24 December 1960
Lucien had always been of the opinion that a wedding ought to be entirely about the bride and groom. Well, perhaps more about the bride than her doting husband-to-be; she was the one whose appearance would be most closely inspected by the guests, the one who would be blamed should anything go wrong on the day. The flowers, the music, the bridal party's clothing, even the food, all fell under the purview of the bride, while as far as he was aware the groom's job was simply to turn up on time, sober, and agree to whatever demands his lady love might make, however grandiose, in hopes of smoothing his way to the marital bed. Not that Jean was a particularly fussy bride; the Earl Marshall had been harder to appease than she. But while he had previously believed that the day itself was meant to be a celebration of two people, their shared desires, their lives now inextricably intertwined, he found that his own wedding day had been rather less about him, and rather more about the crown.
The crown must have its due, always. The sheer number of intricate ceremonies involved in the marriage of a king and the making of a queen - for the two tasks had been accomplished on the same day in a feat of pageantry the likes of which he hoped to never see again - was enough to make his head spin. Stand here, go there; wave to the crowds from the balcony, smile for the cameras, speak to that man not to this, dance when we tell you, sit when we tell you, and never do either out of order. On and on it went, all bloody day, and the only thing that got him through it, the only thing that kept him steady, kept him smiling, kept him from losing his temper each time some functionary interrupted him in a quiet moment with yet more demands upon his time, was his girls. His three beautiful girls, Jean and Li and Lin, their calming presence, their gentle smiles, the happiness that seemed to shine from each of them, they reminded him what this day was really about, when the slavish obedience to tradition nearly made him forget. It was a day for love, and a day for family, a day for hope, a day for Jean, and as such he knew he would treasure the memory of this day in his heart, always.
But every day, even a day so momentous as this, must come to an end, and it was the ending he was looking forward to most, for when the end came he would take Jean's hand and lead her up the stairs to the suite of rooms they were meant to share, would not have to part from her to seek his bed alone and lonesome, but would be blessed to spend this night, and every night after, wrapped up in her arms. They had stolen a few precious moments of bliss for themselves over the year since his proposal, but those moments had been infrequent, and brief, far too brief. Tonight, Lucien intended to take his time.
The protocol called for those party goers who were still assembled in the castle ballroom at midnight to send the King and his new Queen off to bed in style, with a toast and no doubt a significant amount of bawdy catcalls and applause. The thought of drawing such attention to himself, and his bride - and what they were about to do - was a galling one, and so at five minutes to Lucien caught Jean's hand in his own, gave her a little wink, and led her to one of the servant's corridors off the ballroom quite without anyone else realizing it. No one had been looking for him at that moment, and they were all drunk and dancing; let them have their merriment, he thought, and we shall make our own.
"Oh, is it unkind of us to slip away like this?" Jean asked as she walked along beside him, one hand holding his, the other holding up the massive skirt of her dress so that she didn't step on it. Her monstrous train had been removed for the party but the voluminous skirts still billowed wide about her feet; how she'd managed to dance while wrapped in all that fabric Lucien wasn't entirely sure, but she had done it beautifully, as she did everything, beautifully.
"We deserve to keep something for ourselves, don't we?" He answered. A bit of privacy, a bit of peace; that was all he wanted, all he longed for in this moment. The corridor was deserted, the back staircase equally so, and so they made their way towards their suite unnoticed, whispering softly to one another. It had been Lucien's hope that they would slip behind the doors of their rooms entirely unnoticed, but it seemed that such a boon was too much to hope for; his valet Peter and Jean's maid Lucy were standing together in the corridor outside the royal bedchamber, each of them looking a bit awkward, a bit uncomfortable, a pair of frightened rabbits caught in the sights of a hawk.
"Your Majesty," Peter said with a clumsy attempt at a bow, though Lucien was unsure whether it was embarrassment or champagne that made him stumble.
"Something I can do for you, Peter?" Lucien asked him winsomely.
"We're here to help with the clothes," Lucy answered hesitantly. She was a timid girl, and Lucien knew hardly anything at all about her, except that Jean seemed to adore her, and that was good enough for him. "We'll help you dress for bed," she continued, her cheeks brushing brilliantly as she stared firmly at her toes as if the thought of the king and queen and bed was too much for her to bear, "and then we'll take our leave."
"I think we can manage for ourselves," Jean told her gently. It was a much kinder response than the one Lucien wanted to give; he hardly needed a pair of children underfoot, tugging at his clothes and blushing like virgins when he was a hair's breadth away from taking Jean in a proper bed for the first time in eighteen months. It was the wedding night he'd been looking forward to more than most anything else, and he did not want to put it off for another moment, but Jean's timely intervention had spared him the indignity of pouting.
"Begging your pardon, Your Majesty," Lucy protested, looking faintly horrified at the very idea, "but the dress, it's...complicated, and everything underneath it -"
"I think you'll find, Lucy, that I have a number of talents," Lucien told her firmly. "I doubt I'll have any trouble getting my wife out of her dress."
Lucy squeaked in shock and Jean shot him a dark look, but Peter had been working for the king for two years now, and he knew when to pick his battles.
