29 June 1959
The blood pounded in Lucien's ears, his heartbeat wild and insatiable, his entire being fixed on her, this goddess perched on his lap, that black nightdress bunched around her hips leaving her skin bare and beautiful. There was something unrestrained about her, when they fell together like this, something uninhibited, joyful, free that called to his heart, reminded him what it was, to simply live in the moment, unburdened by ghosts, unhaunted by memories. Jean seemed to find all the best parts of his heart, seemed to coax him out of the shadows with her gentle hands, and in his own way he loved her for it. When he'd first returned to Ballarat he'd found it spectral and grim, had not thought to find relief in this place, or joy. Even now the past seemed to reach for him with ghastly pale hands full of grief, but here in this place, with her, he did not feel himself besieged, did not feel the weight of his guilt pressing at her shoulders. In this place he forgot, and found himself in the forgetting.
Slowly, teasingly slowly she pulled down the zip of his trousers, fingertips ghosting over his hardness through his trunks, and Lucien shuddered at even that gentle contact, eager and hungry for her. Her smile was wicked, her dark hair tumbling softly all around her face as reached through the slit at the front of his trunks and finally, mercifully pulled his aching cock free. This was sight he'd never tire of seeing, he thought, Jean above him, beautiful, glorious, her hands on him, her touch a blessing, a benediction found in the most unlikely of places. There was no fear in her, no hesitation, no squeamishness; she did not shy away from him, did wait for him to overpower her but joined him in this momentary madness. With one hand she held the condom still and with the other she stroked him tenderly, bowed her head so that their cheeks brushed together as both of them fixed their gaze on her hand, his cock hard as marble in her grip, both of them savoring this moment, this precursor to pleasure. They were pressed for time and yet neither of them hurried, did not rush the unfolding of affection between them, only followed where it led, content to be together.
"I want you, Jean," Lucien whispered, turning his head so that his lips could land at the corner of her mouth, not kissing her for he understood the rules very well, and yet drawing as close to that line between them as he dared, wanting more, wanting all of her. He wanted her, not just for this base pleasure but for everything she was, her clever wit, her gentle heart, the peace she brought to him, and as he spoke he wondered if she knew it, how completely that want had encompassed him. She did not admonish him, or shy away from his touch, but drew in a sharp breath, and then began to move, slowly sliding the condom down over him, preparing them both for what came next.
"So have me, then," she answered as her hands worked over him, and the moment her fist and the condom reached the base of his shaft Lucien reached for her hips, urging her to rise above him, his body tight and tense with longing for her. The nightdress was still hung loosely around her waist but Lucien slid his hands beneath it, fingers curling against soft, warm skin, and Jean lifted herself up, one hand still wrapped around him, holding him steady as she teased them both with the brush of his cock against her tender folds, hellfire hot and calling to him sweet as a siren. This was what he'd wanted, when he arranged to see her again; Jean, bare and beautiful, sweat slicked skin sliding beneath his hands, all thoughts forgotten, the chaos of his mind quieted by the serenity of her, the bliss they both knew was waiting for them an enticement so enchanting they could do nothing save chase after it, together.
When she had been still too long Lucien's hips bucked eagerly up towards her, his self-control slipping, and Jean just smiled, let her lips land against his temple once, briefly, before she began to lower herself atop him, shivering in his grip as her body stretched to make room for him, as both of them groaned, toppling already towards the edge of this precipice. Lucien did not slam her down against him, did not hold her still and rut up into her, only tightened the grip of his hands against her hips and let her lead them both, his eyes fixed on the sight of her soft breasts swaying as she moved, the muscles of her belly rippling, her body arching towards him reflexively. Bit by bit she took him in, sank down for a moment before rising again, falling further, rising again, falling still further, her hips rocking all the while, lighting him up. In the confines of his clothes Lucien's blood boiled, and he wondered for a moment how it must feel for her, the scrape of the fabric against her skin; was the friction they generated between them enough to help her reach her peak, or would there be more she needed besides?
