That man is impossible, Jean thought as she drifted through the surgery, tidying as she went. Banging around all hours of the day and night, drinking like a fish, late for dinner more often than not, never finishes one thing before rushing off to the next. If only he would settle down.
She'd been praying for a year now that he would, that he would settle, and calm, and give her some bloody peace. Everything had been peaceful, before he arrived; there had been a routine to her life, and Jean had understood it, had felt in control of her life and the home she ran as if it were her own. Some folks might call it dull, supper on the table every night at six, the same tasks performed at the same times, day in and day out, but Jean liked things that way, thank you very much. The quiet could be grueling, at times; Jean knew better than most how sorrow could breed in darkness, and she carried such sadness within her that there had been nights during old Doctor Blake's tenure when she had wept and not known why, only knowing that she had to expel the sadness, or be choked by it. But even then, the stability of old Doctor Blake's home had been a comfort. She liked knowing what to expect, and she found joy in a life that made sense.
Nothing about Lucien Blake made sense. Oh, she had come to know him, over the past year, had come to understand some of the experiences that had shaped him, why he was...the way he was. Some, but not all; there were still some secrets Lucien kept to himself, and Jean did not begrudge him those secrets, for she carried her own, and knew the weight of guilt and grief. Still, though, he was impetuous, impulsive, unpredictable, and never, ever still. Sometimes Jean felt tired just looking at him, seeing the way his clever mind moved a mile a minute, the way he rushed from one thing to the next, never slowing, as if he feared what might catch hold of him, should he pause even for a moment.
This week was no different; he had been rushing around after a murderer for days, eager for answers to a particularly troublesome case. Lucien had - much to Jean's dismay - revealed the more disturbing details of the poor chap's demise at the table the night before, and put Jean off her dinner entirely. Nevermind that it was somewhat endearing, his earnest enthusiasm, nevermind that she appreciated his devotion to the pursuit of justice, never mind that she was fascinated, sometimes, by the riddles he shared with her. Never mind that he was handsome, that he had made her life exciting. Some things were sacred, and dinner was one of them.
But of course he was exciting, she mused as she carried on with the tidying. Lucien made her laugh, and while she never knew what to expect from him - firecrackers, or the evening roast commandeered for a science experiment, or murderous soldiers in her own home, or whatever he was doing now that sent that terrible smell wafting out from the study he'd converted into his own sort of laboratory - sometimes his unpredictability was actually rather...fun. Every case, every question, would inevitably result in a delightful conversation between the pair of them, and while Thomas Blake had always been kind to her his son treated her as his equal, and that seemed kinder still. Lucien needed her, not to wash his unmentionables or cook his dinners, but to help him, to talk with him, to share what she knew and find answers to his questions. It had been quite some time since anyone had valued Jean for her mind, and not just the work of her hands, and she was very much enjoying the respect Lucien showed her.
Her work took her at last to Lucien's makeshift lab, and it was there she found the man himself, bent over a beaker of something foul-smelling and equally vile-looking, bubbling merrily away above the burner.
"What on earth are you doing?" she asked him from the doorway. It seemed she asked him that ten times a day, but even at her most exasperated she was always eager to hear the answer.
"Come and have a look," he said, enthusiastic as a little boy clutching a new toy when he turned to look at her. Jean wanted to tell him no, thank you; whatever was in that beaker smelled positively dreadful, and she didn't want to draw any closer, didn't want that smell to catch and linger in her hair, haunting her all day. But he was smiling, and he looked so pleased, and she did so love to see him happy.
"All right," she said, and he stepped aside, making room for her to come and stand next to him in front of the beaker. "What is it?"
"That chap, the one who died, he had chemical burns all over his face," Lucien explained.
Jean shuddered; she remembered Lucien's vivid description from the night before, and was in no hurry to hear it again. There were some things, she thought, she was better off not knowing.
"It's not what killed him, but it certainly did some damage. I'm trying to determine what it was. If we can isolate the type of chemicals used, we might be able to track down our killer."
"So you're trying to cook up something that could burn the skin off a man's face. Here. At home."
Lucien grimaced, no doubt recognizing the admonishment in her tone, and Jean could not help but smile. He really was such a dear man, for all the trouble he caused. It wasn't as if he tried to make her life difficult; he listened when she spoke, and sometimes he brought her flowers - well, he always placed them on the kitchen table, but they were for her, and she knew it - and he always looked so distressed when he thought he might have displeased her.
