6 August 1959
More than five weeks Lucien had been gone. Five weeks without Jean. Five weeks travelling from Ballarat to Melbourne to Hong Kong to Shanghai, and back again. He'd been moving almost every moment he was away, never resting in any one place for long; even in Shanghai he'd only stayed in the consulate for five days. China was a restless, tense sort of place at present, and he was made unwelcome there by virtue of his face. What he'd found in Shanghai had been bitter and sweet, more than he'd ever dreamed of and yet not as much as he'd hoped. His body was weary, but so too was his heart, and Jean was a balm to him, her warm embrace a blessing after so far away. Despite all his attempts Ballarat had become his home once more, and the moment he set foot on its familiar soil he had gone straight to Jean, for he knew he could not rest until he saw her face again. The world beyond this little town was treacherous and cruel, and he did not want to think on it any longer, did not want to spend another moment lost in regrets and grief.
Despite the protestations of his back his pride would have had him carry her up the stairs, and happily, but Jean intervened, slid out of his grasp there in the kitchen, took hold of his hand and led him away. Lucien let her, hardly caring where he went or what he did so long as he was with her. The depth of her response to him moved him, more than words could say; he had hoped that she missed him, as he missed her, but having so recently seen all his hopes torn down before his very eyes he had not expected her tears, her fierce embrace. He had thought his current lack of funds would spell an end to their happy reunion, but Jean had surprised him on that score, let him have her for a song. Later he would wonder about that, wonder why she had chosen to accept such paltry payment in comparison to the vast sum she had previously demanded, but in the moment he was only grateful, needing her desperately. The way she clung to his hand made him think she must have felt the same.
Up the stairs, down the corridor, through her bedroom door and across the parlor they went, and never encountered another soul; a point in their favor, he thought, for in taking him to bed now Jean had broken another of her rules. Daytime sessions were by appointment only, arranged in advance at her discretion, but this time she had not made him wait. This time she had smiled, and very nearly kissed him, and led him up the stairs at once. Perhaps, he thought, she was as impatient to hold him as he was for her.
The moment they were in her bedroom Lucien reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his wallet. It contained a wad of bills, the remnants of the funds that had supported him during his travels. He would have given her all of it, and happily, but she had only asked for fifteen pounds, had graciously allowed him a few notes with which he intended to purchase a bit of food and a bottle of good whiskey to see him through the night. He'd need it, later, but in the moment he only needed her.
She grinned, when he handed her the bills, magicked them out of sight in a moment before turning back to face him. On the previous occasions when he had visited her here she had been ready for him, had been dressed in a wisp of lace with her hourglass close to hand, the bed neatly made and her personal belongings neatly arranged. Not so, today; today she wore a brown skirt and a pale pink blouse and her serviceable suede pumps, and there was a pair of stockings hung over the mirror above her dressing table, and a book on the table beside the bed. The curtains were open, and he caught the briefest glimpse of the grey sky beyond her little window before his eyes snapped back to her face.
She was watching him, grey eyes wide and round, and he could not keep himself from her another second longer. Deftly he drew her to him, his hands landing comfortably on her waist, and she fell against him at once, reaching for the lapels of his jacket and drawing him closer still.
"One hour, Doctor Blake," she told him breathlessly. Later he would realize she had not retrieved her hourglass, and wonder what it meant, but in the moment he only smiled, and bowed his head, let his lips trail against the rise of her cheek. Her delicate hands peeled the jacket from his shoulders and returned at once to the buttons of his waistcoat, and he simply stood, still and holding her, letting her do as she wished. The faint scent of laundry soap and fresh-baked bread seemed to float around her, and the curve of her bum in that damnable skirt called his name. One hour was not enough, would not ever be enough, but he would make use of every second. Too long he'd been away, too long without her; there were so many things he wanted to tell her, so much he longed for them to discuss, but their clinch in the kitchen had lit a fire in his belly and it was that need he intended to sate first. They could talk after, he decided, as they had done before, quiet and grateful in her bed; if they ran out of time and if she required additional payment he'd gladly give her his last five pounds and go round to Matthew Lawson's in search of food.
"What will we do with ourselves for an hour, Mrs. Beazley?" he asked her quietly, teasingly, his lips against her neck as she tugged his waistcoat from his shoulders.
"You're a clever man," she answered. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
Lucien grinned; he could think of several things, as it happened.
She reached for his tie, and he let her nimble fingers pick at the knot while his hands set a course for her blouse, pulling it slowly out of her skirt. It had been tucked in quite neatly, and he liked the sight of it coming free, liked the way she shivered when his hands brushed against her belly through the thin fabric. Slowly, very slowly, he began to unbutton it from the bottom up, his eyes on his hands while Jean slipped his tie free from around his neck.
"Lucien," she whispered, somewhat urgently, and he looked up at her then, and found her watching him closely. "It'll take too long, like this," she said, tugging at his shirt. "It would be faster if we…"
She left it hanging but Lucien did not need further explanation; he understood full well what she meant. The suggestion disappointed him somehow - he had been quite looking forward to carefully stripping her out of each of her many layers - but he could see the logic in it, and could not justify wasting precious minutes fiddling with buttons when he was not even allowed to kiss her.
