16 June 1959

In Lucien's experience sometimes temptation was sweeter than the thing itself; that period of longing, hanging on the edge, adrenaline pumping, the object of his desire tantalizingly sweet and close at hand and yet not quite his, chasing that almost feeling, when every breath was full of potential, consequences and rewards equally likely and almost equally appealing, had been among his primary goals since childhood. The moments just before he ate the last biscuit, pilfered from the tin while his parents were sleeping, flirting with his best mate's girl drunk one night at university, knowing he could, knowing she'd let him, not knowing yet if he'd follow through, power coursing through his veins like the whiskey he was drinking, and then, after that, cheating death with Derek, slipping silently through the night to steal food from the Japanese officers' mess, knowing he could not steal enough to save himself and all his brothers-in-arms, knowing what he stood to lose and yet doing it anyway; yes, Lucien Blake had always had a taste for dangerous things.

And oh, but she was dangerous, and they were hanging suspended in a moment fraught with temptation. He could almost taste her, close as they were, and as her robe slipped slowly to the ground he opened his eyes, drew in a deep breath laced with her and lifted his head just enough to look at her, to see what had been revealed beneath that soft black robe.

It was a black satin nightdress, smooth and cut to fit her like a glove, falling just below her knees. Standing as they were, impossibly close, he could see the way the lace around her chest hugged the smooth curve of her neat breasts, could see the outline of her nipples hard already and pressing towards him through the fabric. He could see her soft skin, the smattering of freckles across her chest a delightful, charming sort of surprise. And he could see, too, that her heart must have been pounding, as his was, that her breath must have been coming sharp and short for he could see the rise and fall of her chest, in a rhythm to match his own ragged breaths.

"You're beautiful, Jean," he told her then, because she was, and he wanted her to know it, wanted her to hear the words from his lips. She was a slightly built woman, shorter and more delicate than he, and there was beauty in every line and curve of her. Her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, her hands, the curve of her calf, the softness of her belly beneath the black satin, the fall of her dark hair, the parting of her lips; she was beautiful, every inch of her, a woman soft and warm and lovely.

"You don't have to say that, you know," she answered, dragging her nails lightly across the nape of his neck before she reached for the lapels of his jacket.

"I know," he answered, letting her peel the jacket off him, drinking in the little hitch in her breath when their bodies brushed together in the movement. "But you are, just the same."

His jacket joined her robe on the floor and she grinned up at him, her smile somehow both sweet and wicked.

"You're overdressed, Doctor Blake," she told him teasingly, reaching this time for his tie.

"Call me Lucien, please," he answered. It pained him, to hear her refer to him so formally even in jest, considering what they were about to do, what they had done together so far. As if to emphasize his unspoken point he reached for her, while she picked at the knot of his tie, and let his hands drift slowly down her back until they settled on the firm swell of her bum, warm and bewitching beneath the nightdress. She swayed towards him, just a little, perhaps subconsciously - he hoped so, at least - her hips slotting into place against his own and making his heart sing.

"Lucien," she agreed. She had not ever called him by his name, not once, but now that she had he never wanted to hear her call him anything else. But then she was pulling his tie free from his collar, and he was watching her, looking up at him, those grey eyes so unbelievably bright, pupils blown wide with the same longing that threatened to engulf him. They both seemed to hold their breath, as the tie slid out from around his neck, as her soft, pale arm stretched out and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.

"That's better," she said, and reached for him, unpicking the button on his collar and then sliding her hands once more around his neck. The movements of her body were graceful, and designed no doubt to seduce him, but there was no need for artifice for he was half-hard already from wanting her, and so as she lifted herself up onto her tiptoes, her breath washing warm and sweet across his lips, he tightened the grip of his hands upon her bum, and pulled her hips flush against his own, wanting her to feel it, the want, the longing of his body calling out for hers.

"Still overdressed, Lucien," she whispered. Her lips landed sweetly at the corner of his mouth, but when he turned his head to catch her, determined to have his kiss, she pulled away from him, laughing, and left him to watch her walking away from him, toward the bed, hips swaying in a way that left his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. When he did not immediately follow - besotted as he was by the vision of her, the arch of her back, the swell of her bum, Christ, even her feet were lovely - she looked back over her shoulder at him.