"Erm," he said, a bit sheepishly, "yes. But I don't think this is it, Jean. There were some residual traces on the victim, and-"
Unbeknownst to them both the contents of the beaker had begun to bubble more enthusiastically, and Jean never heard the rest of his sentence for even as he spoke there came one soft, alarming sort of plop sound, and in the next instant the beaker had shattered, spraying them both with the hot liquid.
"Don't move!" Lucien barked, suddenly forceful and commanding in a way he had never been with Jean before. She held her breath, hardly daring to breathe. They'd been facing each other when it happened and so had been spared the worst of it, but their shirts were both spattered with the vile-smelling chemical. "Just stay very still," Lucien added, and then he began gingerly untucking his white shirt from his trousers, careful not to touch the places where the liquid had landed. "It can eat through the fabric, and it'll burn your hands if you touch it."
And then, very cautiously, he pulled his shirt off over his head, taking care not to let it brush his face.
"You, too," he said, gesturing to her shirt before reaching for the buckle of his belt, no doubt intent on taking off his trousers while he was at it.
Jean dutifully reached for her own blouse, but almost immediately stopped; her clothing was rather more well-fitted than Lucien's. To take off her blouse, she'd have to unbutton it, and she could see the shimmering drops of whatever Lucien had concocted glinting on the buttons.
"Lucien," she said, very softly, suddenly afraid. Already she could feel the heat of it seeping through the sides of her delicate blouse, and she did not want to end up like that man he'd described, horribly burned, scarred even, in pain and damaged as a result of this accident.
He was in the process of kicking off his trousers when he looked up at her, and under different circumstances she might have blushed, to see him in only his vest and trunks, his powerful body heavy with muscle and on full display. As it was, however, she could spare no thought for how enticing he looked, given the gravity of her situation.
"Don't touch it," he answered, recognizing her problem at once. "Are you very attached to this blouse?"
As he spoke he pulled open one of his desk drawers and went rummaging through it, and Jean fought the urge to stomp her foot in frustration.
"Given the choice I think I'd prefer my skin to the shirt, Lucien," Jean told him sharply.
The reason for his question became clear as he let out a soft sound of triumph and turned to her with a knife in his hands. It was small, pearl-handled and very sharp looking, and Jean's heart sank when she saw it.
"Turn around, please?" He sounded somehow uncertain, as if he doubted whether she would really let him do such a thing, cut the shirt from her back right here in the surgery in the broad light of day, but her skin had begun to tingle unpleasantly and she was eager to be done with it.
She turned as he asked, and balled her hands into fists at her sides as Lucien's hands reached for the collar of her blouse. It was in her mind to tell him to take care, but there was no need for such a warning; Lucien's hands were gentle when they touched her, and steady, and she felt a shiver run down her back at the thought of his proximity, and his delicate care.
The knife was very sharp indeed, and she heard the sound it made as Lucien began to slice the back of her blouse. He moved slowly, with all the precision and attention of a surgeon, and that perilously sharp blade made neat work of her blouse. He moved in a straight line down the center of her back, from the nape of her neck to her hips, where the shirt was neatly tucked into her skirt.
"There," he said when it was done, but to her surprise he did not step away. His broad hands settled on her bare shoulders beneath the fabric, and gently brushed across her skin, lifting the blouse up and away from her. Jean reflexively leaned back, against his broad chest, sliding her arms out of the sleeves while Lucien pulled the blouse away from her, until it fluttered silently to the floor, and her breath caught in her throat, adrenaline coursing through her, making her hyper aware of the solid warmth of the man at her back.
Without the blouse she was not entirely bare she wore a satin slip over her brassiere but the chemical had already worked its way through the slip, and some of it had splashed on her skirt, and oh, bloody hell, she thought, realizing she would have to strip out of almost all of her clothes. The burning sensation had grown stronger against her sides, and so she did not pause to think about the impropriety of it, standing around with Lucien in nothing but their underthings. He was still at her back, steady, broad, warm; she could feel him breathing, sharp and short, as his hands hovered in the air around her hips, one of them still clutching that knife.
"Lucien-" she started to speak not knowing what she meant to say, knowing only that it would be impossible to stand here in silence with him, the pair of them half-naked, both their hearts racing. What she would have said she'd never know, for even as his name passed her lips he reached for the zip of her skirt, and pulled it down quickly, efficiently.