"Come on, Luce," he said, taking the maid by the arm. "Apologies, Your Majesty."
And then they turned and fled, the pair of them; over the sound of their retreating footsteps Lucien could hear them whispering furiously to one another, but he could not have cared less, for the time had finally come when he could, at last, be entirely, properly alone with his Jean.
"You've just scarred that poor girl for life," Jean told him as he held open the door to the King's suite for her and she struggled to squeeze her dress through it.
"I'm tired of interruptions, my darling."
Lucien stepped through the door behind his new-made wife, and breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the lock. Alone, at last, and what a joy it was. Champagne was chilling in a bucket beside the low table in the parlor, a basket of fresh fruit sitting out waiting for them. Every where he turned he saw bouquets of fresh flowers, and warm fires had been laid in fireplace. There was a tall, splendidly decorated Christmas tree in the corner of the parlor with a pile of brightly wrapped presents beneath it. The doors that connected the King's suite to the Queen's had been flung open, but the curtains were closed, and altogether the series of rooms seemed rather cozy. It seemed, he thought, like a home.
"So am I," Jean answered, turning to face him. For a moment he simply gazed at her, this woman he adored; she wore a simple silver circlet nestled amongst her dark curls, and her wedding dress was as magnificent now as it had been when he first saw her, with its soft lace sleeves and pearl beading, its full skirt billowing beneath the sharp tuck of her waist.
"What are you thinking?" she asked him then, and he could not help but smile as he answered.
"I was thinking how lucky I am, to have married you."
The space between them was not so very great, and he crossed it in a moment, slid his arms around her waist while her own wrapped around his neck. Up close like this, so close he could almost catch the faintest hint of her perfume, she was lovelier still. There were other women whose faces were unlined, whose attributes might garner higher praise, but to him she outshone them all, for he knew her, body and soul, knew her heart and her mind, knew every piece of her, and it was that knowledge that leant her a beauty none could match. She was made for him, he thought, the one woman in all the world who could understand him, who could stand beside him, could temper his impulsivity and encourage his better nature. And I am made for her, I think, made to hold her. He meant to tell her so, but she did not give him the chance, for she smiled at him then, and raised herself up onto her tiptoes, and he knew at once what it was she wanted of him, and sought to give it to her.
He bowed his head, and in the next breath their lips met, brushing together sweetly, fleetingly; he could feel her smile against his mouth, could feel her arms tighten their grip upon him, and he returned that smile, seeking to catch hold of her once again. But she would not let him, not for long; it was like a game, of sorts, the way she would allow him one single kiss, but when his lips opened against hers she moved again, made him reach for her, follow where she led. It was, he decided, his favorite sort of game, but one which he could not afford to lose.
"I think it's time," he whispered against her skin, "for us to get you out of this dress, Your Majesty."
He could not hold her properly so long as she was wearing it. His hands had settled just above her hips, and while he relished that contact the full skirt kept him from drawing her any closer, and he was in truth a little concerned he met step on it in his haste to reach her. He was more than ready to dispense with it, but peeling her out of it would also provide him with the opportunity to tease her as mercilessly as she had him, and he was looking forward to that immensely.
With his hands on her waist he turned her until her back was facing him, and he pressed his palms flat against her belly, leaned forward over the bustle of her dress so that he could nudge her hair aside with his nose, and press a gentle kiss to the nape of her neck. The view of her from behind was every bit as lovely as from the front, but it had revealed to him one minor detail that had somehow escaped his notice throughout this trying, wonderful day.
A line of delicate pearl buttons ran the length of Jean's spine, from her neck where he kissed her to the place where the bustle swelled over her bum. They were beautiful, those little buttons, shining in the firelight, but there were so bloody many of them, and they were so bloody small. It had been his intention to tease her, but now he rather felt that he might be the one suffering as a result of his efforts. In order to get her out of the dress without ruining it completely - and there had already been talking of donating the dress to a museum, to be kept for posterity, and if that were the case he knew he could send it out into the world ripped from his passionate attention - he would have to take on this task whether he had patience enough for it or not, and so he took in a deep breath, and set to work.
Each of those little pearls had been carefully slid through a small loop, no doubt by that poor maid Lucy, but Lucien was certain that putting them in must have been much easier than getting them out. His surgeon's hands turned clumsy with impatience somewhere around the third button, and Jean let out a breathless little laugh when he grumbled.
"I though you said you wouldn't have any trouble getting me out of my dress," she told him smugly.