"Quite right, too," he said.
And so Jean took a step back, and finished the work of unbuttoning her blouse herself. His fingers stuttered across his own buttons, awestruck by the easy grace of her simple movements, the utterly unselfconscious way she bared herself to him. As he struggled to free himself from his own shirt Jean slipped easily out of her blouse; beneath it she wore a white satin slip, and though she was still almost entirely covered the smooth pale skin of her arms and chest suddenly revealed to him left his mouth dry and his heart aching.
Their shirts hit the floor at the same time, followed by his vest, and her skirt. They kicked out of their shoes, and as Lucien unfastened his belt Jean tugged her slip over her head, and as she did he realized she had made the right decision, in urging them to do this work themselves. It would have been all but impossible for him to strip her out of that girdle, he thought as he watched her struggle with it; his own trousers came off more easily, and he turned his attention to his socks while Jean at last tugged the girdle free, taking her stockings with it. She was left in a white satin bra and matching knickers, perfectly serviceable garments that could not have been more different from her black lace, and yet seemed far more enticing to him now.
"Wait," he said raggedly, reaching for her. This much he wanted to do himself, he thought, and she must have understood for she let him pull her in close, let his arms wind around her back while his lips brushed against her temple. He took a moment simply to breathe, to try to calm his racing heart, to remind himself why he was here, what he meant to do, what a gift it was, to have this hour with her; he did not wish to approach their joining with the same practicality with which they'd undressed themselves. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands over her soft skin, to feel the racing of his blood in his veins. He wanted the sensation of completeness he only ever found here, in her arms.
Jean let him, leaned into him as his hands trailed over her back, as at last his fingers found the clasp of her bra and unfastened it deftly. Slowly, gently, he caught hold of it, peeled it from her skin, and as it hit the floor he looked at her, and found himself almost overwhelmed by a sudden torrent of longing. Christ, but she was beautiful, the neat curve of her breast, the flare of her hips, her soft belly, her lean legs. While he stood paralyzed by her glory Jean reached for him, dipped her fingers beneath the waistband of his trunks and tugged gently.
"Come on, then," she said, and as he stared at her she slipped her knickers off her hips, and then eased herself back onto the bed. Her legs splayed open, her thighs soft and begging for the touch of his hands, her smile hesitant, and hopeful; he had never seen anything more beautiful, and so immediately shucked his trunks and all but vaulted into her embrace. A breathless laugh escaped her, as her arms wound round his back, but then their noses brushed together, and their lips came perilously close to touching, and the sound died away at once. Lucien caught himself, but only just; he could feel her plump bottom lip against his own, could feel the warm wash of her breath against his mouth, could feel every inch of her pressed against every inch of himself. His heart froze, waiting, but Jean demonstrated more restraint than he ever could, turned her head and let her kiss land warm and wet and full of longing against his cheek just above the line of his beard. Her thighs were soft at his hips, her hands gentle on his back, her body molding to fit him already, and they'd barely even begun.
"Lucien," she whispered, trailing kisses across his face. He hung his head, let his hands settle on the mattress and tried to take some of his weight off her while still she clung to him. "Lucien," she said again, and there was such a sweetness to her tone, such earnest longing it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Her lips found the curve of his ear, and he shivered as her mouth moved across him. But suddenly, shockingly, her teeth caught against his earlobe, nipped at him teasingly, and he groaned and bucked against her reflexively. She was beautiful, and he wanted her, and just the sight of her had been enough to leave him half-hard with longing, but they were neither of them ready, yet, for what came next. Lucien knew exactly how he intended to entertain them both while desire built between them, but it seemed Jean had other ideas; she snaked one hand between them, and caught hold of his shaft, and Lucien relinquished any pretense of control to her at once.
"On your back," she whispered against his ear, and he groaned, unable to resist her command. Obediently he rolled to the side, but Jean did not follow suit, did not settle herself upon his hips as she had done the previous times they'd come together. Instead she stretched herself out along his side, one of her legs sliding over his broad thigh, her hand reaching for him once more, sliding slowly, teasingly up and down his length. He could feel the heat of her against his leg, could feel the softness of her breast against his chest, and the sight of her hand working its magic upon him tore a curse from his lips, his hips rising up to follow her touch on instinct.
Jean laughed once, softly, and pressed a kiss to his chest, and then, at last, she moved. With tender hands she directed him to spread his legs, and then clambered over him, knelt down between his parted thighs. Her dark hair had begun to escape the confines of its pins, a lock of it falling endearingly across her forehead, hiding her grey eyes from view. Conscious thought had almost deserted him but he realized at the last second what she intended to do, and he reached for her, let his hand pass gently over her hair, brushing it back from her face.
"Jean," he gasped, "you don't have to."
She'd said the same to him, once, and when she smiled at him then he knew that she was remembering it.
"I want to," she said, and in the next breath she bowed her head, and at the heat of her mouth upon him Lucien lost himself entirely.