"All of it, I think, Jean," he said, very quietly. Too quietly; his voice was no longer brisk and powerful, barking orders, and instead the words rumbled up from the depths of his chest low and gravelly and Jean shivered as she carefully pushed her skirt down to the floor, and turned to face him. She thought it would be better if she could see his face, if she was no longer standing with the warmth of him at her back, but looking at him now did nothing to temper her unsteady breaths, for he was so very handsome, and watching her with eyes suddenly dark, and they were close, still, too close, and -
And the pain in her sides grew sharper, and she knew she had to act, then, before she was permanently burned.
"Oh, Jean," Lucien said, his voice heavy with pain, his hand reaching for the damp fabric at her sides before he pulled away, as if he meant to soothe her and only at the last second realized that to touch her would hurt them both. "Stand very still."
And she did, breathing shallowly and hardly daring to blink as his hands reached for her shoulders.
"I'll buy you a new one," he murmured, and before she could ask what he meant that clever knife of his was slicing through the fabric of her satin slip. He started just beneath the strap that covered her left shoulder, that knife too close to her skin for comfort. There was no need to worry, she knew, for he was careful with her, gentle, and she trusted him not to hurt her. Still she could not look away, as his hands caught in the fabric and held it taut, as that knife slipped through the valley between her breasts, and then down straight across her belly. It would be cold if it touched her, but Lucien's hands were warm, and as he bent to continue his work she could see the flexing of his broad shoulders, the angry red lines of scars mapping his back barely visible beneath his white vest. Those marks surprised her; she knew he had been held captive by the Japanese, and remembered well the horrible stories she'd heard during the war, how men like Lucien had suffered unspeakable brutality, but she had not known, before now, that he carried the marks of his internment upon his skin. Despite the gravity of their circumstances she felt drawn to them, this reminder of his pain, this quiet evidence of the memories that haunted him in the still of the night, and she reached out all unthinking to place her palm against the broad span of his back, her fingers curling against his vest as she touched him, as if she could with that one touch take the pain from him, and set his heart at rest.
Beneath her he drew in an unsteady breath, but he had cut enough of the slip away, and he remembered his purpose, even if Jean did not. Slowly he straightened, her hand falling away from his body as he reached for her, gingerly caught hold of the slip and peeled it from her. Reflexively Jean shrugged forward, and his hands slid back, and the slip floated silently to the floor, forgotten by them both for in the movement they found themselves suddenly touching, chest to chest, Jean's body half-uncovered, now. Oh, there was still her bra, and her knickers, her stockings and suspenders, but she might as well have been naked, for the yearning she saw in Lucien's eyes when he looked upon her.
"I'm so sorry, Jean," he whispered to her then, his face close to hers, so very close, and his lips were soft and just there, their chests rising and falling in sync with each of their sharp breaths, and his eyes were blue and warm and full of a want Jean recognized, for she felt it bubbling up within her own heart. He was such a dear man, for all the trouble he caused, and she did not want him to blame himself for this mistake, and the heat of him rolled over her in waves, washing away the last traces of her restraint.
"I never meant to hurt you."
His hands found their way to her sides, the skin there red and angry from the chemical that had splashed across her clothes, but though his palms were rough and worn from constant washing in the surgery they soothed her, just the same. Those hands of his were big, and strong, and though she'd known this before she'd never realized quite how big they were, not until this moment, when she could see his hands spanning her waist, could feel herself small and delicate in his grip. He kneaded her gently, fingers working against tender muscles, as if he had sensed the hurt there upon her skin and sought to cleanse her of it, just as she had done when she touched his back. As if he sensed the other hurts, the deeper hurts that scarred her heart where no one could see, and sought to free her from them.
Nearly two decades of lonely nights, nearly twenty years without the touch of another upon her bare skin, without a soul to share her life with, seventeen long years of isolation and grief, had left their mark upon her, but though some had tried she had not ever found a man whose touch was more enticing than her memories. She had not ever found one who seemed worth the risk, the potential for grief, only now, now Lucien stood before her, strong and brave, brilliant and broken, and with hands gentle on her skin he seemed to whisper promises of devotion, of care. He had been so, so gentle with her, and yet even the most tender touch from him sent a thrill of excitement through her. And they were half-naked already, and the house was empty save for them, and no one need ever know, and he was touching her.
