24 December 1959
With his lips against her neck Lucien breathed life into his love of her, tattooed her skin with the blissful heat of his mouth while she calmed beneath him, loose and soft and perfect in the aftermath of her release. Everything was different, now, bright and new and wonderful in a way it had never been before. Oh, they had been quite wonderful together, before, but their every second together had been rushed and laced with doubt. Now, though, now they knew better. Now Jean knew that his devotion to her was not limited only to what they got up to in her bed together; now she knew that the dream of love they had cultivated between themselves could one day be, and she did not hold herself back from him. The sweet, soul-burning kisses she'd given him had been proof enough of her own devotion; she would not have granted him such a blessing, he knew, if she were not convinced that there was some hope for their future, if she did not love him, as he loved her. Those kisses had been a declaration couched in a caress, and Lucien's heart was singing, joyous and overcome.
At the moment he still wore his trousers, and Jean still wore her knickers, and he knew that would have to change, and soon. He had kept his own trousers in place out of deference to his desire to make her come undone first; he wanted her to know that she mattered more to him than his own release, that he was in her bed for her sake, and no other reason. The trousers helped him to maintain his restraint, but only just; she was glorious, and he was eaten alive with his need for her.
Perhaps she sensed his desperation and wished to ease his discomfort, or perhaps she simply wanted to; whatever the reason she reached for him, while his lips were occupied with her neck, nimble fingers unbuckling his belt easily. At her touch Lucien groaned against her neck, and Jean laughed, a sweet, merry little sound that did his heart good to hear it.
"Eager, are we?" she asked him archly, though her superior tone was marred by the little hitch in her breath when his teeth scraped gently against the tendons of her neck.
"For you? Always," Lucien murmured into her skin.
"You'll grow tired of me someday," she said. She left his unbuckled belt in place around his hips and reached for the button of his trousers, and Lucien held himself steady above her despite the way his muscles trembled with need. Her tone was light, teasing; he did not think she meant those words, not truly. But she had believed them, once, had believed that his affections would wane and he would no longer concern himself with her, and whether she still believed it or no Lucien sought to disabuse her of that notion with all haste.
"I'll die first," he vowed.
He meant those words, truly he did. Jean was clever, and kind, endlessly compassionate, and she made him want, made him hope, made him dream. Jean had made Ballarat his home, when he thought he would never find such grace anywhere ever again. Even if one day his body grew old and tired and his cock no longer jumped to attention at the sight of her bare breasts he was certain he would still want her, by his side at the breakfast table, curled under his arm beneath the bedsheets, her hand in his, her heart as much a piece of him as his own. How could a man ever grow bored of such a woman, he thought, a woman who fascinated his brain as well as his body, a woman who comforted him and challenged him in equal measure? It was Jean he was eager for; it would always be Jean.
"Not for a very long time, I hope," she whispered, and then, oh, then her hand slipped beneath his trousers and into his trunks and Lucien could not help but swear as her delicate fingers wrapped around his cock and every thought left his head. His body shuddered, completely at her mercy, and the fervor of his kisses against her neck stuttered to a halt as his hips surged against her in mindless desperation. Her clever hand knew just what to do, how to tease him, despite the restraints of his trousers still round his hips, and as her thumb brushed over the head of his cock, wet and weeping with want of her, he groaned and closed his eyes against the sweet bliss of it.
If only it were within his power Lucien would have stayed alive forever, and happily, for her. He would have done anything, for her.
"Lucien," she whispered, her hand tightening its grip against him ever so slightly. He could do nothing but whine in response; no words would pass his lips, when she touched him that way, no thought would form his head, nothing but the endless liturgy of his heart chanting Jean Jean Jean.
"Trousers off," she told him softly, teasingly, and he moved in a moment, obeying her quiet command with hesitation. He rose up onto his knees, and as he did Jean shifted beneath him, tugging off her own knickers while he struggled to remove his trousers and trucks. The sight of her soft, dark curls was so overwhelming he nearly forgot what he was doing, so lost was he in the glorious vision of Jean, soft breasts, soft stomach, soft thighs, her sex pink and swollen and glossy with need. Jean, bare and beautiful beneath him, Jean, offering him all of herself, accepting all of him in turn, with no constraint, no time limit, no rule at all, except the rule of love that bound them together.
Jean's heart was racing, as Lucien shrugged out of his trousers, his powerful body bare and beautiful and on display for her. He rolled to the side and kicked his clothes away, and Jean followed him, delighted and overjoyed. She had spent so long without him, so long doubting the wants of her own heart, that this moment of trust, and faith rewarded, left her so full of joy that she could not contain it.
