29 June 1959
Same time, same terms. Same back door, same girl waiting for him there, same knowing grin on her face, same silent trip up the stairs. Same pause outside the same door, same soft knock. And yet, somehow, it all still felt new, to Lucien, still felt fresh and unfamiliar and full of excitement, still felt like the first time. The pub stayed the same, but Lucien's heart seemed to be changing by the minute. He'd arrived on Friday to find Jean cross with him, and by the time they finished their tea she was in his arms, on the cusp of kissing him. It wasn't allowed, he knew, but she'd nearly let him - he was certain she would have let him, would have done it herself if not for the untimely interruption of the red-headed girl - and he didn't quite know what to make of that. That he wanted to kiss her was a foregone conclusion; she was beautiful, and soft, warm and lovely, graceful and sad. She fascinated him, and she made him smile, and he did not deserve her, and there was a letter still unread waiting for him in the surgery at home, and oh, he didn't know -
"Good evening, Doctor Blake," Jean said softly as the door swung open, as the girl who'd led him up the stairs vanished into the maze of the Lock and Key. Jean wore the same black robe, and he smiled when he saw her. His heart was aching, his mind was full of questions, his hands were trembling, but Jean was lovely, and the sight of her calmed him, somewhat. Very little about his life made sense, just now, but he knew that he cared for her, knew that he wanted her, knew she'd let him have her, knew they had an hour, at least, to spend together, and he clung to those facts desperately as he stepped inside her suite once more.
It was cooler today than it had been the last time, but Jean's face was the same, soft and free from make-up, and he found he liked her like this, without artifice. Though he knew it was not true he liked to think he was the only one who got to see her this way, and he treasured it, and tried to ignore the sting of jealousy that burned through him every time he was reminded that he was not the sole recipient of her affections.
"Hello, Jean," he said as she closed the door behind him. Last time he had been tongue-tied and spellbound by the sight of her bare legs, but now he knew how it felt to lie between them, to have her lean thighs clenching at his hips, and he was more eager than anxious. The heat of her emptied his head of worries and doubts, offered him an escape from the darkness of the life he'd come to know, and he was very much looking forward to diving once more into that sanctuary, ready to hide from his demons, and think only of her.
Did she feel the same? He wondered as he looked at her. Last time he'd been all but paralyzed, in the beginning, and it had fallen to her to push things along between them. Jean had been the one to take his hand, to wind her arms around her neck; Jean had been the one to pull her nightdress off over her head, had been the one who laid down on the bed, and held out her arms to him. No doubt she had learned over the years how to help a man inexperienced in this sort of business to find his way through it, had learned a dozen tricks to help move things along, and keep the nerves at bay, but he did not not want to think of her that way, did not want to consider that when she touched him she was only following a script, doing only what she must to keep up her end of the bargain. He wanted her to want him, and he rather thought she might, only she wasn't reaching for his hand, now, wasn't leading him back to her bedroom; if anything, she looked a little bit worried, and dread began to build low in his stomach.
"I think we ought to talk, before we begin," she told him, and though no doubt she intended to sound businesslike she just looked scared, and Lucien hated it, hated to think she had cause to fear him, hated to think that the bliss he'd been so eagerly looking forward to might have caused her pain.
"All right," he agreed at once, acquiescing to her, as he always did.
"Here," she said, "let's sit."
He followed her to a well-upholstered sofa and sat down beside her, each of them keeping to their opposite ends, close enough to touch and yet not reaching for one another. This felt different, but not in a good way; this felt like the end to all his hopes. And yet surely, he thought, if she did not intend to take him to bed she would not have worn that short robe, would not have left so very much of her satin-soft skin on display. It was a thin hope, but it was all the hope that he had, and so he latched on to it at once.
"What happened on Friday, in the kitchen," she began, and he could not help the smile that flickered across his face. What happened on Friday, in the kitchen, had been lovely, as far as he was concerned. Sitting there, with Jean between his knees, her hands on his face, her breath warm on his lips, the affection between them bright and full of promise and not purchased, not paid for, not feigned, but true, something they both wanted; his heart had been happy, in that moment, and he was happy now, to remember it, though he could tell by the look on her face that Jean did not feel the same.
"That can't happen again," she continued. It was exactly what he expected her to say; he had crossed a line, he was sure. He'd done it often enough in the past to be familiar with the sensation of courting danger only to be reprimanded. And yet as far as he was concerned he had not been the sole transgressor; when he reached for her, let his hand settle on her hip, he had given her every opportunity to reject him. Even when he pulled her close she could have pulled away; it was Jean who had reached for him, Jean who had leaned in as if she meant to kiss him. Surely that had been her choice, and surely he could not be blamed for it. Unless, he thought, suddenly afraid, unless she felt she had no choice, unless she thought turning me down would cost her a good customer. What an unpleasant idea that was.