"I know," she answered him, her voice hardly more than a whisper. She knew he had not meant to hurt her, knew he would not ever cause her pain deliberately; he had tried too hard, over the last year and more, to make her happy, to find ways to please her, and though his efforts were sometimes in vain still she knew that he was trying, and the thought that a man like him, bold and incorrigible, might try, for her sake, to curb his own more disastrous habits, filled her heart with warmth.
"All of it, Lucien?" she asked him then, a little breathlessly. He'd said it first, but Jean was no longer thinking of safety, the danger they'd been exposed to when the beaker exploded; she was thinking of the danger of him, and the little knife he held, thinking how easily he could strip her bare and take her over, if she let him, thinking how she might just let him, if he wanted.
His eyes searched her face, wide and hopeful, looking no doubt for some evidence of her intentions, and so Jean stood steady, met his gaze with one of her own, her chin lifting slightly as if defying him to challenge her, her hands catching in his vest.
"If you think that's wise, Jean," he said, very slowly, his hands still warm and squeezing her sides, his fingers against her skin comforting and terrifying at the same time. No, it was not wise; she should have stepped away from him, should have gone upstairs and dispensed with the last of her clothing herself, but she did not want to leave him. She did not want this moment to end, did not want to step back from the ledge their proximity had brought them to. They were balanced together on a razor's edge, sharp beneath their feet, and with each breath they took they were in danger of falling. In that moment Jean realized she wanted to fall, and she wanted his to be the hands that caught her.
"Please," she answered. Please, don't make me say it. Please, don't let me think this through, don't make me come to my senses. Please, catch me. She stood, still as stone, her hands fisted in his vest, and waited to see what he might do, hardly daring to breathe.
What he did was sigh, very softly, and hang his head until his forehead rested against her own, his hands still soft and warm at her sides. His touch was tender, and full of care, care for her, and there was a yearning churning low in her belly, begging for more. And more was what he gave to her; in the next breath he lifted his head, his lips brushing against the tender skin of her cheek as he went, and then he reached for her shoulder, still holding that little knife. Jean watched him, watched him carefully slide that knife between her skin and the strap of her bra, hardly daring to breathe.
"Jean?" he said, offering her one last chance to change her mind, to realize that they stood on the verge of calamity and pull them both back. Jean didn't want to pull back, though; she wanted his hands, the cool slide of the knife against her skin, wanted all the excitement, all the heat, all the wild untempered power of him. She wanted to be reckless like him, reckless like she used to be when she was young and had not yet learned how life could hurt. She wanted fire, and want, wanted the breathless rush of sharing herself with someone else. And she wanted that with him, with Lucien, this wild man who had turned her life upside down, and yet who touched her as if she were precious.
"Yes," she answered, and then he was moving, and she was lost.
Jean watched as he lifted that little knife, tilted it just right and pulled it quickly towards him, and the thin satin strap of her bra parted like water. She gasped, just a little, as it broke, tension coiling tight within her, but when Lucien reached for the other strap she did not stop him, just turned to watch as that one, too, split and fell away. Defenseless and defiant she stood firm before him; that little knife and her current state of undress left her vulnerable, and she knew it, but she trusted him, completely, for though he was wild and unpredictable he had always shown her a certain regard, and she knew he would not hurt her.
In the next breath he threw the knife away, and let his hands ghost over her bare shoulders, the touch gentle and yet full of insinuation. He had her, now, could do whatever he wished, but he was not rushing, grasping, desperate; he seemed to be struggling to come to terms with the idea that she wanted this, wanted him, seemed to hesitate in a way that filled her with a fond sort of exasperation. Now was not the time for shyness; she wanted him bold, and brave enough for both of them. In the hopes of pushing things along - and convincing him that he had no need to fret - Jean lifted one of her hands away from his vest, and reached instead for his face. His head was still bowed low, close to her, and he pressed his cheek against her palm, his eyes fluttering closed as if in bliss at the touch.
"Lucien," she whispered. "Don't stop."
He drew in one unsteady breath, and she could feel the air leaving her lungs, going into his.
"I don't want to hurt you," he answered. Should he give in to her now she knew there was every chance he might hurt her anyway, whatever he wanted, not with his hands but with his wild nature, and yet in that moment Jean felt certain that he was worth that risk.
"Kiss me, then."
