she found there, but to her credit she did not ask questions he could not answer to, only pressed her palms against him as if to soothe those long-healed hurts. Point and counterpoint they swayed together, hard meeting soft everywhere they touched, everywhere they seemed to blend into one another. Deeper and deeper he drove within her, and the chorus of her moans became the most beautiful song he had ever heard.
She clung to him, and he drowned in her, and still they rocked together. The slick of sweat between them and the soft scent of her arousal spurred him on, and still he drove within her, casting aside all his promises to treat her gently in favor of doing whatever it took to make her moan his name. Recklessly he shifted above her until he could reach a hand between them to the place where they were joined, his fingertips finding purchase against the bundle of nerves at her center that made her thrash beneath him in rapture, and he set to with a will. Between the fevered thrusting of his length inside her and the relentless caress of his fingertips he sent her careening off into bliss; she cried out his name, once, arching up off the bed, her limbs wrapped around him, clinging to him, pulling him back down with her. The delirious heat of her sex fluttering around his cock left him no choice, and he drove into her release like a man possessed until at last his own salvation came for him, and he roared his pleasure as he spilled himself inside her before he collapsed atop her, sweaty and spent.
They were resting, now, delighted, stated, replete. Lucien lay beside her, his head pillowed on her breast, his palm tracing absent circles against her belly while her fingers carded gently through his hair, gone soft and curly beneath her ministrations. Somehow they had done it, had overcome her anxiety and his over-attentiveness to fall together, to shed their worries and simply be together, and her heart was lighter for it. Lucien loved her, and she loved him, and somehow, she knew they were going to be all right.
"I love you, Jeannie," Lucien told her.
She smiled at him softly, thinking only how happy she was to hold him, to have him here beside her. The days ahead would be fraught with trouble, but the nights, oh she could already see the nights ahead would be full of wonder, of beauty, of tender affection, and she prayed that affection would sustain her, no matter what happened next.
"I love you, too," she whispered.
They stayed like that for quite some time, talking quietly amongst themselves, until the fire burned too low and the chill began to set in, until exhastion claimed them. Lucien covered them both with the blanket and wrapped his arms around her, and cocooned in his warmth she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.