With a mischievous smile she straddled him, her knees coming to rest on the mattress on either side of his body, her hands pressed to the mattress by his shoulders, his cock caught between their bellies as she leaned forward and he groaned, soft and needy. Without need of guidance her lips found his collarbone and his hands found the curve of her bum, clutched her tight and encouraged her to roll her hips against him. The hot, hard length of him met the soft, wet place where she ached for him and she gasped against his skin, drowning in sensation. There were not words, she thought, for the intimacy of this, joined and yet not as they were. This trust, this vulnerability they shared with one another without hesitation, without restraint, and she found a sort of peace in this place, with this man, such as she had never known before.
At his encouragement she raised herself up, her tender folds gliding against his silken shaft, ecstasy sparking from the place where they met to send a shiver racing down her spine. The friction they created between them, the shape of him pressing against that place where she needed him most, her own aching heat painting him with her arousal, was dizzy in its intensity, and she repeated the motion again, and again, grinding against him and drawing another helpless moan from his beautiful lips. For a moment she indulged in this simple pleasure, the lightness in her heart, the beautiful agony of her lover's face as he threw his head back against the pillows, closed his eyes and groaned against the bliss she inspired him. She had done this to him, had pinned this titan of a man beneath her slender frame and caused the vein in his neck to tighten, caused his body to tense, caused his cock to twitch against her in eager anticipation, caused him to open himself up to her, wholly and without reservation. It was a heady thought; there had not been many times, in the course of her life, when Jean had felt herself in control of her circumstances, but she felt it now. This gift Lucien had given her, and she would be forever grateful for it.
Once more she rose up, but this time she moved with a sense of purpose, reached between their bodies and caught his cock in her hand, held him place as ever so carefully she sank down upon him. As the head of his shaft plunged between her soaking folds she could not help but gasp; it had been so long, too long, since last she'd held him, and she had almost forgotten how it felt to take him inside her, to mold herself around him and hold him tight, every blessed inch of him. She leaned forward and as she did he raised his head, his lips falling to the corner of her mouth as still she eased down on him, taking him in deeper, and deeper still.
"Oh, my darling," Lucien breathed, shaking beneath her, though she could not say whether it was joy that made him tremble, or the strain of holding himself back for her sake. Her own arms were unsteady as she held herself suspended above him, as she dropped her head to hang low between her shoulders, the bristle of his beard catching against the softness of her cheek.
She could hardly breathe, could hardly think, could only feel as she sank down on him, took him into her completely until they were flush together, panting and desperate and alive. How could she have ever thought to leave him? How could she have ever believed they could carry on without one another, without this pleasure, this connection, this relief? It seemed unthinkable to her now, that she should ever part from him; they were one, bound together by chains no man could break, now.
He was hers.
She held him there, tight within her, and lowered herself atop him, her breasts pressed hard to the plane of his chest, and his arms rose up at once, holding her close, enveloping her completely. And in that moment, utterly surrounded by him, his heat, his strength, his love, Jean turned her head, and pressed her lips to the taut line of his neck.
"Mine," she gasped, teeth catching against his tender skin.
Beneath her Lucien's hips bucked up, hard, thrusting against her and tearing a whimper from the back of her throat.
"Yours," he answered breathlessly and her heart sang in her chest, a bird set free from its cage. The need was building, low in her belly, and she could not help but move, then, rocking against him, every nuance of the push and pull between their bodies sending her closer and closer to the very brink of bliss. She shifted atop him, lifted herself up and leaned over him, and he moved with her at once, catching her thighs within the cages of his broad hands and raising his head so that he could wrap his lips around one of her tender nipples. The rough scratch of his beard and the gentle lap of his tongue sent her reeling, and her body responded to the call of her desire without any conscious thought. She rose above him and sank down again, and again, gradually finding a rhythm that suited her, a steady, eager motion that had him pressing against her everywhere she burned for him. With each downward pass of her body he raised his hips to meet her, added his own latent power to her movements, the plunging of his hardness into her a pleasure so exquisite she could not help but moan. Everything about this moment, them together, his lips and his tongue and his hands and his hardness buried within her, her own body shivering and trembling with pleasure everywhere he touched her, was so beautiful, so raw in its honesty that if she could have spared the breath she might well have wept.
"God," the word left her quite without her realizing it as their dance continued, as her body tensed and tightened around him and his fingertips dug in hard to the soft flesh of her thighs.
