29 June 1959
As he marched purposefully from the parlor into her bedroom Jean clung to him, her body still light and loose from the pleasure he had so recently brought to her, her heart overwhelmed by the steady, easy way he carried her, as if she weighed nothing at all, as if it cost him no effort to hold her, his shoulders broad enough, strong enough, to carry them both without faltering. With her arms around his neck, her legs locked tight around his hips, she held on to his powerful frame, felt the solid hardness of him in her embrace, and found peace in his strength. They had time enough, yet, time to enjoy one another, time to pretend that nothing and no one existed outside of themselves, her bedroom a sanctuary where they were alone, and safe, and happy, and Jean meant to wring every last ounce of pleasure she could from the minutes that remained to them.
Carefully, gently Lucien bent at her bedside, and let her tumble from his arms to land safely atop her clean sheets, smiling up at him. What a picture he made, still wearing his shirt and trousers, his normally neat hair mussed from her wandering hands, his answering smile warm, and tender, and beautiful. Jean took advantage of the moment to shimmy out of her nightdress, surplus to requirements now, and leaned back against the pillows, watching him as he drunk his fill of her. Time had done its work on Jean, and though she knew she was still possessed of an enviable figure it nonetheless surprised her how much Lucien seemed to enjoy what he saw when he looked at her, the way he had ignored every pretty young girl in the pub and set his sights on Jean, and Jean alone. The way he seemed to want her, and not some nice lady of good repute who could be bought for no more than the price of a dinner, who would let him enjoy himself for longer than one hour at a time. Maybe the lack of commitment in their arrangement pleased him, but Jean rather thought he had not chosen her because this was easier; when he looked at her that way, she could almost believe that he wanted her, truly.
"Come here, Lucien," she said, holding her arms out to him. They only had about half an hour left - oh, no, Jean thought, suddenly distressed as she realized she'd left the hourglass sitting in the parlor. It would take no more than a minute to go and fetch it, but Lucien had already knelt between her parted thighs, his hands already reaching for her breasts, and she did not want to stop him, to call a halt to proceedings when the brush of his hands against her skin was already reigniting the fire of her desire for him.
"You're overdressed," she murmured instead, the breath catching in her throat as his hands began to work their magic, kneading her gently, methodically, fingertips brushing against her skin in a way that left her shivering.
"What shall we do about that?" Lucien asked her gently, teasingly, and so she grinned, and reached for his shirt buttons. He'd already shucked his shoes before he'd settled atop her, and his tie and jacket were long since discarded. His fingers plucked at her nipples as her own plucked at his buttons, and she sighed and pressed herself into his hands, her heart beginning to pound. It took no more than a moment, for her to have the shirt unbuttoned, and then he was rising up on his knees, taking his hands away from her just long enough to pull the shirt up and off him.
"This, too," she told him, tugging at his vest, and he grinned and tugged that off as well, and she could not help but reach for him, then, trailing her hands against the broad expanse of his bare chest, his tan skin soft beneath the pads of her fingers. It was not the first time she'd seen him like this, but the sight of his powerful body stripped out of his fine suit was still enough to leave her breathless; it wasn't fair, she thought, that he should be so handsome, that she should want him so much.
"Anything else?" he asked her, his voice low and gravelly, his hands reaching for hers, tracing the backs of her hands with his fingertips.
"These," she said, letting her hands slide down his chest until they could curl around the waistband of his unfastened trousers. Lucien grinned, pleased with her answer no doubt, and rolled onto his back beside her, lifting his hips and sliding out of trousers and trunks both. While he did Jean turned onto her side, propped herself up on her elbow, and watched him. Watched the easy way he moved, the rippling of his muscles, hard beneath his skin, and waited for him to catch up with her, already craving the delicious slide of his skin on hers.
Once Lucien's clothes hit the floor Jean made to roll on top of him, but he stopped her, caught her hips in his hands and turned, pulled her smoothly beneath him. Resting on his forearms, planted on the pillows by the bed, he reached for her, brushed the hair back from her face with his broad hands, her thighs rising up to make room for his body to rest against her. With a sigh they settled into place, chests rising and falling in time to one another, the heavy corded muscles of his arms still holding him effortlessly in place above her, his spent cock nestled against her tender folds, still glossy with her need of him; in the next moment, however, it occurred to her that he was still wearing the condom, and she reached for him then, laughing.
"I don't think we need this anymore," she said, and pulled it gently off him, making a mess of them both in the process and hardly caring. There was a little bin by the side of the bed for just this purpose, and so she tossed it thoughtlessly away, and let her hand run over him, knowing that she would likely be unable to rouse him for a second time, and yet wanting to touching him anyway, just to see his eyes close in bliss while she did. For a moment she touched him, teased the backs of his calves with her toes and felt him shudder, and then she reached for his left hand, and drew it towards her.