And then, oh then, she caught her nightdress in her hands, and slowly began to lift it up, tormenting him as the lace around the hem of that nightdress skimmed up the length of her thighs, revealing more and more of her to him, up over her bum, revealing that she wore absolutely nothing underneath it. His hands twitched, and his lungs constricted at the sight of so much bare skin, but she was not done; she kept going, until she pulled the nightdress up and off her, dark curls bouncing softly back into place. Such boldness was perhaps to be expected, but coming from Jean, Jean who had been nothing but proper, Jean who had been kind and lovely and utterly practical in their every interaction, Jean, who had ensnared him so completely, it was almost more than he could bear. He stood, still as a stone, staring at her, a vision of beauty despite - or, perhaps, because of - the little imperfections left here and there upon her body by the passage of time.

Perhaps he had been still too long; she looked once more at him over her shoulder, her eyes hooded and unreadable in the dim glow of the lamps beside the bed.

"You only have an hour, Lucien," she reminded him, and that spurred him into action at once. He reached for his own shirt buttons, already marching purposefully towards her, hardly daring to blink as she stood still with her back towards him, waiting for him. His fingers flew, working as quickly as he could, and he nearly ripped the shirt from his back, not bothering with the last button before yanking it over his head and casting it aside. He stepped out of his shoes and slipped out of his vest, and then, oh then he reached her, and he could not stop himself from putting his hands on her at once.

His palms ghosted over her belly, and Jean shivered, and settled back against him, her bare back against his bare chest, the slide of skin-on-skin positively electric.

"Beautiful," he whispered, bowing his head so that he could watch the progress of his hands across her body from his vantage point at her shoulder. He could see her, the soft curve of her belly, the dark thatch of curls at the apex of her thighs, her breasts - his hands gravitated there at once, molding to fit her, kneading her gently and drawing a sigh of contentment from her lips. The warmth of her, the softness of her, the way the swell of her bum fit into shelter of his hips, had him pressing still closer to her in an instant, desperate for more.

The rules had been made very plain to him; he was not to kiss her lips. But perhaps, he thought, that did not mean he could not kiss her elsewhere, and he decided the time had come to find out.

"Jean?" he said softly, turning his head into the crook of her neck. She raised one arm behind her to curl around the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, holding him against her while her body curved into a graceful arch, pressing her breasts harder into the shelter of his hands, pressing her arse more firmly against his rapidly growing hardness. In answer to his question she hummed, a gentle, contented sort of sound that Lucien found he liked, very much.

"Can I kiss you here?"

Before she could answer he was moving, his lips ghosting over the line of her neck, her skin warm and sweet enough to light a fire in his belly.

"Yes," she sighed.

No marks, she had told him, and so he did not linger overlong in any one particular spot and kept his teeth to himself, but he explored the column of her neck while still his hands worked over her breasts, catching her nipples between his fingers and drawing a little gasp from the back of her throat. If he'd had his way Lucien could have stood like that all day, learning how she wanted to be touched, what sort of sounds he might coax from her, but the sand was slipping through the hourglass, and he knew he could not afford such luxury.

It was no difficult thing, to turn her in his arms. He wanted to hold her, still, to draw her against him, to ask another question, but she just smiled, ran her hand once over his chest as if in appreciation before leaving the shelter of his arms for the sanctuary of her bed. Gracefully she stretched herself out there, let him watch her while she moved, her head coming to rest against the pillows, her soft legs looking somehow demure, thighs pressed tight together while she reclined for a breathless moment, waiting for him to join her.

There was an invitation in her movements, and it was not one he intended to deny.


In Jean's experience men did not often spend much time on the pleasantries, but she should have known Lucien would be different. He was so different - they were so different, together. He touched her like she was precious, a gift for him to explore, like her pleasure was his goal, and not his own. In the few brief moments Jean had devoted to thinking about this - about them, together, and naked, and in bed - she had hoped he would be like this, would be kind, and curious, and respectful of her. And she had hoped, too, that out of his shirt he would be as broad and strong and hard as she'd imagined, and he had, so far, outpaced her expectations in every possible respect. He was far too strong, too well muscled, too tan, too beautiful to be a doctor, a man who'd lived a life of privilege, but Jean was not about to ask questions, because she wanted him, and she had not wanted anything for so long that she had almost forgotten how, and the remembering was sweeter than she'd ever dreamed it would be.