"Yes," was his breathless answer, the word a plea muffled against the curve of her breast where the heat of his mouth had left a darkening bruise. Still she held herself there, rocking against him, rising up and sinking down, again and again, thinking she could happily do this for all the rest of her days, spend every moment wrapped up in him and the pleasure he stirred within her. She wanted to touch him, to wind her fingers through his soft hair and cradle his head against her breast, but her hands remained in place, holding her steady while she worked over him, and he met her, point and counterpoint until it all became too much to bear.
Desperate, eager, chasing her release she ground against him, and it seemed to her in the next moment as if something within him had snapped, as if some otherworldly strength had been released, for his hands left her thighs, trailed fire along the curve of her back until he caught hold of her shoulders. Those hands, those strong, beautiful hands held her down hard against him, and she gave herself over to him, her trembling arms collapsing as her hands sought out his hair and his hips thrust up hard against her. He had known, somehow, what it was she wanted, had proven once again how well he understood her, how well they complimented one another, as she buried her face in the crook of his neck and panted her pleasure, as he took her with a ferocity that shook her to the core. The hard slap of his body crashing into hers, the low, gravelly sound of his voice as he grunted with exertion, her own high-pitched moans echoed loud in that space, and for perhaps the very first time, Jean found she did not care, could not bring herself to worry about the noise they made. This was right, she told herself. This was where they belonged. Together.
"Jean," Lucien's voice carried with a warning note she recognized all too well; he was close to his own release, his movements growing somewhat erratic, and just the thought of it, the knowledge that she had brought him to this point, that they had reached this precipice together, threatened to undo her.
"Harder," she told him breathlessly, and he complied at once, drove into her with such reckless abandon that in a moment she was falling, moaning, clenching him tight within her as the tightly wound coil of her desire sprung free at last and flooded her every sense.
"Christ," Lucien gasped, thrusting into her release, hard and hot and hungry, prolonging her exquisite agony until he, too, could bear it no longer, and with a final groan he was coming undone, spilling into her with all the force he could muster.
In the aftermath Jean was left trembling, her heart racing, black spots dancing across her vision as she panted against his neck and a few blissful tears escaped her. The bands of grief and doubt and bitter disappointment that had held her captive since the day she first set foot inside the Lock and Key were broken at last, utterly shattered by Lucien's love of her, her love of him. They had shared more than just a quick and eager tumble in this place; from the very beginning of their dalliance it had seemed to Jean that they were most honest with one another when they were naked, bare and without inhibition, and they had now with grasping hands and open hearts pledged themselves to one another with a vow more sacred than any made in any church.
It was a beautiful thing, lying there with Jean in his arms. She was beautiful, but the love they had made together was more beautiful still. Lucien's heart was full of hope for the future; maybe with his help she could achieve her dream of going to Adelaide sooner. Or maybe, if she did not truly wish to abandon her girls and the pub that had been the center of her life she could make her home with him, could fill the garden with flowers, and dance with him through the studio, and bring light to that place that had so long festered in darkness. It did not matter to him, not really, where they went or what they did, so long as they did it together.
Her soft hair brushed against his chin, and he smiled, and ran his hand gently over her back, thinking sweet thoughts of Jean, and happy she had made him, and how much happiness he wished to give to her in turn. The hour had grown very late, and the world beyond her bedroom was all in darkness. Perhaps the proper thing to do would be to leave, and not spend Christmas Eve sleeping in a brothel; perhaps the proper thing would have been to offer Jean some space, not to crowd her too much. But after what they'd just shared leaving her was the farthest thing from his mind.
Jean, it would seem, was in agreement. As their racing hearts calmed and their panting breaths slowed she pressed a gentle kiss against his chest, and then lifted her head to look at him.
"Will you stay?" she asked him softly.
Such simple words, and yet they nearly moved him to tears, for there was an earnest longing in her eyes, a note of hesitation in her voice that spoke of her uncertainty, her vulnerability in that moment. Jean had spent far too long denying her own desires, and she seemed not to trust them now, but she had found the courage to speak, to be honest about what she wanted. She had found the strength to offer him a gift that she had never extended to anyone else, as far as he was aware. They had slept together in his bed back in August, that beautiful Friday night before his world came tumbling down around his ears, and the comfort and the joy of that experience was as fresh in his mind as if it had only just occurred. Would he stay? Nothing short of her command could make him leave.
"Yes," he whispered, and her answering smile was quite the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life. She pressed herself closer into his embrace, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and Lucien held her tight, his heart singing in his chest. It was Christmas Eve, and he would spend the night with his arms full of Jean. Come Christmas morning he would wake with her beside her; there could be no gift more beautiful than that.