And so he groaned, as if he could feel his self-restraint shatter within him as her own had done, and surged towards her, powerful and full of purpose. His hands left her shoulders to settle once more on her waist, and his lips found hers, suddenly, pressing, full of want, and Jean rose up on her tiptoes to meet him, relieved and overcome. When had she last kissed a man? She didn't know, and it didn't matter, because no one had ever kissed her quite like this, desperate and full of need. Lucien held her so tightly, their bodies flush together from hips to chest, and his lips were soft and full of heat, and when she gasped his tongue chased after her, no longer hesitating but eager, and she let him, for she wanted him, as she had not wanted anyone else for so very long. His hands were everywhere, trailing fire across the delicate skin of her back, clutching at her bum, rocking her against him, and his mouth overwhelmed her, and she clung to him, desperate for every piece of him she could get. This was no gentle kiss, no hesitating first time, wondering what they might want of each other; this kiss was a beginning to something more, something greater, the first step on a journey into shadows, a road she could not turn aside from but must see through to its conclusion. And she wanted that, wanted to see how far they might go, together, what heights of bliss he could bring her to, and she resolved to worry about the rest later.
How long they stood like that, drinking deeply of one another, hands grasping, hips grinding together, she did not know, but eventually Lucien grew impatient, as she knew he must. He tore his lips from hers with a gasp, and his hands returned to her shoulders, this time moving down, thumbs brushing against her collarbones until his palms stuttered to a halt against the satin of her bra, still held in place by the band around her chest, though her heaving breaths and the friction between their bodies had pulled it low, revealed the soft curve of the tops of her breasts.
Don't stop, she thought, watching him; his eyes searched her face, for a moment, as if seeking permission, and perhaps he found it for he held her gaze steadily as his hands reached for her, molded against the softness of her skin and left her breathless and aching for him. Jean swayed towards him, eyes fluttering closed as his palms ghosted across her skin, Lucien learning the shape of her while she pressed herself more firmly into his grip. His brushed over her nipples and she could not help but gasp, her nerves on fire, every touch a lightning strike straight to her core. Though she could not see it Lucien grinned, and turned her suddenly then; she heard the sound of him picking up that little knife with his right hand, his left pressed flat to her belly, holding her against him for a moment.
"I'll buy you another one," he told her, feathering kisses along her throat while she leaned back against him. "A hundred more."
His teeth scrapped lightly, teasingly against the thrumming vein in her neck, and then he pulled back from her, just a little, just enough to make room for that knife between their bodies. Jean held her breath, full of anticipation, her blood burning like whiskey in her veins, and then that cold sharp knife sliced through her bra like butter, and the ruined garment fluttered silently to the floor. With his palm once more against her belly Lucien drew her back against him, and she let him, eager for the touch of his hands.
"You are so beautiful, Jean," he whispered against her neck, softly, reverently. Those broad hands of his once more glided gently over her skin, molded to the curve of her breast, and she shuddered and relaxed further against him, knees turned to jelly at the heat of his hands against her. This was Lucien, touching her, looking down over her shoulder, staring at her body in unabashed arousal, but it didn't feel like an impropriety, didn't feel like something she should put a stop to. It felt right, and she wanted more, more of him, his touch, his heat burning through her. Overcome with yearning she pressed against him, let him clutch at her, tender nipples catching against his work-worn palms and drawing a sigh from the depths of her chest. Oh, but this felt good, and right, felt like a sin she'd never regret.
Slowly Lucien bowed his head, let his lips brush against the slope of her neck, and Jean sighed, and tangled her hands in his hair, holding him against her. The scrape of his beard against her tender skin sent a shockwave running through her, and she trembled, but not pull away from him, wanting only more, more, wanting to lose herself, wanting to stop worrying, stop thinking, wanting only to feel him, hard and warm and in her arms. His tongue flicked against her pulse point and she sighed; his teeth caught against her skin and she shivered; and his lips, oh his lips seared themselves into her flesh, and she whined once, softly, and let him. Those clever hands of his remained busy with her, nimble fingers finding the pebbled buds of her nipples, teasing her, coaxing little sounds of want from her as she swayed against him, closer, and closer still. But Lucien was never one to hold still, to linger too long in any one place; he turned her once more in his arms, and then bowed his head, trailed his lips down her neck, over her chest, until he crested the swell of her breast, and it was her turn to be impatient, then, wanting his mouth where his hands had been, and he gave into her in a moment, sucking hard at her tender flesh while she gasped, overwhelmed with him already. There was a certain sense of exploration to the way he touched her, methodical as a scientist, testing the results of his efforts and trying to discover what she liked best. What Jean liked best was him, hard and eager, making her heart race, but when his tongue traced beneath the curve of her breast she whimpered and felt him grin against her skin, satisfied that he had learned this thing about her.