"I assure you, my darling, it isn't any trouble at all. I'm savoring the view." To prove his point he spread apart the fabric as best he could, and pressed his lips to the smooth skin of her back, and thus began another game. Every two or three buttons Lucien paused in his work to kiss his wife, to feel her sharp intake of breath beneath his mouth, her shoulder blades spreading like wings as she moved against him, eager for the touch of his lips. Each pause allowed him a moment to calm himself, and remember the promise he had made deep in his heart, the promise to take his time, not to rush, to shower Jean with every ounce of the love he felt for her. The buttons would not last forever, but as the back of her dress slid open beneath his fingertips it revealed another secret; a corset waited for him, white and unyielding, neatly tied with white ribbons criss-crossing the back. It was not a full corset, not a proper one; if he could have seen her from the front he was certain he would have discovered that it sat below her breasts. But it maintained the shape the dress with a steadfast obstinacy, and as more and more buttons came free he could not help but wonder if she had been dreadfully uncomfortable all day long, confined and constrained as she was. It was the last thing he wanted; Lucien knew very well exactly what his wife looked like out of her clothes, and he loved her just as she was, without all the accoutrements. Perhaps if she had been in discomfort all bloody day, he thought as he reached the final button at the base of her spine, he ought to make it up to her.
And so the moment the last button was free he stepped up close to her, and slid his hands beneath the dress. Her arms were still in the sleeves and that skirt would not have moved if a bomb struck it, but the fabric parted, allowed him to skim his palms across her sides and over to her belly. He could not feel her skin for the corset barred his path, but he could feel the way Jean's breathing changed as he touched her, shallow and full of want now. Slowly, very slowly, he dragged his hands upward even as he leaned in to rest his chin against his shoulder, turning his head to press gentle kisses to the side of her neck.
"Lucien," she whispered his name into the stillness, but he did not answer her, only carried on until at last his hands reached his goal. His previous suppositions had been correct; the corset lay just beneath her breasts. Above it the bra she wore was white and lace; he had seen the satin band of it from behind and deduced its color, and he felt the scratch of the lace beneath his palms now. Gently, reverently he cradled her breasts in his hands, felt the warmth and the comforting weight of them, heard the soft sigh of contentment that slipped past Jean's lips and grinned against her neck in delight. She had teased him before, and oh, but he was teasing her now, held her firmly in place with his arms around her, held her spellbound beneath the touch of his hands, and oh, what bliss it was, to be allowed such unfettered access to her, to give no thought to the time, or who might stumble upon them, to simply linger here, in this moment when she was beautiful and wanting him but they were both of them still dressed. He pressed his hands more firmly against her, kneaded her softly, coaxing out another beautiful sigh while she cast her head against him and pressed herself more firmly into his grip. And still that beautiful, brilliant white dress contained her, hid her from his sight just as it hid him from hers.
Jean fared no better with teasing than he did; after a moment she lifted her hands, pressed them against his own over her dress, encouraged him to increase the fervor of his ministrations even while she turned her head towards him as if eager for a kiss. He gave her one, but only one; their lips brushed together, her breath washing warm and sweet across his skin, but when her tongue flicked against his lips he pulled away, grinning.
"Now," he said. "Shall I help you out of this wonderful dress, my darling?"
"I thought that's what you were meant to be doing all along," she answered breathlessly, but there was a smile in her voice, and it made him glad to hear it.
With a bit of fumbling and more than a few giggles from Jean they managed it; she slid her arms free of the sleeves and then held them over her head, still and patient, calm and lovely and trusting him completely, while Lucien wrangled the dress up and off her. He had thought to pull it down so that she might step through it, but she had quickly corrected his error; the skirt of the dress would have withstood an aerial attack, so complete was its fortifications, and no amount of prodding from him would force it down. The thing very nearly stood up on its own, once he got it off her, but Lucien did not take the time to test his theory, for as he cast it aside Jean turned to face him, and the breath left his lungs entirely.
What a picture she made, this love of his. As much as he might have enjoyed it she was not bare beneath the dress; such a creation could not be worn unaided. There was the white bra he had felt beneath his hands, its straps and band a wide satin ribbon, its cups lace and completely sheer, her rosy pink nipples pebbling enticingly beneath. There was the white corset he had glimpsed as he unfastened her dress; it sat just below her breasts and hugged her figure snugly, highlighted the sharp tuck of her waist and the neat flare of her hips to their fullest effect. There was a tantalizing glimpse of her skin, the barest inch of pale soft flesh, and then there was another crinoline skirt, white and billowing from her hips to her ankles. She still wore her shoes but as she looked at him she kicked them off and lost three inches of height in the process, but he was glad of it, for now she seemed more like his Jean, with her red-painted toes, small enough now for her head to nestle beneath his chin.
"Hardly seems fair," she murmured, not blushing as he drank his fill of her but instead stepping towards him, reaching at once to pick at the knot of his tie.
"I can't believe you've been carrying all this around all day," he told her, letting his hands settle on her tips, fingertips on the hunt for her skin, delighting in the way she shivered when he found it. The dress had been heavy, and while the garments underneath it were breathtakingly beautiful she could hardly have been comfortable, trussed up like this for hours. In truth he felt a bit guilty; whatever discomfort his tie and his too-tight shoes might have given him seemed to pale in comparison to the sacrifice she'd had to make in order to present herself this way.
"It's just for one day," she said simply, a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she slid his tie free and tossed it in the general direction of her dress. "And it was worth it, just to see the look on your face."
"When you walked into the church?" That was a moment he'd never forget, when he got his first glimpse of Jean walking down the aisle towards him, shining like the sun. He had not wondered, before now, what she'd seen when she appeared before him, what expression of delight must have danced across his face, but he hoped that the memory would be a happy one for her, as it was for him.
