6 August 1959
Lucien drew in a ragged breath. The sight of Jean, naked and kneeling between his knees, would have been tantalizing enough on its own, but when coupled with the heat of her mouth and her hand upon him it threatened to undo him utterly. Her dark hair tumbled enticingly across her face and Lucien fought the urge to tangle his fingers in it; he didn't trust himself to maintain control, to keep from pressing her onward, if he let his hands settle upon her, and so instead he fisted them in the bedsheets, and swore.
Jean grinned at him, and slowly, slowly dragged her lips down the length of his shaft, and the thought of her kissing him there when the brush of her lips against his own was not allowed coiled the tension in his belly ever tighter. With a gentle hand she held him, and as her mouth moved back up him so, too, did that hand, and he shivered, and watched her do it again. How many times had she done this? How many others -
"Christ," he swore again, as slowly, very slowly, she took him into her mouth, warm, soft lips wrapped around him, her tongue swirling over the tip of his shaft, and he was as ready for her in that moment as he had ever been for any woman in his life. Why she had done this thing, whether because she wanted to, or because she felt some debt was owed for favors he had bestowed on her previously, or because it seemed the easiest way to arouse them both he could not say, but it was a gift he had not looked for, and for that reason he was doubly grateful. Still she moved, taking him in a little bit deeper each time her mouth descended upon him, his hips rising up to follow her as she retreated, unable to resist the siren song of her warmth. In that moment she held him utterly in thrall; his whole body was tense, tight, bowing towards her, trembling with the strain of resisting the urge to thrust up against her, his hands clenching the bedsheets as if for dear life.
There was something about it that made her feel powerful, knowing how completely focused he was on her, how completely he had surrendered control of himself into her hands. When they'd begun he was barely ready and now he was hard as marble in her mouth, but with his hands flung out beside him he held himself captive, let her do whatever she wished. That was all for the good, as Jean had not taken the time to remove the pins from her hair and his tugging on it now would have been terribly uncomfortable. But he didn't reach for her, didn't try to guide her, let her set the pace for things between them, and she was enjoying that power over him now. She had done this; she was the reason for the strain in his broad arms, for the twisting of the thick tendons in his neck, for the soft groan of longing that tore out of him. It was a powerful thing, to be wanted, not just for the promise of a quick release but for everything she was, and as she touched him now she felt that want in every twitch and tremble of his body.
This had never been her favorite act, but she found she didn't mind it so much now, with him. With him it felt different; she didn't feel used, or dirty, and the smell of him was familiar to her now, and she did not balk at the taste of him against her tongue. She had grown accustomed to him already, and the familiarity they enjoyed with one another only made it easier to touch him this way. Teasingly she pulled him from her mouth, saw how his shaft wept with want of her, and slowly dragged her tongue up the length of him, drawing another guttural groan from his lips. It was his lips she wanted to kiss but still she clung to that last and most sacred of her rules. She had decided to enjoy herself here, with him, to set aside all thoughts of putting an end to their relationship until this particular tryst was done, but deep in a far corner of her heart she knew what she meant to do, and she could not allow herself to kiss him now, to give him such hope, knowing she meant to wound him later. Things would be hard enough as they were; there was no sense in making things worse.
Still she carried on, lips and hands working over him methodically, and she lost all sense of the time, caught up in him, the way he moved, the sight of his heavy, powerful body laid out before her. There was so much more she could do, so much more she could have done, but Lucien put it a stop to it before she got carried away; he reached for her, suddenly, his fingers finding her chin and urging her to lift her head.
"Wait," he panted at her raggedly. "Wait."
And so she drew back, looking at him curiously, wondering what he meant to do next.
"I want you, Jean," he told her then. "Not like this."
She smiled; what a dear man he was. Somehow she didn't think she'd brought him quite to the edge just yet, but he knew as well as she did that their time was limited, and no doubt had a good many other things in mind, things they could both enjoy together, and his concern for her enjoyment touched her with its sweetness.
"How, then?" she asked him teasingly. Idly she glanced towards the little table beside her bed, wondering how much time they had left, and only then did she realize she had not retrieved her hourglass. Inwardly she cursed herself for her foolishness; she'd been so caught up in her delight at seeing him again she'd quite forgotten to prepare herself for this meeting in any way. How much time had passed? From the moment they entered her bedroom until now? Enough time for them to undress, to tumble into bed together, enough time for her to...well.