Lucien understood that she was trying to move things along, and he did not make her wait. They only had an hour, and by her reckoning they had so far used more than five minutes, but less than ten. There was plenty of that hour left, but she wanted to spend the rest of it in bed, tangled up with him. She held out her arms to him, beckoning him on, and he joined her at once; her thighs parted on instinct to make room for him, and he settled into the cradle of her hips, strong arms holding him suspended above her while she ran her hands over his back.

But everything came to a crashing halt between them, then, as her fingertips traced his skin, expecting to find it smooth over the hard lines of muscle. What she found instead where the unmistakable ridges of scars, thick and ropey, horrible and grim. Terrified and fascinated she hesitated for a moment, her fingers stuttering across his skin, wanting to touch him, to explore, to learn what horror could have caused such damage, and yet not wanting to distress or enrage him.

"Don't ask me, Jean," he said heavily. "Not now, please." As if to emphasize his point he ground his hips against her, let her feel the press of his hardness beneath his trousers catching against her own bare sex, intoxicatingly close.

"I won't," she promised, and flattened her hands against his back, trying to draw him down towards her. "Not now." She dropped a kiss on his bare shoulder, wanting him to know that she understood him, understood that they had so little time, and to waste it on painful memories might cost them both the chance for the pleasure they had committed to give to one another.

"Can I kiss you here, Jean?" he asked her, and she knew that he was searching, then, for a way to draw them both back in the moment as he lowered his head, let his lips and his beard brush against her collarbone.

"Yes," she sighed, and felt the warm wetness of his mouth settle there, just for a moment. Her hands abandoned his back for safer pasture, reaching for his hair, for his shoulders, and she shifted her legs, let them both sink more firmly against the mattress while her toes teased the backs of his calves. He did not linger long where he was; he moved down, and down, and then his lips crested the swell of her breast.

"Here?" he asked her, but this time he was kissing her before she could answer, his tongue flicking against the hardened bud of her nipple.

"Yes," she answered breathlessly, her back arching up off the mattress as she sought to press herself more firmly against him. This time he did linger, and the warmth and wet of his mouth against her in such an intimate place left her head reeling. Pleasure sparked and flickered across her skin, her whole body growing tight and tense with need, the gentle scrape of his teeth against her skin drawing a whimper from the back of her throat. So far he had respected her rules, and he continued to do so now, for while he lavished his attention upon the swell of her breast he was careful, too, careful not to leave a mark, and for the first time she regretted that particular rule, just a little. She wanted to feel his want, unrestrained, wanted his strength, his power, his towering need, wanted it unfettered and wild, but this was beautiful, too, in its own way, the way he showed his regard for her and did not push the boundaries she had set between them.

But the seconds were passing, and Lucien knew it without need of her reminding him. He moved on, shifting lower down the bed.

"Here?" he asked, hovering just over her belly button.

"Lucien-" she started to stop him, but then he kissed her there once, gently, and moved again, only his head within her reach now as he settled between her parted thighs.

"Here?" he asked, glancing pointedly at her sex, and despite herself Jean blushed. Actually blushed, and oh, but she could not remember the last time that had happened. He was beautiful, and strong, and lying between her thighs, staring unobstructed at the most intimate part of her.

"You only have an hour," she reminded him, somewhat regretfully. She could not stop touching him, running her fingers through his soft blonde hair while he looked up at her, blue eyes wide and trusting, lips parted beneath his neat beard. "You don't have to."

They did, sometimes; some men enjoyed that particular act, but they were few and far between. Most came to the Lock and Key for one rather straightforward reason, and lacked the interest - or the creativity - to ask for more.

"I want to," he told her, and his voice was low and full of heat, and she knew then that he did, and that she wanted him to.

"All right, then," she agreed, and then he pressed towards her, and she was lost.