"When you look at me now," she corrected him gently. Her hands were still resting against his neck and she slid them up so that she could cradle his face, her thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. "These are the moments I cherish most, when it's just us, and you're looking at me like this."
"Like what?" he leaned towards her, let his forehead rest against hers, their noses side-by-side, her breath against his lips.
"Like you love me," she whispered.
He kissed her then, because he could, because she was right, and he loved her, loved her to the point of madness, loved her enough to follow wherever she might lead, loved her enough to forsake everything just for the chance to hold her. She would never let him, of course, had forced him to remember his responsibilities when he would more happily have set them aside, did whatever she must, no matter how it hurt, to ensure that he would never forget the noble duty with which he'd been charged. Those dark days of loneliness were behind them, now, the memories fading fast, and it was hard to believe there had ever been time when she was beyond his grasp in this moment when he held her close, and kissed her deeply, when her hands tangled in his hair and his own held fast to her hips and her tongue tangled gently with his between parted lips.
A fire was growing, low in his belly, a want, a need for her, a desperation that would not be satisfied until he had her stretched beneath him in one of the two grand beds that flanked the suite. The seconds passed and the kiss they shared changed from sweet and tender to messy and grasping, both of them quite overcome with need. Perhaps he could have lifted her up, set her down upon the dressing table and bunched that skirt around her hips, torn his way through whatever further impediments lay beneath it until at last he could plunge himself inside her, but he had promised to take his time, and that was what he intended to do. They would have a bed, and a moment of peace, a chance to lie together utterly bare for the first time since he'd come home from China. It was what they deserved, he thought, what she deserved, and he was determined to give it to her.
"This has to go," he told her, tearing away from her lips and curling his fingers beneath the top of her corset.
"God, yes," she gasped, smiling. "And once it's gone we can burn the damn thing."
Lucien grinned at her brightly; he was fairly certain he had never once heard her say the word damn, and he was delighted to hear it from her now, to think she felt so free with him that she could say whatever she wished.
"Come, then," he said, and turned her in his arms, once more facing the elegant slope of her back. This job would go more easily than the last, he thought, for the ribbons seemed much easier to grasp than those damnable buttons had been, but as he reached for the ties that contained her he could not help but think of poor Lucy, the maid, and how she'd protested that the dress was too complicated for him to dispatch with it himself. The complexity of Jean's garments had not stumped him, but no doubt their evening would have progressed much more swiftly to its logical conclusion if Lucy had helped Jean undress first. And yet he was grateful for the time he was taking now, the gentle intimacy of setting his new wife free from her many layers himself, watching as each new piece of her was revealed at last to his hungry gaze. They would have gotten on just fine without this interlude, but there was a beauty in it, their coming together this way, slowly, with love, with no one else underfoot.
The ribbon slipped slowly through his fingers, and Jean breathed a sigh of relief as the corset's constraints eased, and she found herself able to relax for the first time all day. He heard that sigh, felt in the movement of her body beneath his hands, saw it in the shiver that raced across her pale skin. The task at hand was a methodical one, and Lucien was grateful for it, grateful for the means to focus himself, to give him a chance to take a deep breath, and calm his own racing desire. One side, and then the other, he puled the lacings free until at last the corset was loose enough, and Jean once more raised her arms above her head, and let him strip the corset off her. That, too, was discarded, and before he reached for her Lucien took a moment to peel off his own jacket; the heat within him had grown nearly impossible to bear, and he was wearing rather a lot more than Jean was, at present.
Once more she turned to him, smiling to see his jacket fall to the floor.
"That's better," she said.
Lucien wanted, very much, to answer her, but the only thought that came to him was how beautiful she was, bare now from the waist up except for the ribbons and lace of her bra, which hardly covered her at all. It looked as if it had been made to fit her - and probably had been, considering the fact that every other piece of her fast growing wardrobe had been tailored specifically for her - and the curves of her body were so enticing he could hardly draw breath. He reached for her, gently, his palm against her belly, soaking in the warmth of her. The corset had left angry red lines across her soft skin and so he took her in both hands, kneaded her sides gently, as if to coax away the memory of discomfort. She sighed, and seemed to melt in his grip, let her forehead fall against his shoulder while his hands worked against her and her breath warmed his neck.
"That feels lovely," she whispered.
"You are lovely," he told her. And she was, lovely, was beautiful, and the trust she placed in him, the vulnerability of her soft and pliant beneath his hands, letting him touch her as he pleased as if she knew he would never dream of hurting her, that was beautiful, too, a gift he wanted, very much, to earn with his own tender regard for her. So he touched her gently, soothed her with hands that seemed much too big in comparison to her own delicate frame, until she shivered, and pressed her lips against his neck.
"Take me to bed, Lucien," she whispered.
