16 June 1959
Jean's legs were shaking as she slowly released her grip on Lucien's head, pleasure sparking through her body like lightning, quick and fast and unpredictable as she tried to catch her breath and he grinned up at her, this impossible man, from his vantage point between her thighs. He looked unbelievably smug, she thought, and unbearably handsome, and she wanted the heat of him, the weight of him against her, wanted to hold him, wanted to revel in this moment of joy, and release, and freedom.
How long had it been, since last she'd felt this way? Not just physically satisfied, not just delighted by a particularly skilled set of hands, but this...weightless, as if all her cares had ceased to be, as if the only thing that mattered in the whole world was them, her, and him, and the understanding between them that allowed them both to do and say whatever they wished, without concern or consequence. There were no bills to pay, no disputes to settle, no eyes watching them; there was just him, his cheek against her thigh, his blue eyes focused solely on her, his soft hair beneath her trembling fingertips, and she knew whatever she asked of him in this moment he would give it to her, and gladly. There had been others, before, who had fallen all over themselves to please her, eager to bring her gifts, to make her smile, thinking grand thoughts of catching her like a budgie in a cage and keeping her forever, but she had never wanted their regard the way she wanted his. She wanted -
"Come here, Lucien," she said softly, and he smiled bright and eager as a school boy, and she laughed at him as he hurried to join her. Though she would not call the precious minutes he had spent lavishing attention upon her a waste she knew they had used a fair bit of time already, and she wanted him, now, before the hourglass ran out of sand and she was faced with an impossible choice between her heart and her pride.
Lucien made to stretch himself out above her but Jean rolled onto her side, and he followed her unspoken command, landing flat on his back beside her.
"You're lovely," she told him softly, her lips finding the rise of his shoulder while her hands went to work on his belt.
"Hardly," he laughed.
"You are," she insisted, watching him closely as she unbuckled his belt, as she pulled it slowly free from his trousers. "Lovely," she repeated, throwing the belt away and returning to unfasten the button of his trousers, lifting herself up just a little so that she could press her lips against the thick column of his neck. His breathing was unsteady, now, as she slowly lowered the zip on his trousers. She could feel him, just beneath her hand, hard and straining for her, and she could feel the pounding of his heart beneath her lips. He wanted her, and he had done so much for her already, and every inch of him was hard, and strong, and perfect, and they had so little time, and Jean wanted, with all her heart, to set him free, to make him feel same delight, the same release, that he had brought to her. She wanted to see what he might do, when his passions were loosed in earnest, wanted to know how they would feel, together, lost in their abandon and their desire for one another.
There were a good many things Jean had learned over the years, about men, about what they liked, about how to entice them, how to control them, but Lucien required no such skill from her. The movements of her hands were not practiced, or calculated; she touched him because she wanted to, because he was beautiful, because he treated her gently, because her heart had begun to care for him in ways she did not yet want to consider. They only had so little time, and the heat of him beneath her hand was almost more than she could bear, and so as she kissed his neck, as his palm ghosted over the notches of her spine, as his chest rose and fell sharply beneath her, she drew down the zip of his trousers and reached for him at once, her hand sliding beneath his trunks and wrapping around the thick column of his shaft and drawing a strangled sound from the back of his throat.
Restrained as she was by the confines of his trousers she could not explore him quite as thoroughly as she might have wished in that moment, but she could feel that this piece of him, too, was big, and intimidatingly, thoroughly, male, hard as marble and yet silken to the touch, and she held him, lifted her head to watch his face as she pumped him slowly, wanting to know if she had inflamed him, as he had her.
His head snapped back against the pillows as her hand worked over him, his hips bucking up helplessly into her grip, his eyes screwed up tight and the tendons of his neck drawn taut with strain. In that moment he was hers, and she knew it, felt her control over him fierce as fire running along her skin.
"Christ, Jean," he groaned, and then he reached for her, wrapping his hand around her wrist and stilling her movements as he opened his eyes at last. Those eyes, dark with desire, seemed to burn with need, and she shivered, just a little, knowing the latent power he possessed, wondering what might become of her if he turned the full force of his strength upon her.
"If you keep doing that," he told her in a gravelly voice, "we might both be disappointed."
Jean laughed and drew her hand away, giving him the reprieve he sought, for both their sakes. He had not come to her for a quick release while he was still wearing his trousers, and there was a great deal more she wanted from him besides. But the seconds were passing, and she opened her mouth to tell him to get a move on, then, but there was no need; he began at once to shimmy out of his trousers, and as he did she rolled away, and opened the drawer of the little table beside her bed, noting as she did that nearly - but not quite - half the sand had already slipped to the bottom of the hourglass. Perhaps a break in her attention might allow him to regain some of his self control, but her decision to move now was more practical than anything else; while he removed the rest of his clothes she was pulling a condom out of the top drawer of that little table, and when they rolled back together he was bare and the condom was ready.