As much as she was enjoying his gentle teasing she was not certain her legs could hold her much longer, and she had half a mind to tell him so, but in the end there was no need. He rose suddenly, abruptly, blue eyes burning, and without a word of warning he wrapped his hands tight around her bum, and lifted her easily, as if she weighed nothing at all. An undignified sound that was almost a yelp left her lips at the unexpected change in their position, but it turned to laughter in a moment as she wrapped her legs tight around his hips and draped her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him. He was laughing, too, looking somehow younger, his face unlined with care, and Jean did not hesitate, did not try to restrain herself, only leaned in and kissed him hard. He returned that kiss with equal fervor, fingers digging in hard to the soft flesh of her bum, and in the push and pull of their bodies she could feel his interest making itself known, already hard as marble beneath his trousers, and she could not help but push herself that much closer to him, desperate to feel it, the mad driving heat of him within her.
Perhaps he was as eager as she; in two short strides he brought them both to his desk, and reached out as if he meant to clear it, to set her down atop it, but then he stopped short.
"What is it?" she asked him breathlessly, catching his bottom lip between her teeth for a moment.
"I don't think you'll thank me for that," he said, and Jean turned to look, and saw the shattered glass of the beaker and the shimmering glow of the terrible chemical that had set things off between them. Funny, she had forgotten all about it somehow, swept away by him, but he was right, and she was glad he had seen sense. "Nevermind," he added, and with a flick of his wrist he turned off the still-burning flame on the burner, and then they were moving, again, both of his hands on her body, his powerful legs carrying them both easily out of the surgery.
Jean had never been quite so grateful to have Mattie out of the house as she was in that moment, while Lucien carried her straight towards his own bedroom, both of them half-naked and kissing messily as he went. Now was not the time for interruptions, for thinking things through; now was the time for giving in, for giving up, for grabbing hold of what she wanted, regardless of what came next, and what she wanted, in that moment, was Lucien.
It was almost shocking, the sheer strength of him; he navigated the opening and closing of his bedroom door by holding her up with just one arm, and she could not stop herself from tracing the outline of his bicep revealed now that he wore only his vest, the hardness of his muscle delighting her. Now that she had seen what had for so long remained concealed beneath his fine suits she could think of nothing else save running her hands over his golden skin, cradling his body against her own. Perhaps it was wrong of her, to want such a thing, but he was so lovely, and she was burning alive with need of him.
Ever so gently Lucien laid her out upon his bed, his body arching over hers until she connected with his duvet, landing gentle as a feather, feeling delicate and cherished beyond all measure. He kissed her lips, her cheek, brushed his lips over the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, each touch a benediction, a blessing so sweet it nearly made her weep, his hands exploring her still, as if he could not get enough of her. Something had changed between them during the short trip from the surgery to his bed, fire fading in favor of fondness; she could not give it a name, but the way he touched her, the way he soothed her every doubt with his caresses was so sure, so certain, so measured, that she could not help but feel as if he were trying to tell her something.
She was not content to be idle beneath him; eagerly she caught his vest in her hands, lifted it up and off him, her hands returning at once to map the plane of his chest while he knelt above her, watching her, eyes burning at her through the dimness. His muscles were hard beneath her palms, his skin smooth, covered with the faintest dusting of soft blonde hair. A year of comfort in his father's house, a year of Jean's good meals, had left his belly somewhat soft, but there was no denying the strength of him, and she reveled in it.
And yet he did not give her long to explore, for his hands began to move, then, ghosted down her sides, over her hips, following the lines of her thighs as he knelt before her. At the touch of his hand she trembled, raising one hand to cover her face, unwilling and unable to express the flood of hopeless longing that engulfed her as he shifted down her body, the pair of them barrelling mercilessly towards something cataclysmic. For a moment he caught her thighs in the cages of his hands, just above the lace of her stocking tops, teasing her for a moment before carefully unclasping her suspenders, rolling her stockings down her legs so slowly she could hardly stand it. Almost of their own accord her thighs widened to accommodate him, and when she lifted her head and gazed down the plane of her body the sight of Lucien Blake kneeling between her legs, his haired mussed from the touch of her hands, bowing his head to drop a tender kiss against the soft skin of her inner thigh, was nearly enough to finish her off completely. Her body cried out for him, so loudly she was certain he must have heard it.