That was hardly the sort of request he could deny; he kissed her once, softly, drank in the taste of her before he slipped his hands beneath the waistband of her crinoline skirt, and sent it tumbling to the floor. He nearly groaned, then, for beneath it she wore a pair of white lacy knickers that were as sheer as her bra, a matching white lace suspender belt around her waist to hold her stockings in place. She had certainly dressed for the occasion, his Jean, but it was the glimpse of the dark curls at the apex of her thighs, the tantalizing stretch of skin just above her stocking tops that had him weak for her; she had no need of satin and lace, to make him want her. Just Jean, that was enough for him.
An order had been given, and it must be followed, and so he caught her bum in his hands and lifted her easily, delighting in her breathless laughter as she flung her arms around his neck and caught her legs around his hips, holding tight to him. The soft swell of her bum filled his hands and her lips found his, again, and so he kissed her and strode purposefully from the sitting room and the pile of their abandoned clothing.
There had been a bit of trouble, he recalled, when Jean first learned that the Queen's bed was traditionally separate from the King's. She did not want to be kept apart from him, nor did he wish to spend a single night without her. Since the day she'd returned to him Lucien had been sleeping in the King's bed alone, dreaming of her, and he was comfortable there. But it was not to the King's bed he carried her; that wouldn't do, he thought. That room was meant for a King, alone, and Jean deserved better. Jean deserved the rooms that had been restored for her according to her taste, deserved warmth and company, two arms to hold her and never let her go. Devotion, and desire, dedication and delight, these things were owed to her, he felt, and so he marched with purpose to the Queen's bed, and laid her gently down atop it. She reclined against the navy coverlet, a picture of beauty in her white lace, the silver circlet still nestled in her dark curls. Perhaps he could have joined her there, but there was something else he wanted to do first, and so with his hands on her knees he spread her legs and then knelt there at the foot of the bed, staring up at her. All the while she watched him through hooded eyes, the fierce grey-blue of them not sparkling with mirth but burning with a passion to match the one that swelled within him.
Slowly he reached for her, his eyes never leaving her face, watching her as she watched him. With practiced ease he unclipped the stocking on her left leg, caught it in his hands and rolled it slowly down, the long, soft expanse of her skin now bare and begging for the touch of his lips. But Lucien had a plan, now, and would not be deterred; the moment the first stocking landed silently upon the floor he reached for the second. Still Jean reclined above him, propped on her elbows, the movement of her soft breasts as she breathed nearly enough to distract him from his task. Nearly, but not quite, for he could be a determined man, where his Jean was concerned.
When the second stocking joined the first Lucien leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh, his hands catching hold of her now, soft skin sliding like silk against his palms. Above him Jean moved, as well, freed one of her hands so that she could run her fingers trough his hair.
"My love," she whispered to him when he caught her gaze, and at those words Lucien smiled, and kissed her thigh again.
"My wife," he breathed, before turning his attention to the other side. He kissed her there, too, and then looked up at her.
"My queen."
Something dark and wanting flashed in Jean's eyes, then, and Lucien just grinned, and pulled her hard against him. The scrap of lace between her thighs was damp already, giving silent evidence to the need that pulsed within her, the delectable results of his teasing. It made for a pretty sight, but it was in his way, and so he stripped those knickers off her as quickly as he could, and then returned to her at once, flinging her right leg over his shoulder and curling his hand round her thigh as he leaned in and dragged his tongue against her glistening folds.
The moment his tongue touched her Jean's head snapped back, pleasure coursing through her like a lightning strike. He had been teasing her, his every touch so slow and deliberate, until she felt she must surely break beneath the pressure of her passion for him. His broad, strong hand was warm around her thigh, his waistcoat smooth and sliding deliciously against her bare leg where it rested along his back, and his mouth; oh, his mouth would surely be the end of her. That, too, was a tease, his lips against her tender folds, hot breath against the heat of her, his clever tongue coaxing out her secrets, the scratch of his beard harsh in an agonizing, beautiful way. It was not the first time he had done this for her, not the first time she had known the wet heat of him against her, but it felt new, somehow, as if everything they had ever done, everything they had ever been, was forgotten, now, to be made new in this bed they would share. His tongue slipped inside her and tore a gasp from her own lips, at the sensation of him inside her and yet not nearly enough, not nearly enough of him. There was more he could give her, and more she wanted besides, and he seemed to know it; that clever tongue danced away to swirl around the nub at the center of her ache while he brought his hand in to join his mouth. His fingers, longer, thicker, more dexterous than his tongue, more demanding still, stroked through her wetness, spread her desire until she could feel them slick with her own wanting. And when she was ready, nearly on the verge of begging for him, the longest of those fingers slid between her folds to curl up hard against her, stroking that spot inside her that made her see stars while his lips sucked hard on the very center of her pleasure. Her inner muscles fluttered around his finger, desperate for something to hold on to, her belly pulsed with need, tension tightening through her limbs; she could not draw breath, could only gasp, tightening the hold of her thighs around his head, clenching her own hands in the bed sheets while her back arched. Close, oh but she was close; she could hear herself gasping, high and needy, a whimper lodged somewhere within her chest. Her hips rose up hard against his face, chasing her release, and still he thrust against her, teased her with his tongue, seemed with every movement of his lips and hands to be pushing her ever nearer the brink. This was not new, this sense of chasing something just out of reach, the familiar rhythm that would send her tumbling from the cliff if only he did not falter in his pace. It was a dance she had undertaken many times before, not only with him, but it felt special, somehow, to share it with him now, in this room, in this bed, on this night. Her body knew the way and so Jean gave herself over to the sensation, let the fire burn through her, and at last a ragged cry escaped her as Lucien thrust a second finger inside her, and sent her hurtling out into the stars.