Onward she moved, never ceasing, and the wet slide of her against him, the trembling, clenching heat of her threatened to undo him utterly. But then, oh, then with one powerful thrust of her hips she took him in completely, settled against him, gasping, her hands reaching for his neck, trailing against his skin as she shivered in his embrace. There was a wholeness, a rightness, to being with her like this, as close as two people could be, and Lucien could not stop himself from reaching for her. Gently he ran his hands over her hair, brushed it back from her face so that he could see the brilliance of her ocean-dark eyes, and then he caught her face in his hands, held her close while he rocked gently up against her, watching the play of pleasure across her face, and she gasped, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Until now he had been content to allow Jean to set the pace between them but there was a furious need building low in his belly and she had done so much for him already, and so he took hold of the moment himself, joining her in her efforts.
Christ, but he wanted to kiss her. Holding her close like this, devouring her body with his hungry gaze, their hearts pounding in time to one another, her tender heat cradling him close and tight; there was a beauty in it, and he wanted to tell her, to show her how completely she owned him, how utterly she had overwhelmed him, how nothing in his life had ever moved him quite the way she did. He wanted to tear down every barrier between them, wanted to know, for a certainty, that she felt as he did, that she wanted more from him than payment, than an endless stream of encounters limited to one single hour and not a second more.
"Lucien," Jean whispered, beginning to rock against him, shaking off whatever momentary paralysis had held her still, and then it began between them in earnest. Her hands found his shoulders, clutching at his shirt for support as she lifted herself up and pressed back down against him, harder and faster each time. Jean had found her rhythm, the breath leaving her lips in needy little gasps, and Lucien tried to match it, his hands abandoning her face in favor of clutching at her breasts, trying to meet her thrust for thrust. The movement of their bodies spiraled out of his control, no longer dictated by his conscious mind but instead acting on instinct, seeking more, more, more. Perhaps Jean felt the same; the sounds leaving her lips were nearly enough to finish him off right there, and she rocked against him, feverish, beautiful.
Desire was building in him, and he knew he could not hold himself back; he had tried, last time, for her sake, to make it last, to bring her to her peak first, not to pop off too soon and leave himself embarrassed and her unsatisfied, but he possessed no such control today. This was wildfire, abandon, desperation making him reckless. His heart was racing, and the continued, feverish rush of her body was too great a temptation for him to resist. But he wanted her to feel it, too, did not want to leave her behind, lingering and disappointed, and so he reached between them, fingers brushing through sparse curls, groaned aloud when he felt his own cock, wet with her want, as he slid back into her. Intoxicated by that sensation he searched until he found the little bundle of nerves at her center and began to work against her mercilessly, his hips snapping up harder, and above him Jean cried out, threw her head back on her shoulders and chased her own pleasure, and his in the bargain. The need raged between them, outside of their control, both of them helpless to resist it, unable to do anything but thrust and groan and grind together, and then at last it grew too much to bear. Jean slammed down against him, hard, and Lucien braced his left hand on the sofa, pounded up into her while his right continued its work, and her tender sex clenched hard around him, and she rocked her hips, pressed herself into him everywhere they touched, and finally, finally snapped.
With a cry of his name Jean collapsed against him, clung to him, trembling, and his hips stuttered against her, until at last he, too, was overcome, falling apart inside her, groaning, blissful, twitching, mesmerized by her. They stayed like that for a few minutes at least, Jean's face buried in the crook of his neck, his hands ghosting over the swell of her bum, both of them breathless, electrified, wringing every last ounce of pleasure they could from their current position, wrapped around one another, Lucien's cock still buried inside her. He might have stayed like that all day, might have tried to catch his breath, to take her again right there on the sofa, were it not for the damnable hourglass.
With a sigh he lifted his head, and turned to check their progress. It seemed to him that perhaps half the sand remained in the top of the hourglass, and that was a blessing. While he tried to gauge it Jean, too, turned to look, and then she smiled, and reached for him, her thumb tracing the neat line of his beard across his cheek, the touch gentle and fond.
"You still have half an hour at least," she told him softly, and there was something so sweet, so encouraging about her tone that it filled him with hope.
"Good, then," he told her. "I'm not finished with you."
Jean laughed, but to prove his point Lucien once more caught hold of her bum, and with a herculean effort he lifted them both, rose to stand on his feet with his arms full of Jean. She laughed again, softly, relieved, perhaps, even as his cock slipped out of her, and he knew then that they must have looked ridiculous, the pair of them, sweaty and flushed, Jean's nightdress in a shambles around her hips, Lucien still fully dressed save for the mess of his cock hanging out of his trousers, but there was no one there to see, and no reason to care in any case. And so he turned, then, with his arms full of Jean, and marched them both resolutely into her bedroom.