"Stay there," she told him, when his hands reached for her hips, and he didn't hesitate, simply lay stretched out on his back, watching her, placing himself entirely in her hands - literally and figuratively. Jean liked that about him; most men did not want her to be bossy - plenty of them didn't want her to speak at all - and those that did enjoyed it for reasons that had nothing at all to do with her, and everything to do with their own desires. Lucien, though; Lucien made her feel like she was equal to him, in this and in all things. Lucien watched her curiously, as if he wanted to see what she might to do. Lucien seemed to delight in her, and she in him, and oh, she had not had this much fun in bed since…
Not since Christopher, not since she was young and wrapped around a man she loved, a man who had loved her, and she pushed those thoughts away, unwilling to face them when she still had time left to spend with Lucien.
With his eyes on her she rose above him, and settled herself down on the hard plane of his thighs. As if on instinct he reached for her, his hands settling on her hips, as if he felt, as she did, that he could not go another second without touching her. With the condom unwrapped and Lucien's hardness pressing proud and eager towards her belly Jean set to work, and slowly, slowly, lowered it onto his shaft, rolling it down while he twitched in her grip, his hands tightening reflexively against her hips. She liked this, the heat of him beneath her hands, his whole body open for her perusal, his eyes on her like she was the most precious thing in the world. There was something delicious about it, having a big man, a strong man, utterly at her mercy, open and willing beneath her, knowing he welcomed her attentions and was not seeking to push her aside for his own desires. His desires were her desires, she could see that now, and when her fist reached the base of his shaft he groaned for her, and she smiled.
With other men she might have asked him what he wanted next, how he wanted to take her, whether she ought to move, but with Lucien there was no need for such a question. She knew what he wanted; she could see it in his eyes, could feel it in her own heart. And so she planted one hand against the solid muscle of his chest, holding herself steady, as with the other she gripped his hardness, letting him watch while slowly, slowly, she aligned her body with his. For an instant, one fragile breath of a second, she hovered above him, the tip of his shaft brushing against her folds, both of them frozen, anticipating, knowing that he was hard and ready for her and she was wet and aching for him, knowing that every second they had spent in one another's company had been leading them here, to this. Sometimes, in Jean's experience, the anticipation was sweeter than the end result, but somehow she knew that would not be the case, not this time; the anticipation was intoxicating, but she knew that the feeling of him inside her would be more overwhelming still, and she was ready, now, to find out for once and for all what they were like, together.
It had been ten years since last Jean had gone to bed with a man, and while Lucien had done more than enough to prepare her for him still she took her time with him, sinking down onto him slowly, inch by torturous inch; she dropped down, slowly, then rose up until he slid almost entirely out of her before taking him in again, and again. Each time she felt herself closer to falling, felt the hollow ache inside her abate and then resurge in time to the movement of her hips. Lucien watched her, held her all the while, his panting breaths music to her ears, his hands on her not forcing her one way or another, but simply following her movements as if in reverence.
She rocked against him, losing herself in the movement, taking him deeper, and deeper each time her hips fell, her fingertips curled against the hard muscle of his chest, his eyes burning through her. The heat and the hardness and the beauty of him reached so deep within her that she trembled, utterly devastated by how badly she needed him, and how perfectly he seemed to fill that need. A steady stream of sounds left her lips, a gasp, a whimper, another, and another, Jean unable to stop them, unwilling to even try. Let him hear how he affected her, the pleasure she drew from this connection between them; let him feel it, she thought, the way her body molded to fit him, held him tight, as if she never wanted to let him go.
"Jean," he groaned, one hand leaving her hip to cup her breast instead. She sighed and threw her head back in abandon, thrusting herself down upon him until he was fully seated, and she was grinding against him, the heat and friction between them setting her bones on fire. With one hand she covered his at her breast, encouraged him to hold her more tightly, rocking her hips against him and sending them both spiraling closer and closer to bliss. She wanted the strength of him, now, wanted to feel this connection to him everywhere she could, and perhaps he felt the same for in the next breath he was sitting up straight, bending his knees behind her back so she could rest against them while she slid more firmly into the cradle of his hips and they both sighed, trembling, at the change in angle between them.
Now he was close, closer than he had been before, his chest against her chest, his legs at her back, his hips beneath her, his eyes - oh, he was just there, and to stop herself from kissing him she threw her arms around his neck and drew him closer still, until his face was nestled in the crook of her neck and his lips were pressed hard against her skin.