Still, though, Lucien took his time, his fingertips leaving fire in their wake as he methodically removed first her stockings and then her knickers, until he could see her, all of her. Jean's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment but Lucien just smiled, and then, oh then, he did something she had never imagined.
There were rules, in Jean's world, for the way of things between a man and a woman. The church's rules, proscribing every act, and Jean had never, even for a moment, imagined that a man might put his mouth upon her, but when Lucien took a deep breath and buried his face between her thighs her world went white hot, her head snapping back against the mattress as constellations danced behind her eyelids. His nose brushed through her sparse curls even as his tongue snaked out to trace the line of her folds and the sound that left her lips was one she'd never imagined she could make, low and yearning. Desperate for some tether to ground her to the earth she reached out and caught his head in her hands, tangling her fingers in his hair and canting her hips to meet him, her thighs tightening reflexively around him.
"Oh, god," she breathed, but just as she became accustomed to the wash of his breath against her he slipped his tongue inside her and she nearly fell to pieces, unable to think, unable to breathe, utterly shattered by the thought that this was Lucien, doing such a thing, bent on nothing save her own pleasure. It was erotic, electrifying, full of pleasure in a way she had never before imagined, and she lay trembling beneath him, giving herself over to him utterly. Still he moved, lips and tongue in tandem building her up and up until he shifted, and she nearly cried out in grief to think that he would leave her before his fingers replaced his tongue and his lips wrapped around the little bundle of nerves at her center and she tumbled from the cliff. She might well have been crying out; she could not say, for as her body trembled and shook his fingers thrust relentlessly inside her, curling against her, his lips working over and over her until her first climax became a second in a wave so strong and fierce her consciousness deserted her and she was left drowning in sensation alone, so sweet and so sharp and so all consuming that if she had sense enough to hear she would have heard herself crying out his name.
Still he caressed her, guiding her through until she was whimpering and begging him please, please, please, though she could not say what she was asking for. Lucien seemed to know, though; he kissed her tender sex one last time and then rose to tower over her, his gaze so very soft and so very open that Jean could do nothing save open her arms to him, begging him to let her hold him.
And he did, dropping his hands to the mattress on either side of her head, lowering himself atop her to kiss her sweetly, the taste on his tongue so unfamiliar she knew it had to have been her own. She whimpered against his lips, and felt the brush of his beard on her face as he smiled. Jean wrapped her arms around him, her thighs rising up cradle his hips, pulling him down against her, desperate for the heat of him. Between her legs he was heavy and hard, kissing her with such unreserved passion, his tongue surging into her mouth even as his hips rutted furiously against her, his trunks the only barrier beneath her bare sex and his cock, hard as marble alread. Jean lifted her chin, kissed him with abandon, and followed his lead, chasing the simple pleasure of the friction between their bodies, made breathless by what she could feel of him, even restrained like this. He kissed her one last time and then he was moving, reaching once more for her breasts, kneading her flesh gently as her back arched up to meet him. Jean was ready, impatient for him, and those grey trunks of his were only getting in the way; as his lips descended upon her breast her own hands wove between them, catching the waistband of those trunks, tugging ineffectually. She was still trembling in the aftermath of her release, her fingers heavy and uncoordinated, and even that small task seemed beyond her.
Thankfully, Lucien was still in possession of his faculties; he laughed, not unkindly, at her pitiful attempt to undress him before he lifted himself off her, rolling onto his back and canting his hips so that he could rid himself of his last remaining garment, Jean's eyes watching him hungrily all the while. In a moment he was bare, his cock proud and straining for her, and once more she lifted her arms to him, and once more he slipped over her body, nestling himself into her embrace.
She reached for him at once, her hand snaking between their bodies to wrap around the heavy column of his shaft, and his head snapped back, a low, yearning sort of groan rumbling up out of him as she touched him. It was her turn to tease him; her hand glided gently over him, testing the feel of him against her skin, her belly clenching in need at the thought of taking him inside her, knowing now how thick, how hard he was, feeling him already beginning to weep with want of her beneath her palm.