"There's no reason we can't be friendly with one another," she said, and he watched her as she spoke, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes refusing to meet his gaze and wondered, not for the first time, what the bloody hell she was thinking. "But if you want to...well. Anything else, that only happens here, during the time you've paid for."
"I understand," he said at once, because he did, and because he knew she needed to hear it. Giving in to temptation would not be rewarded where she was concerned, he could see that now. And he did not want her to think him crass or cruel, did not want her to think he could not be trusted to follow the rules, and cast him out because of it. He wanted, very much, to hold her again, and he would do whatever it took to achieve that goal, including restrain himself. If the price remained one hundred pounds for every hour, every time, he knew he could not enjoy her company indefinitely, but that was a worry for another day. Today he had a wad of notes in his pockets fresh from the bank, and she was sitting beside him, and he wanted her.
"I can't bend the rules for you, Lucien," she said, and strange, but she sounded almost regretful about that. Almost as if she wanted to, but remained steadfast in her convictions. If Lucien had been a less considerate man he might have tried to wheedle her out of those convictions, might have tried to see how far he could push things between them, but he cared for her too deeply to disregard her boundaries.
"I know," he answered.
"I can't kiss you."
But do you want to, Jean? How different might things be, if you got to have whatever you want?
"I know."
They were both quiet then, for a moment; she was looking at him, finally, those bright, brilliant eyes of hers watching him, seeming almost to be evaluating him. Did she wonder if he was telling the truth? Had he given her cause to doubt him? Lucien couldn't be sure, any more.
"I know the rules, Jean," he said. "And I will respect them. I won't put you in that position again."
Even if I want to, even if you want me to.
"Thank you," she said.
Once more Lucien found himself at a loss; it seemed she'd spoken her piece, seemed she was satisfied with his answer. How, then, should they move things forward between them? Should he wait for her to reach for his hand, should he reach for her instead, should he offer her payment now, or would that offend her? He found himself in a quagmire, stuck and struggling, wanting to stick to the rules she'd established but wanting to touch her, too, and not knowing how to do both.
It was Jean who settled it in the end; it had to be her, for he was frozen and lost in his own thoughts. She rose from her corner of the sofa and stood before him, small and beautiful in that soft black robe, and she smiled, reached out to ruffle the edge of his beard with her fingertips, and Lucien smiled, sinking against her hand, relieved.
"Shall we begin, then?" she asked him.
Yes, he thought, please. They'd said what needed saying, and the time had come for them to act, and she was so beautiful, standing there, and as he looked at her an idea occurred to him with all the sudden inspiration of a lightning strike.
"Yes," he said, but he did not rise, did not follow her hands and let her lead him back to the bedroom. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced his wallet, opened it and withdrew the money he'd brought for her, and held it out to her, right there and then. As he did he wondered if she knew what he was asking, knew why he'd done it, what he meant to happen next, but only for a moment; she smiled as she took the money from hands, and he knew that she understood. Jean had a way of making money disappear; coins or notes, no matter the amount, no matter when they came to her, found their way immediately into well-concealed pockets. Now was no different; despite the fact that its purpose was rather obviously more ornamental than functional her robe boasted two pockets, and as she slipped the money into one of them she reached into the other, and produced the damnable hourglass.
She did not speak, but there was a wicked, knowing look in her eyes that made Lucien's heart race. As suddenly as this idea had come to him it must have occurred to Jean long before, for she had thought ahead enough to put that hourglass in her pocket. I know you, her eyes seemed to say as she showed him the hourglass, let him see that all the sand had gathered in the bottom, that he would not lose one single second. I know you don't like to wait, and I won't make you.
Slowly, very slowly, Jean leaned over him, afforded him the pleasant view of her chest and the soft black lace that hugged her skin as she carefully turned the hourglass over, and set it on the side table. The moment that was done Lucien's hands were on her; he caught hold of her hips and drew her closer, so that she stood between his parted knees, her hands settling on his shoulders as the sand began to slide through the hourglass. For a moment he simply held her, looking up at her, her expression warmer now than it had been before, now that he had assured her he would follow the rules. Only for a moment, though, because the clock was ticking, and he was eager for her.
Never breaking eye contact with her Lucien reached for the tie of her robe, and slowly, teasingly pulled it free, watched her shiver as the robe fell open and revealed the black satin nightdress she wore underneath. Perhaps it was the same one, or perhaps it was new, but he did not spare a moment to examine it; his hands reached for her, traced the curves of her body from her hips back to her bum, and as he touched her she smiled, and shrugged free of the robe. It hit the floor without a sound, and then her hands were on him again, delicate fingers tracing the lines of his neck while his hands kneaded her bum. If he had to pick a favorite feature of Jean's he'd never be able to choose, but that one would fall rather high on the list; he loved the softness of her beneath his hands, and he loved the way she swayed toward him, loved the little sound she made when he squeezed her harder.
And in the next breath he pulled her to him, and she came at once, settling herself upon his lap with her knees either side of his hips.