Lucien was still wearing his watch, and it was there Jean looked now. She didn't know exactly how much time they had left, and so she decided to alot him thirty minutes, starting now, using his watch to take note of the time.
"What's the verdict?" Lucien asked carefully, his hips rocking idly into the grip of the hand that still held him fast.
"You have thirty minutes, Doctor Blake," Jean told him archly. "How would you like to spend it?"
His eyes darkened with salacious intent, and the breath caught in Jean's lungs as she looked at him, wondering what course he might choose to take, wondering what she had unleashed, in allowing him to choose.
"Like this," he breathed, and then he bowed his head, let his lips land against her collarbone. At the brush of his beard against her skin Jean sighed, and let her hands drift through his hair while he kissed her, his mouth moving steadily, methodically as if he meant to map every inch of her. The warm, steady weight of him above her was a comfort, and Jean did not speak again, did not try to direct him or hurry him or urge him in any one direction, only let him do as he wished, enjoying, very much, the way he lavished his attentions upon her.
He covered her chest in kisses, his lips marking each and every one of the freckles that dotted her skin, and then he moved lower, and the timbre of her sighs deepened, to feel those lips ghosting once more across her breasts. When she shifted her hips she could feel him, pressed against her center, and she rocked gently against him, felt the need beginning to swell within her, his lips and the press of his body against her over-sensitive flesh sweet and torturous, at the same time. She let her nails scrape against his scalp, and was rewarded with the edge of his teeth dragging over her skin, and she shivered, and ground more firmly against him, and yet still she did not speak, for she did not need to; he knew already what she wanted, and was moving, giving it to her. Slowly, so slowly his mouth traveled down over her belly, pausing to bless each of her hips with a kiss in turn, resting his weight on his knees to free his hands, to touch her. He trailed those hands over her sides, down to her thighs, fingers pressing into tender flesh, massaging her tense muscles gently, encouraging her to relax against him.
Once before he had done this for her, and so Jean was not entirely shocked when his mouth took up residence between her thighs. With a gentle gasp she canted her hips towards him, and let him have her, all of her, let him drink his fill of her. That clever tongue of his had her mewling in a moment, and her hands scrabbled across his shoulders, fingertips stuttering against the thick ropes of scars that scored his flesh, even there. Lucien didn't seem to mind, and so she held on to him there, his skin warm beneath her palms as his tongue snaked inside her and a sudden, delighted cry slipped past her lips. Jean felt his smile in the brush of his beard against her skin, but then he was working over her in earnest, and rational thought deserted her. There was only him, his lips and tongue wet with her, lighting her up with need while two of his thick fingers slipped into her welcoming heat, thrust and curled against her while the coil of her desire wound tighter and tighter. She'd given him thirty minutes to spend however he wished, and he chose to spend them there, bringing her to bliss with his mouth, and his hands, and when she reached the peak and tumbled from it he did not stop, only pressed her onward to another release with all his considerable skill.
In the aftermath of her second release he showed no signs of stopping, and it seemed to Jean that he was bound to keep up his efforts, determined to see just how high he could bring her, how many times he could shatter her. Perhaps it was a point of pride with him, or perhaps he enjoyed seeing her shivering, shaking, flushed and panting, but as much as Jean was enjoying herself, as much as she was enjoying the slide of his fingers inside her body, the wet press of his lips against her, she remembered what he did not, that their time was limited, and so she reached once more for his left hand, and Lucien stopped at once.
"Let me see," she gasped at him, dizzy from pleasure. Jean felt as if she'd never stop shaking; that man and his hands would be the end of her, she was certain.
"Five minutes left," she told him as she studied his watch, and she could not keep the disappointment from her voice when she spoke. Only five minutes left; the time had passed so quickly, while they lost themselves in one another, and she hated it, the endless ticking of the clock, the rules that ordered her life and required that she take note of it.
Lucien frowned, but did not protest; slowly he drew his right hand out from between her legs, painting her thigh with her own wetness, but before he could leave her entirely Jean reached for him, encircled him with her arms and drew him down towards her. With a sigh Lucien went with her, rested his head on her breast while Jean held him close. One hand drifted idly through his hair, comforting, gentle, and with the other she traced the scars on his back, wondering, not for the first time, where they had come from, what had caused them, whether they pained him still. In her embrace he was soft, relaxed, finally still and unmoving in a way she hardly ever saw him, and she wondered if he drew comfort from her touch, as much as she did from touching him, wondered what secrets he carried, and whether she could ever hope to know them all.
