24 December 1959
Initially when Jean extended her invitation Lucien had begun to suspect that tea was not the only thing on her mind, but he had expected her to at least attempt to maintain the pretense. As a result he was completely thrown onto the back foot when Jean led him, not to the empty stillness of her kitchen where they had shared a cup of tea so many times in the past, but up the narrow staircase at the back of the pub, and down the corridor to her own suite. It was very late, and Lucien was certain the girls were not entertaining customers, but lights shone beneath several of the closed doorways in the warren of the upstairs living quarters, and he heard the faint strains of music and the gentle laughter of the young ladies as he followed along, all bemused, in Jean's wake. It would seem that while some of the girls were sleeping some had begun their Christmas celebrations early, and it would seem that Jean had plans for a celebration all her own.
Perhaps she keeps a kettle in the parlor, he told himself as Jean opened the door to her suite, as he followed her inside, as she closed the door behind them. His heart was wild, ragged with hope, but he tried to temper that hope as best he could; Jean had told him they would need to wait to resume their relationship until the pub was no longer in her possession, and he had resigned himself to waiting, content to bide his time so long as she might be his reward. Patience had never been his strong suit, but for Jean; for Jean he would do anything.
Strangely enough it seemed to him that Jean was the impatient one now; Jean was the one who still clung to his hand, who did not stop by the sofa in the parlor. It was Jean who did not revisit the prospect of a cup of a tea and a cozy chat but instead continued walking, chin held high, until they reached her bedroom. Lucien's traitorous heart began to pound, as he found himself standing once more at the foot of her bed. He had been there before, more than once, and each time he had known that he was about to hold her, for the terms had been agreed upon in advance. Now, however, though their physical circumstances remained so much the same, he lacked that certainty. He knew how matters appeared to stand, but he did not know what they actually were, and that doubt left him hesitant.
Nothing would be worse, he thought, than for him to speak and ruin this fragile moment, this one shining instant in which all his hopes seemed to hang in the balance. Jean had invited him back to her home in the still of the night, had led him up the stairs and across her parlor and into her bedroom, and while he could draw welcome conclusions from such evidence he was loath to make assumptions lest he lose her once more. And so he held his breath for a moment, watching her.
The color was high in her cheeks, and her bright eyes were wide and shining as she looked at him. The black widow's veil still covered her soft curls, and for a moment he fought a sudden, mad urge to reach out and remove it, to run his fingers through her hair and see her smile. The dress she wore was quite the most beautiful garment of hers he'd ever seen, a deep emerald in color, and lacking in embellishment for it needed none; the dress hugged her body like a second skin, and in the lines and curves of her there was beauty enough to put any diamond to shame. Her small, delicate fingers were still laced through his, and he clung to her fiercely, not wanting to lose a second of their connection to one another. All thoughts of tea fell by the wayside; Lucien had no wants, no needs, no desires in that moment that could not be satisfied by the touch of her gentle hands.
And yet, still, she hesitated, and so too did he. What might have caused Jean's sudden reticence he could not say; she had caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and there was something in her eyes that looked rather like a question. It was a question he longed to answer, and he felt that answer beginning to take shape within his heart.
"Jean," he said softly, reaching out tentatively, cradling her cheek in his palm, his confidence bolstered by the way she leaned into his touch, by the way her eyes fluttered closed as he held her, by the warmth of her skin beneath his hand. "What are the rules here?"
He asked his question gently, for he felt that he must. Always before it was Jean who set the boundaries between them, and Lucien had done his best to respect her wishes. She was the one with the most to lose, he thought - for he did not give a damn about his own reputation - and she was the one who most needed the rules to navigate her own emotions. Everything that had passed between them before, all the beautiful, messy, deliriousness of it, had by virtue of those rules fallen into the category of business, for Jean. So far tonight they had violated several of those rules, so far as Lucien was aware - Jean had taken him upstairs after hours, on a day when she was closed for business, after telling him she was no longer taking customers, without his having made an appointment in advance - and that gave him cause to hope, but there were more rules yet to be broken, and he needed to know now how far beyond the bounds of their previous encounters he might be allowed to travel.
At his question Jean smiled, and opened her eyes.
"No rules tonight, Lucien," she told him softly, and the kick-drum pounding of his heart redoubled in an instant. "This isn't about business," she continued, releasing his hand at last so that she could lift both of hers, her palms pressing against his neck, her fingertips ruffling the edges of his beard. "Tonight is just for me."
And then, before he could even process what she'd told him, Jean lifted herself up onto her toes, and brushed her lips against his gently, fleetingly.
She pulled back at once, blushing and smiling at him shyly; it was the briefest of kisses, but it crashed into Lucien with all the force of a freight train. This gift she had given him, the one thing he had always been denied, the one thing that could not ever be purchased; her kiss, and with it, he knew, came her love, her heart. This was not business, a tumble in exchange for coin, a transaction like so many others she had carried out before. This was not Jean accepting a man who had come to her in search of her services. This was Jean, asking for him, offering herself to him, all of herself, holding no piece of her heart in reserve. This was Jean, touching him because she wanted to, because she cared for him, touching him for her own sake, and for no other reason.