Pleasure hummed through her, her every muscle shaking with need of him, coiled so tight she felt she might break until at last she did, and went slack, pulsing against his mouth and shivering with delight, her heart so full of joy she feared it might beat right out of her chest. He had done this for her, had bent all of himself and his considerable skill on her, her pleasure, wanting only to see her fall to pieces and know that he was the cause of it. Her man, her king, he was everything to her, and it seemed to her that for the moment nothing else in the world existed save for him, caught between her thighs.
She was weak as a kitten, now, and could not have moved if she wanted to, but Lucien seemed to understand. He rose slowly to his feet, towered above her with a somewhat smug grin upon his face, though his lips were glossy with her desire.
"Come here," she panted at him, and then closed her eyes, gave herself over to bliss. She could hear the faint sounds of him undressing, perhaps taking off his waistcoat, but she did not open her eyes, only lay still caught in her own delirious pleasure. She had asked for him, and he would come, she knew, for he had come for her when she felt all hope was lost, had proven to her that whenever she had need of him he would be there, always, hers.
At last he joined her, there on the bed. He drew her into his arms and her eyes fluttered open, the racing of her heart beginning to calm as she lay sheltered in his embrace. While she had been recovering he had dispensed with his socks and his shoes and his belt, had stripped out of his waistcoat and shirt and trousers, and now lay beside her wearing only his trunks and a brilliant smile.
"I suppose you're quite pleased with yourself," she teased him gently, brushing her thumb against the swell of his full bottom lip.
"Just so long as you're pleased with me, my darling," he answered her, his palm dancing across her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair. She was still wearing that silly silver circlet, that pale imitation of a crown, but though it would have been more practical to toss it aside she left it in place for she could still hear him saying my queen in that voice so low and full of heat. She was the queen now, and his, and she rather liked the idea of looking the part.
"I'm always pleased with you," she told him, smiling.
"We'll see about that."
With those words Lucien rolled over, covered her body with his own bulk. She lifted her legs on instinct, caught his hips in the cradle of her thighs, but he did not mindlessly thrust against her; he was still wearing his trunks, and he seemed focused on an entirely different task. The suspender belt was still in place around her waist - and surplus to requirements, now that her stockings were gone - and she wore her bra as well, and it was there his focus went at once. His soft beard scratched against her tender skin as he traced one lacy cup with his tongue, followed the place where fabric met skin and sent a trail of goosebumps rising in his wake. It did not escape her notice, that he was taking his time with her; they had not had nearly enough chances to be alone in recent months, and they had not ever really been able to take their time with one another, unconcerned with the world beyond, with who might stumble across them, with schedules and restraints. The whole world was asleep, and it was their wedding night, and they could do as they liked. Lucien scraped his teeth gently across her skin and she shivered, but then he peeled the lace from her skin and wrapped his lips around her nipple instead, and a whimper slid past her lips, high and needy. The ache low in her belly so recently sated swelled into life once more, and as he lavished all of his attention upon her breasts she could not help but lift her hips, grind against him in search of some relief. What she found was that through the soft cotton of his trunks he was already hard as marble, and she slid herself against him, receiving a groan and a nip of his teeth against her breast as reward for her boldness.
Still he stayed where he was, in the valley of her breasts, using hands and lips both to drive her nearly mad with longing for him. In the course of their previous dalliances he had learned already what she liked, where she most wanted him to touch her, what sounds she might make when he did, and it seemed he meant to apply those lessons now, for his tongue swept along the underside of her breast and she arched up towards him, shivering and eager for more. One hand she tangled in his hair, holding him against her, and the other traveled across his back, fingertips following the topography of his scars as if they were a map only she could read, a trail of sorrow long forgotten, a reminder of the past they shared, the war that had changed them both, torn their lives apart and yet brought them together. He did not falter in his devotion to her skin when she touched him, and Jean counted that a blessing, and determined to treat him gently.
Lucien was growing less gentle by the moment; he was losing control of himself, she knew, just as she was losing all sense of time and place. The neat line of his teeth found the curve of her breast again, and his lips closed round her, wet and hot, and she felt it, felt the sting of it, the surging, blessed fire in her own blood as he sucked his mark into her skin, where no one else could see. Perhaps she should have chided him for it, but she understood the impulse, and so she did not stop him, only scraped her fingernails across his shoulder and arched her back to press her breast more firmly against his mouth.
His name slipped past her lips and at the sound of it he raised his head, smiling up at her. Between her legs she could feel the heavy weight of his arousal straining for her, and she could see the thick vein jumping in his neck as he tried to contain himself, could see the want in his eyes, could feel her own desire mounting.