A quarter of an hour, she told herself. We'll say he has three quarters left.
"Come here," he said, in answer to her question, and so she did, sliding slowly up his body, pausing just long enough to drop a kiss against his chest.
"Like this?" she asked, straddling his hips as she smiled down at him.
"No."
And then, before she could so much as draw a breath, Lucien turned them easily, rolled her smoothly under him so that she lay upon her back, her thighs grasping against his hips. She could feel the hard, wet length of his cock pressed against her, and shivered at the sensation, not yet ready for him but wanting him anyway. He hung his head low as he planted his hands beside her head on the mattress, the tip of his nose just brushing against her own, and the air of teasing joviality they'd cultivated between them vanished at once, replaced with a heavy, tense sort of longing. It happened so quickly; one moment she was smiling, and in the next she could hardly breathe as her heart pounded against her chest, need coiling low in her belly.
"Wait," she whispered, trying to gather herself as she reached for his left hand. Lucien let her, let her lift his hand, let her draw his wrist towards her so she could check the time on his watch. She did a bit of quick maths, the numbers steadying her somewhat, determining the time when she would have to call a halt to things between them, and then she drew his hand to her mouth, and pressed a kiss against his palm.
"What's the verdict?" he asked her softly.
"Forty-five minutes," she answered.
Lucien frowned; did he not believe her? She wondered. Did he think they ought to have more time, or did he realize that she was only guessing, that she had lost count of the minutes already? Jean didn't know, and she wasn't about to ask. Lucien took his hand from her mouth, and slid it slowly, slowly down her body, between her legs, and all thoughts of the time seemed to vanish as he began to touch her.
This man will be the end of me, she thought; already he knew so much about her, had learned so well how to please her, and those fingers stroking slowly through her wetness sent need sparking through her veins like electricity. With every move of his hand he watched her, gauging her reactions, his expression serious, his gaze unwavering. What did he see when he looked at her like this? She wondered. Could he see how desperately she needed him, how badly she wanted to keep him with her, and never let him go?
It was unbearable, really, how beautiful she was, the way she responded to the touch of his hand. He could feel her, hot and wet against his fingers, could feel her shiver when his thumb brushed over the little nub at the apex of her pleasure. He could see the crimson blush working its way up her chest, could see her soft pink nipples pebbling in the cool air of her bedroom, could see the way her eyes fluttered closed and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, already falling under the spell of desire as he had done with her mouth upon him. Her thighs clenched hard against his waist, and he pressed his own hips towards the mattress, trying to stave off the rising swell of his own need. Eager to push her closer to the brink he bowed his head, let his mouth settle over one of her perfect breasts, and she sighed and tangled her fingers in his hair, held him against her. Encouraged by her reaction he flicked his tongue over her nipple and slid one finger slowly, achingly slowly into her tender heat. A soft moan escaped her, her hips pressing up towards him, and he grinned against her breast, pleased to know how deeply he had moved her. Carefully he worked that one finger inside her, curled it against her fluttering walls even as his thumb moved over her, even as his teeth scraped gently over her nipple, and the sound that left her then was more like a whimper than anything else.
Lucien could have stayed like that all day, warm and secure between her thighs, but she had given him a timetable, and he did not want to waste a second of it. And so, after a few more gentle thrusts of his hand, he withdrew his fingers from her glossy folds, and reached instead for his own cock, sliding a little further up his body so his shaft could settle against the heat of her sex. Jean's eyes flew open, watching him as he settled himself more firmly above her; Christ, but he loved those eyes, the color of the sea in a storm, bright and beautiful and fixed on his face from inches away. Idly he thrust himself against her, let them both feel the slide of his cock over her silken folds, their breath hitching, hearts racing. He did it again, and again, let the head of his cock catch against her center and let the warm sound of her gasp wash over him. Jean's hands drifted over his back, her palm gentle against his scars, and he did not stop her, for when she touched him there he felt only peace, and not the sting of bitter memories.
Once more he thrust against her, and a soft, frustrated sort of sound left her.
"Lucien, please," she whispered.
Need was written on every line of her face, her neck arched as she flung her head back on the pillows, her eyes hooded and watching him intently, soft lips parted.
"Please, what?" he teased her, grinding himself against her.