Her movements were more limited, now, but there was a sweetness in this closeness that brought her more joy than she could have imagined. He rocked up into her, his hands thrown out behind him for leverage, and she ground against him, his hardness buried deep within her and the angle of their bodies catching against the place where she needed to feel him most. The slide of their skin was slick and hot and beautiful, the burn of his beard against her neck tempered by the softness of his lips, the sweet flick of his tongue against her pulse point. Need was coiling within her, her inner walls clenching tight around him, desperate to draw him closer, hold him closer, her every muscle trembling with strain, breathing all but impossible, now. Every movement of his body beneath her drew her closer and closer to the brink, and she chased that relief without conscious thought, her body recalling the steps of a dance that she had not undertaken in so very long.
"I want to feel you come apart for me," he whispered against her neck, teeth catching lightly against her skin, and Jean moaned at the very idea of achieving such satisfaction while he was still inside her, of knowing that he would feel it, too. She moved faster, and faster still, his thighs at her back a welcome support, and he met her thrust for thrust, and kissed her neck, and groaned, and her whole body seemed to contract, drawing tighter and tighter until she thought she might break from the strain out of it, crying out for him, not knowing what words passed her lips, only gasping, desperate, and then -
And then he turned them, without warning, and plunged smoothly into her while his fingertips ground against the bundle of her nerves at her center. The sudden shift had her clinging to him in an instant, her fingers digging into the ruined plane of his back while her ankles liked tight together around him, just above his bum, and her sex clenched him tighter still, and he swore once, harshly, and thrust into her like a man possessed. The power of him, the strength of him, the way he took her then shattered her utterly, and she came apart beneath him, her whole body rising up, drawing him down, a high, needy cry leaving her lips as she trembled and shook beneath him and his hands held him steady, watching the pleasure take her over, just as he had said he wanted to.
Somehow, he held on. There was no need for it, he knew; they did not have enough time to go again, and he was wearing a condom as she asked, and surely it was expected, but he drew in a deep breath and held it and willed himself not to fall, not yet, not until he had witnessed every second of her rapture. There had been a few women in his life, before Mei Lin, and a few since, and he had cared for most of them in one way or another, but he was not sure that any of them had made him feel as Jean did in that moment, awestruck and hungry, her pleasure more important to him than his own. It had been like that with Mei Lin, Mei Lin who he had adored so completely; her abandon had been his reward, more than his own, for she had been his very heart, for a time. Mei Lin who was his wife, who had been lost to him for so long, Mei Lin whom he had loved; that he felt much the same for Jean now as he had once felt for his wife would be a riddle for him to examine later, for in that moment he wanted only to watch her, to see her, to hold her.
For a few moments she trembled, and sighed, and tried to catch her breath, and her palms ghosted over his back, and if she had been any other woman he would have recoiled from that touch but coming from Jean there was a comfort in it that he sorely needed, and so he did not correct her. He bowed his head, and brushed his lips against her sweat-slicked forehead, his arms still holding him steady above her while her legs remained locked tight around his hips. As sweet as it was, this moment of after, when everything was soft, and close, and full of affection, he knew it could not last forever, and it was Jean, perhaps mindful of the clock, who drew it to a close.
"You didn't…" she said softly, her eyes fluttering open, worry in their swirling depths.
"No," he answered, smiling, kissing her skin again. "I wanted to watch you."
She shivered, and he felt her sex flutter around him, though he did not know if it was his words or some remnant of her pleasure that affected her so.
"Here," she said, lowering her legs from around his hips, drawing her hips back so that he slid slowly, regretfully out of her. "Here," she said again, reaching for him, and he understood then what she intended, and his mouth went dry and his whole body shuddered.
With a practiced sort of indifference towards the messiness of it she rolled the condom off him and threw it down into the little bin beside the bed - practically placed for just such a use, no doubt - and then she wrapped her hand around his cock and his hips jumped towards her reflexively, a startled groan leaving his lips. She shifted beneath him, just a little, until his cock was lying against her soft belly and both her hands were holding him, working over him, pumping his weeping shaft while her grey eyes burned into him and he trembled above her, rutting uselessly into her grip.
"Christ," he groaned, the tight slide of her hands, now wet with both of them, the knowledge of what she wanted from him, what she wanted to do for him, tipping him closer and closer to the edge.
"I want to watch you, too," she told him breathlessly, her eyes never leaving his face. "I want to feel it, too."
She was beautiful, naked and glorious and soft and flushed from his attention, the red burn of his beard against the column of her neck, her hair mussed and utterly charming around her sweet face, and the movement of her hands, tight and wet, sped up to match the thrust of his hips, and he could almost feel the smooth skin of her belly beneath him, and she wanted and he wanted and oh-
With a roar he came undone, twitching in her grip, spilling his release across her soft skin while he closed his eyes against the bliss of it, savoring every moment, and all the while she watched him, smiling.