"Enough of this," she told him softly, her fingers still dragging through his hair. "I want you, Lucien."
She had had enough of waiting, enough of teasing, enough of gentle affections and quietly whispered words. The rest of their lives sprawled out before them, an endless expanse of time in which they could lie together and touch one another however slowly they pleased, as tender and as reverent as they liked. Right now, in this moment, she did not want more waiting, more time. She wanted only him.
"Yes, my darling," he answered her, and then he was rolling away, shucking off his trucks while Jean peeled off her own bra.
As he moved beside her Jean watched the play of his sleek muscles as he lifted his hips and divested himself of his trunks, but before he could resume his position over her she moved into action at once. With a mischievous smile she straddled him, her knees coming to rest on the mattress on either side of his body, her hands pressed to the mattress by his shoulders, his cock caught between their bellies as she leaned forward and he groaned, soft and needy. His eyes followed her hungrily, and she felt decadent, luxurious, warm and naked and with him in that vast bed with its heavy curtains thrown back, the silver circlet still nestled in her hair, diamonds sparkling in her ears. Jean had never known such bounty before, and most days it still made her uncomfortable, but in this moment she reveled in it, feeling as if she held everything she'd ever needed there between her thighs.
Without need of guidance her lips found his collarbone and his hands found the curve of her bum, clutched her tight and encouraged her to roll her hips against him. The hot, hard length of him met the soft, wet place where she ached for him and she gasped against his skin, drowning in sensation. There were not words, she thought, for the intimacy of this, joined and yet not as they were. This trust, this vulnerability they shared with one another without hesitation, without restraint, and she found a sort of peace in this place, with this man, such as she had never known before.
At his encouragement she raised herself up, her tender folds gliding against his silken shaft, ecstasy sparking from the place where they met to send a shiver racing down her spine. The friction they created between them, the shape of him pressing against that place where she needed him most, her own aching heat painting him with her arousal, was dizzying in its intensity, and she repeated the motion again, and again, grinding against him and drawing another helpless moan from his beautiful lips. For a moment she indulged in this simple pleasure, the lightness in her heart, the beautiful agony of her king's face as he threw his head back against the pillows, closed his eyes and groaned against the bliss she inspired him. She had done this to him, had pinned this titan of a man beneath her slender frame and caused the vein in his neck to tighten, caused his body to tense, caused his cock to twitch against her in eager anticipation, caused him to open himself up to her, wholly and without reservation. It was a heady thought; there had not been many times, in the course of her life, when Jean had felt herself in control of her circumstances, but she felt it now. This gift Lucien had given her, and she would be forever grateful for it.
Once more she rose up, but this time she moved with a sense of purpose, reached between their bodies and caught his cock in her hand, held him place as ever so carefully she sank down upon him. As the head of his shaft plunged between her soaking folds she could not help but gasp; it had been so long, too long, since last she'd held him, and she had almost forgotten how it felt to take him inside her, to mold herself around him and hold him tight, every blessed inch of him. She leaned forward and as she did he raised his head, his lips falling to the corner of her mouth as still she eased down on him, taking him in deeper, and deeper still.
"Oh, my darling," Lucien breathed, shaking beneath her, though she could not say whether it was joy that made him tremble, or the strain of holding himself back for her sake. Her own arms were unsteady as she held herself suspended above him, as she dropped her head to hang low between her shoulders, the bristle of his beard catching against the softness of her cheek.
She could hardly breathe, could hardly think, could only feel as she sank down on him, took him into her completely until they were flush together, panting and desperate and alive. It was unthinkable, really, that there had ever been a time when she had been without him; how could she have ever thought to leave him? How could she have ever believed they could carry on without one another, without this pleasure, this connection, this relief? It seemed unthinkable to her now, that she should ever part from him; they were one, bound together by chains no man could break, now. He was hers.
She held him there, tight within her, and lowered herself atop him, her breasts pressed hard to the plane of his chest, and his arms rose up at once, holding her close, enveloping her completely. And in that moment, utterly surrounded by him, his heat, his strength, his love, Jean turned her head, and pressed her lips to the taut line of his neck.
"Mine," she gasped, teeth catching against his tender skin.
Beneath her Lucien's hips bucked up, hard, thrusting against her and tearing a whimper from the back of her throat.
"Yours," he answered breathlessly and her heart sang in her chest, a bird set free from its cage. The need was building, low in her belly, and she could not help but move, then, rocking against him, every nuance of the push and pull between their bodies sending her closer and closer to the very brink of bliss. She shifted atop him, lifted herself up and leaned over him, and he moved with her at once, catching her thighs within the cages of his broad hands and raising his head so that he could wrap his lips around one of her tender nipples. The rough scratch of his beard and the gentle lap of his tongue sent her reeling, and her body responded to the call of her desire without any conscious thought. She rose above him and sank down again, and again, gradually finding a rhythm that suited her, a steady, eager motion that had him pressing against her everywhere she burned for him. With each downward pass of her body he raised his hips to meet her, added his own latent power to her movements, the plunging of his hardness into her a pleasure so exquisite she could not help but moan. Everything about this moment, them together, his lips and his tongue and his hands and his hardness buried within her, her own body shivering and trembling with pleasure everywhere he touched her, was so beautiful, so raw in its honesty that if she could have spared the breath she might well have wept.