It was a gift he had not expected, and he was blown away by the magnitude of it. His careful letters, his tender wooing of her, appeared to have done their work, and she was trusting herself to him now, had brought down her walls at last and let him see her, vulnerable and full of hope. Such trust, such faith, could not be met with a callous race for pleasure, much as his body cried out for her and the release he knew he would find in her arms. The time had come for him to prove the depth of his devotion to her.
And so he did.
Jean's heart was racing. She had spent so long doubting herself, had spent so many years convinced that love was beyond her grasp, that her courage had nearly deserted her at the last moment. If she'd asked Lucien for payment she was certain he would have given it to her, and though that might have been the safer option, to maintain her long established boundaries, that was the last thing she wanted in this moment. All she wanted, now, was Lucien, was his arms, his hands, his kisses, for him to hold her with no conditions, and no reservations. She wanted him to love her, as a man loves a woman, as she loved him.
And so before she thought better of it she kissed him once, gently. It had been so long, so very long, since last she'd kissed a man she loved, that a part of her feared she had quite forgotten how. Uncertainty had her pulling away, searching his face for some indication that he understood the gift he had just been given, that he had heard the words she had not said, and in them found proof of her love of him. One look at his face was all the reassurance she needed; his beautiful, blissful smile was soft, and awe-struck, almost, as if he could hardly believe his luck, as if that one too-brief kiss had stunned him into near insensibility.
Would he need further encouragement? She wondered. Did he need her to tell him outright that it was all right, that he could kiss her, touch her, however he pleased, that there would be no hourglass counting down the seconds tonight, that he need not hold himself back from her in any regard?
One more kiss, she thought faintly. The first had nearly bowled her over, the rush of adrenaline, the wild surge of her want, the briefest taste of the joy she had so long denied herself. His hand was still gently cradling her face, and her own were still clinging to his neck, and so she lifted herself up, intent on kissing him again.
This time he met her halfway, his hand retreating from her face and travelling instead across her back as their lips brushed together. He did not press or overwhelm her, seemed to understand without need of further explanation from her that it would be best to take things slowly; he kissed her once, paused, took a breath, and kissed her again, and again, and each time their lips met her need for him only grew, and she could feel his smile against her mouth. There was a sweetness to those fleeting kisses, to the warm wash of his breath against her cheek, a gentle understanding, a sort of care that left her impatient for more of him. Once more he made to kiss her, briefly, but Jean pressed forward, let the softness of her body mold against his chest while she nipped at his bottom lip.
Lucien groaned, and Jean laughed, eyes closed against the sheer joy of it all, and in the next breath he surged forward, his hands against her back pressing her hard against him, his tongue flicking against her lips in a desperate plea for more.
Jean sighed, and opened herself to him, wound her arms around his neck and clung to him desperately while his tongue surged into her mouth, and tangled with hers, and fireworks exploded behind her eyelids. How long had it been? Too long, too long, and she would gladly have stood there kissing him for the rest of her life, if she could, so beautiful was the way he touched her, so overpowering was the response he inspired in her, so deep was her craving for him.
They pushed and pulled and pressed against one another; when she drifted back his kisses chased after her, and when she rose towards him he opened his mouth and let her taste him. All the while his hands traveled up and down the expanse of her back over her fine dress, the heat of his fingertips against her spine making her shiver. But he was so tall, and she was tired already of craning her neck to reach him, and she wanted more, wanted all of him, wanted -
Quite suddenly Lucien caught her bum in his hands, and turned them both so that his back was facing the bed. Still Jean kissed him, breathless, hungry, her tongue sliding against his, even as he fisted his hands in her dress and tugged it up to bunch around her hips. Before she could protest or even wonder what he was about Lucien sat himself down on the edge of the bed, the connection of their kiss broken with a wet gasp from each of them, but then he pulled her down with him, and she understood his intent at once. She settled herself upon his lap, their eyes on the same level, now, his hands on the bare skin of her thighs just above her stocking tops, her knees on either side of his hips.
Once more Jean reached for his neck, let her fingers drift beneath his collar while she leaned in close. For a moment she teased him, their noses brushing together, his chin lifted as he searched in vain for her mouth, both of them breathing loud and ragged in the silence of her room. He was already half-hard beneath her, and so she rocked against him experimentally, felt him catch against the place where she yearned for him most, felt them both shudder at the contact. It was in her mind to tease him a bit more, to whisper words of yearning against his skin, but it seemed Lucien had had enough of waiting; he carefully removed her widow's veil and threw it to the side, and then he tangled his hands in her hair, and held her still just long enough for his lips to find hers once more, and then, oh then, she was lost.