There was a flicker of something in her eyes, some sort of hesitation that did not seem to have anything at all to do with lust.
"I want you," she breathed after a moment, and in those words he heard a capitulation he had not expected her to make, and understood the strange look he'd seen at once. In Jean's business when a man bought a woman it had nothing at all to do with what she wanted; she would let him have what he wished, and she would take her payment, but she had not chosen him. With those three simple words Jean had confessed the desires of her own heart, had shattered any notion that this thing between them was no more than business. She wanted him; it was a cataclysmic revelation, and one he knew it had cost her dearly to make.
"You have me," he whispered, his lips brushing over the rise of her cheek. Body and soul, you have me.
In the next breath he guided himself slowly into her, let the tip of his shaft sink between her folds, and they sighed together, relieved and overcome. When he was sure of his mark Lucien drew his hand out from between them, placed it back on the mattress by her head and held himself steady as he thrust gently against her, sliding that little bit further into her welcoming heat. Suspended above her like this their faces were almost touching, but if he tilted his head he could see the rise of her body, could see below the softness of her breasts and the trembling muscles of her belly the way her hips rocked towards him, drawing him in, deeper, and deeper still, and knew that she was moving this way because she wanted to, because she wanted him.
"Christ, you feel good," he groaned, rocking against her, awestruck as he always was by the way she accepted him, all of him, with such grace. He dropped his head, let his forehead rest against hers, both their skin slick with sweat already. His nose rested against hers, their lips no more than a hair's breadth apart, mouths open as sounds of pleasure they could not contain came rumbling out of both of them.
Jean did not answer him with words; she pressed her hips towards him, and he began to move with more purpose, drawing his hips back and then surging forward again, and again; as the movements of his body grew more powerful he could not continue to rest his head against hers, but he maintained the almost union of their mouths, her breath washing warm and sweet over his lips until he could almost taste her moans. Beneath him her body arched towards him, the graceful muscles of her neck tight and tense with yearning. Against his back her hands no longer moved, but her fingers turned in and caught against his muscles, holding tight to him. Everywhere they touched his skin burned, hot and wet with exertion, hers so soft, satin smooth and electric against him.
How long they remained like that he could not say; Lucien held himself off as long as he could, his movements slow, purposeful, designed not to race to his release but instead to bring them both as much pleasure as he could wring from them. Jean matched him thrust for thrust, maintained their rhythm when he faltered, trembled as it all became too much to bear. A steady stream of little whimpers and sudden moans left her, and he swallowed each of them, his lips so close to hers he could almost feel them touch. Almost, but not quite; for the sake of her pride he held back, but only just.
"Please," she began to gasp, suddenly urgent, and he could feel the fluttering of her inner walls as still he thrust steadily against her, as deep as he could go and yet wanting more, wanting everything. Even with their bodies flush together it was not enough, and he began to pick up the pace, eager now, desperate for more.
"Please," she said again, "oh, Lucien-"
He would have kissed her then, if she would have let him, but even in this moment of abandon he knew better, and so did not. Instead he only moved faster, and harder, and one of her hands left his back, snaked between them and reached down to the place where they were joined, her fingers touching both of them as his cock, glossy with her need now, thrust wildly into her, as she rubbed herself with increasing desperation, as that word please dissolved into a string of moans sweeter than any song he had ever heard before. Lucien clenched his teeth, too close to the edge, and only then realized what they had done; he wasn't wearing a condom, and he was almost - but not quite - too close to care. How had they come this far without remembering something so vital? It was the one of Jean's rules Lucien understood the most, respected most, but they had been so caught up in one another it had never even occurred to him.
"Jean," he groaned against her mouth. "I'm close, I'm-"
"Please," she managed to gasp, and he felt her teetering on the edge, and there was nothing he wanted more, in that moment, than to feel them both coming undone, together, surrounded by one another.
"I'm not-"
"I don't care, I don't care, just don't stop," she panted against his mouth, and so Lucien threw caution to the wind and plunged into her without hesitation, harder, and harder still, and at last she seemed to shatter, a low cry leaving her lips as the movement of her hips stuttered to a halt, every inch of her body pressed hard to every inch of his, and the sudden vise-like grip of her sex against his cock broke what remained of his resolve.
With a few last powerful thrusts he tumbled from the edge himself, their voices mingling into one as he emptied himself inside her, trembling and burning alive with love of her.