"God," the word left her quite without her realizing it as their dance continued, as her body tensed and tightened around him and his fingertips dug in hard to the soft flesh of her thighs.
"Yes," was his breathless answer, the word a plea muffled against the curve of her breast where the heat of his mouth had left another darkening bruise. Still she held herself there, rocking against him, rising up and sinking down, again and again, thinking she could happily do this for all the rest of her days, spend every moment wrapped up in him and the pleasure he stirred within her. She wanted to touch him, to wind her fingers through his soft hair and cradle his head against her breast, but her hands remained in place, holding her steady while she worked over him, and he met her, point and counterpoint until it all became too much to bear.
Desperate, eager, chasing her release she ground against him, and it seemed to her in the next moment as if something within him had snapped, as if some otherworldly strength had been released, for his hands left her thighs, trailed fire along the curve of her back until he caught hold of her shoulders. Those hands, those strong, beautiful hands held her down hard against him, and she gave herself over to him, her trembling arms collapsing as her hands sought out his hair and his hips thrust up hard against her. He had known, somehow, what it was she wanted, had proven once again how well he understood her, how well they complimented one another, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and panted her pleasure, as he took her with a ferocity that shook her to the core. The hard slap of his body crashing into hers, the low, gravelly sound of his voice as he grunted with exertion, her own high-pitched moans echoed loud in that space, and for perhaps the very first time, Jean found she did not care, could not bring herself to worry about the noise they made. This was right, she told herself. This was where they belonged. Together.
"Jean," Lucien's voice carried with a warning note she recognized all too well; he was close to his own release, his movements growing somewhat erratic, and just the thought of it, the knowledge that she had brought him to this point, that they had reached this precipice together, threatened to undo her.
"Harder," she told him breathlessly, and he complied at once, drove into her with such reckless abandon that in a moment she was falling, moaning, clenching him tight within her as the tightly wound coil of her desire sprung free at last and flooded her every sense.
"Christ," Lucien gasped, thrusting into her release, hard and hot and hungry, prolonging her exquisite agony until he, too, could bear it no longer, and with a final groan he was coming undone, spilling into her with all the force he could muster.
It was the first warm rays of sun that woke Lucien the following morning. They had not taken the time to draw the curtains round the bed, and so the dawn breaking beyond the castle infiltrated that space, filled it slowly with glorious radiance. It was Christmas morning, and a Sunday, and the day after the wedding, and so he knew that there was no need for him to move just yet, to leave the warmth of this bed and his beautiful wife, sleeping in his arms. Oh, he would have to leave eventually; they were meant to have breakfast with Li and Lin and young Christopher, who had been given his own private suite to stay in whenever he visited his mother. There were presents tucked beneath the Christmas tree in the parlor he dearly wanted to watch Jean open. There would be work to do later; there was always the damnable red box and its many papers to sign, and there would be a Christmas feast, but first there was this, lying in this bed, with Jean, alone, and happy.
They were naked, still, their legs tangled together beneath the bed sheets, Jean's face buried in the crook of his neck. Somehow, miraculously, she still wore her silver circlet nestled amongst her unruly curls, and he smiled to see it. My queen, he thought, his fingertips softly tracing the lines of her face; there was no doubt in his mind that she would make a fine queen, would make their people proud as she made him proud, but no one else would ever get to see her quite like this.
Or so he'd thought, for he'd no sooner bowed his head to kiss her awake than the door swung open, and Jean's maid Lucy came bustling in.
The poor girl's mouth dropped open as she caught sight of them, her face gone pale as new snow in her shock. No doubt she had expected to find this room empty; the bed in the King's suite was bigger, and that was the place Lucien had been sleeping of late, and it would have made altogether more sense for the King and Queen to have fallen together there. It fell to Peter to rouse him in the mornings, and while Peter was accustomed to finding his King in all sorts of states poor Lucy had never seen anything quite like this, Lucien was sure. The coverlet was gathered around their hips, having been thrown off at some point in the night - they'd generated more than enough heat between the two of them. Lucy had entered from the door behind Jean, and so had been granted an unencumbered view of her new queen's bare back, the king's arms around her.
Lucien lifted his head and caught Lucy's petrified gaze, and then lifted a single finger to his lips in a request for quiet. Jean was still sleeping, and he'd quite like to keep it that way. Lucy nodded, dumbstruck, and when Lucien gestured for her to leave she turned tail and ran, though she paused just long enough to close the door slowly, rather than slamming it, for which Lucien was very grateful.
He allowed himself a chuckle, then, and bowed his head, and kissed his wife, who hummed and kissed him back as she slowly woke. It was Christmas, and there was snow on the ground, and he was alone with Jean. They would leave this place and join their children soon, celebrate the holiday as a family, but for now, for this moment, the world was quiet, and he was content.