While she touched him Lucien moved, bowed his head and let his lips trace the line of her neck down towards her breast, and Jean released him, let his cock settle against her and wound her arms around him. Tenderly, carefully her hands wandered over the marks upon his back; she had not known, before, that he carried such grief upon his skin, and she wanted to understand that grief, now, wanted to know each of those scars, their placement and their cause, wanted to kiss every last mark upon his body and tell him without words that he was safe, here with her. But then his lips wrapped around her nipple and the movement of her hands faltered as he once more began to ravish her. She clung to him, drowning in the wanton desperation only he could inspire, and ground her hips against him, the brush of his cock against her bare thigh drawing a whimper from deep in the back of her throat.
"Please," she breathed again, when it seemed that he was content to linger where he was; at her words his mouth released her, and in the wake of his lips she saw that he had left an angry red mark upon her skin, and she could not find it in her heart to be cross with him, for she understood the urges that had driven him to such an act, felt them herself. She was as eager for him, as eager to claim him, hold him, as he was for her.
With a careful hand he reached between them, dragging the thick head of his cock over her folds, spreading the wetness he found there and drawing a mewling, eager sound from her. Lucien might have been content to take his time but Jean was through with waiting, and so on his next pass she lifted her hips to him invitingly, and at last he gave in. With a groan he buried himself inside her, and the force of his thrust tore the breath from her lungs. He filled her so completely there was no room left for breath, for doubt, for fear; there was only this, the thickness of his shaft driving into her, long and slow and deep, and the pull of her warmth around him, desperate for everything he had to give.
The rhythm he set was slow and tortuous; this was no race for release, as she'd thought it might be when they crashed together in the surgery. Jean could not find the words for this, for the burning of his eyes, pupils blown dark and wide with longing, longing for her, his face so close to her she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her cheek. Those strong arms supported him above her, and Jean wrapped her hands around the corded muscles of his forearms, anchoring herself to him as she wrapped her legs tight around his hips, meeting him thrust for languid thrust. She arched into him, casting her head back so that on the next pass his lips collided with her collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the sheen of sweat there. They moved together as graceful as a pair of dancers, the soft sounds of their coupling and the beat of their hearts all the orchestra they needed. Each time he drove within her Jean was overcome with the fullness, the rightness, the sheer ecstasy of him; she closed her eyes, unable to face the magnitude of the emotion that gripped her.
And still he moved, so long and so slow and so steady that she had forgotten everything else outside this room, everything but the softness of the sheets that smelled of him, the wet, wanton sounds of their union, the force of his cock plunging into her again and again as she once more began to crest the wave of her own release. As if he could read her mind Lucien redoubled his efforts, speeding up the movements of his hips, grinding against her as he ducked his head and sank his teeth into the curve of her breast. The flash of pain was enough to do her in and she tumbled from her peak, so caught up in bliss she could only whimper, softly. Still, though, he did not stop; the fluttering of her inner muscles around him only seemed to urge him on and he shifted, raising himself up, changing the angle between them as he began to pound into her in earnest.
"Lucien," she gasped his name, spiralling into sensation as he coaxed her yet higher, to a point of delirium she had never before ascended, and above her he smiled, reckless and wild, and answered her.
"Jean," he breathed, "my Jean."
Over and over again, he spoke those words my Jean, punctuating them each time with another powerful thrust until his control snapped, and the speed of his movements became too furious for his words to keep pace. Jean cried out as she broke a fourth and final time, the joy of it so painful that for a moment she thought she must have died. She could not breathe, could not think, could not move, could not even hear Lucien roaring his release as her inner walls clamped down upon him like a vise. He held on, surging into her, demanding, until at last he collapsed against her, burying his face in her hair, his cock still nestled tightly inside her.
As she panted and trembled, tried to bring herself back under control, she let her hands drift over the ruined plane of his back, softly, gently. She had never expected this, never expected him, never expected the fury with which they had slammed together. Their clothes would have to be gathered from the surgery, and the mess cleaned away - she shuddered to think what havoc that wretched chemical might have wrought upon his desk and the carpet while they were engaged in more interesting pursuits - but for now, just this moment, she could hold him, and so she did. Later, perhaps, she might worry, might worry that in giving into this reckless desire she might have unleashed a danger that could not be contained, but such concerns were for later, when he was not warm and content beneath her hands, when she could not feel him still safe within her. With a man like Lucien, exciting, wild, unpredictable, she knew it would do her no good to try to plan, to think things through, to restrain herself. She would take each moment as it came, and in that moment, she was happy.