Lucien had absolutely no idea how much time had passed, how much he had left, but he was determined to do this for her, to hear her cry out in pleasure before he sought his own. She was too beautiful, and he wanted her too badly, and he feared that when it came down to it he would not take very long at all to find his own satisfaction. Jean deserved more than that, he thought; she deserved care, and devotion, and a man who wanted only to make her happy, as he did. It would be worth the precious minutes spent here, he thought, to make her come undone, to see her shiver in delight. He wanted to know what she looked like, when she gave herself over to her release, wanted to see her body taut and tense with longing, wanted to see the flush that would paint her skin, wanted to feel her delight, and know that he was cause.

When she agreed to his request her voice had trembled, just a little, but not with doubt, he thought. She wanted this, and he was not about to deny either of them.

This was one thing he knew he could do well, and so he set to with a will. Slowly, at first; he lowered his head towards her, let her feel his breath wash against her silken folds, already swollen and glossy with need of him. Slowly, he let her feel the brush of his beard against her, and felt his own triumph at the way she canted her hip towards him, silently asking for more. More was all he wanted to give her, and so he closed his eyes, and went to work.

He kissed her there, learned the shape of her with his lips before he dragged his tongue against her folds. She gasped, high and sweet, and he grinned, and redoubled his efforts. He flicked his tongue against her, swirled it round her opening, drank the sweetness from her until she sighed, and then he thrust his tongue inside her molten heat.

"Oh, god," she breathed, shuddering against him, her thighs tightening reflexively round his head while her nails scraped lightly against his scalp.

A good start, he thought, and so he repeated the motion a few times, each time drawing a new sound from her. But still, he knew he could not afford the luxury of too much time, and so when he felt he'd teased her enough he relented, and dragged his lips across her soft flesh, searching, searching, until he found the place that made her cry out, low and full of need. Satisfied that he had found his mark he wrapped his lips around the little bundle of nerves at her center and flicked against it with his tongue, once, experimentally.

"Lucien-"

That was all the encouragement he needed. Lucien rested his weight on his left side, and brought his right hand up, sliding his middle finger into her slowly, slowly, while still his tongue ran circles around her, and she seemed to come to life beneath him, her hips bucking against his face while her muscles tightened with strain.

"Oh," she gasped, once, and he grinned, and increased the fervor of his ministrations, curling his finger inside her, pressing at her everywhere he could, trying everything he could think of to bring her to the brink.

Her breath was coming in panting gasps, now, her hands having abandoned his hair to curl in the covers, holding on for dear life while her back bowed in a graceful arch and her thighs tightened, and relaxed, and tightened again around his ears. He added a second finger and she moaned, desperate, hungry, pleased with him - he though, he hoped - and so he began to push her, on, and on, and on, lips and tongue and hand working in tandem, following the breathy moans and desperate little whimpers that tumbled from her lips, pinning her in place with his own weight, forcing them both from pleasure to pleasure without hesitation.

It seemed that words were beyond her, but he did not need them; he needed no instruction, for the tightening of her inner walls around his fingers told him all he needed. Faster, and harder, and faster he thrust his hand against her, laved her with his tongue, his beard burning her skin, his nose buried in her curls, his every sense overwhelmed with her, his every thought replaced with now, now, let me feel her now. Her voice, her smell, her taste, her warmth, the way she looked when he opened his eyes and gazed down the plane of her body to see her head cast back and her face contorted in ecstasy; Jean was everything, in that moment, the whole world, heaven and hell, and everything in between.

The temptation was sweet, and he was eaten alive with possibility, here in this precarious moment of almost.

"Please," she gasped at him raggedly, and he could almost feel her heartbeat against his fingertips, and he could not stop, not for anything, and everything was breathless, and spinning, and Jean's fluttering sex was clutching at him, desperate, and he was grinding his aching cock against the mattress in a hopeless bid for relief, and almost, she was almost -

"There," she gasped, and then -

A keening sound, high and sweet, escaped her, and then she went breathless, and silent, her hips desperately trying to lift off the bed, held in place by his hand and his mouth as beneath him she shattered at last, trembling, a rush of wetness against his lips and a wild hope rising up within his heart.