24 January 1960

Above him she was glorious, a revelation; above him she was transcendent, resplendent, sweat beading against her skin like diamonds, the church-bell echo of her sweet sighs the most beautiful song he had ever heard. Above him, she was above him, and yet with him, the focus of his adoration, the nexus of his delight, the beginning and the ending of everything, all at once, absolute and infinite. Beautiful, she was beautiful, not like the girls on the silver screen at the Rex, but beautiful like a wildfire, beautiful like the sea in a storm, beautiful in the ecstasy of creation, beautiful like his favorite mug with a chip in the handle, beautiful beyond articulation, beautiful because she was beloved, and not the other way around.

The bedsheets were tangled round his knees and his nose was full of the scent of her, his hair tugging against his scalp where she gripped him for dear life, the heel of her foot drumming against the ruins of his back, her thighs soft at his ears, clutching at him and falling away, surging and receding like the tides. With one of his hands he held her hip, the rounded point of the bone cradled in his palm, his touch an anchor holding them both in place while they rocked together, borne aloft on the churning waves of their passion for one another. Insatiable, his mouth sought to consume her; desperate, her body sought to let him, her sparse curls and his short beard winding together while his tongue swirled against her and the fingers of his free hand drove within her, searching out her secrets, drawing her into the light. He could spend all the rest of his days just like this, devoted to the siren song of her delight, watching in wonder as she rose from pleasure to pleasure in a never-ceasing search for something more. She was a wonder, a marvel, a revelation, and there was so much yet to learn about her, so much more they could do together, such heights they could ascend never before imagined; had he ever been moved so perilously by a woman? He had known love, before, and known carnal delights, but he was not sure he had ever known this, this need to see how far she could go, how high he could take her, to search out the limits of their physical restraints and push beyond them, reckless, wild, unfettered by the dictates of their cruel world.

Words tumbled from her lips half-formed; the words themselves meant nothing, but the high keening sound of her voice crying out for him meant everything. Close, she was close to shattering again, he could feel it in the tensing of her body around him, and as she clutched at him, begged for him, swallowed him in the heat and the wet and the rapture of her, it occurred to him that despite the press of his lips against her, despite the fevered working of his tongue delving into her softness, despite the curling, searching quest of his fingers, despite the fervor of his need she was consuming him, drawing him into her, deeper and deeper, making him hers.

There was nothing else he wanted to be.

If he could have perhaps he might have spoken to her, encouraged her, whispered to her of his need and her gloriousness, but his mouth was occupied with a far more rewarding task, and the thought drifted across his mind that she had, at last, found a way to shut him up.

He grinned and redoubled his efforts; he'd found a rhythm that had her panting and writhing and he sought to maintain it, increasing neither his speed nor the force of his fingers thrusting within her, only holding steady, continuing on, implacable, while the sound of her cries built, and built, and the very air seemed to shimmer with promise. His cock was hard and aching for her and he ground his hips fecklessly against the mattress, seeking some relief, thinking wildly that perhaps he would need no more than the sound of her voice to make him come undone himself. If he could hold off, though, if he could find some previously hidden reserve of restraint, they could climb from this height to the next, and the promise of that final pleasure was enough to keep him in place.

It did not come without warning; he had learned, by now, to read the signs in her body, and he could almost feel his own yearning peak with hers, his heart racing in time to the stuttering flutter of her soft heat around his fingers, his breaths sharp and short and matching the staccato gasps that echoed from his beloved. Her back arched, her thighs tightened, her body trembled with strain, and still he sought her out, laved her with his tongue and fucked her with his hand until at last, she broke.

A long, undulating sort of wail left her, her body caught in the rigor mortis of la petite mort, her dark hair cascading across his pale white sheets, and for a moment the entire world seemed to hold its breath, caught up in the spring-loaded coils of her relief, but then she shuddered, and fell back against the bed, her trembling legs relaxing, her arms suddenly slack, her hands trailing down from his head to rest against his shoulders.

The vice-like grip of her sex would not release his fingers, and so he left them where they were, pressed one last tender kiss against her folds and then shifted slightly, pillowed his head on the softness of her thigh and looked up at her, as satisfied as if he had come undone himself though the demands of his still-unsated cock were rising to a fever pitch. He looked up at her, and saw her as she was, the dimpled flesh of her lean thighs, the silvery stretch marks around her soft belly, the points of her ribcage just beneath the curve of her neat breasts, heaving with every ragged breath she took. Perhaps she should have seemed vulnerable in that moment, bare and shivering, but to him she was enduring, incorruptible, indestructible, infinite.

And Christ, but he loved her.

She had changed him, shaken him, desolated and delivered him. Jean had given him a home and a purpose. She had reminded him what it was to share himself with another, what it was to feel joy, to hope. With her he was the best possible version of himself, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be, other than with her. Forever. 'Til death do us part.

"Lucien," she breathed his name, mustered the strength to lift one of her hands, resting it gently atop his head, the touch a benediction, a blessing. He tilted his chin, pressed himself against her palm and looked up to find her brilliant eyes watching him, brimming with tears.

Show me, she had said. Show me. That he loved her, that he would protect her, that he would consecrate himself to her, that he would follow her for all the rest of his days; that was what he had sought to show her. That they could find their way, together, that the dreams that had grown from the first seeds of their attraction to one another could at last be harvested, a feast for them to share, and not wilting on the vines, that they could find the happiness they both sought; that was what he wanted to show her. He wondered if he had, if he ever could, if any proof would ever be sufficient to convince her that the tragedies and sorrows of her past did not have to define her future. She had given so much of herself away over the last twenty years he knew she wondered if any of her self was left at all, but Lucien knew better. No man could take her spirit from her, her ferocity, her tenaciousness, her compassion, those things were hers, and it was those things he loved.

"Come here," she said, and he moved at once, reacting without thought to the urgings of his beloved. He slid himself up the length of her body, watching as they slotted into place; his cock hard against the yielding softness of her folds, the hair of his thighs brushing against the smooth skin of hers, her pebbled nipples catching against the solid plane of his chest, his hands planted by her shoulders while her own reached up to run over the length of his arms, the tip of his nose findings hers as they met, and sighed, together.

"I don't know what happens next," she whispered, her voice unsteady, still. Her hips rose up, fell away, seeking contact and shying away from it, her body eager and yet oversensitive, still, from his earlier attentions.

And he knew, somehow, exactly what she meant. She was not concerned with the immediate; she was wet and he was hard and they were neither of them blushing virgins. They both knew, innately, what came next. But Jean's thoughts had drifted ahead, her eyes lifted to the road that stretched before their feet. The time would soon come when they would need to leave his bed. They would have to face the world, and the terrible things that had come for them in the darkness. And if they were to continue on, in this way, together, he knew that Jean would find it difficult to continue on in her position with the Lock and Key. That place had been her home for so long, now, had been the very center of her world; the Lock and Key had given her the independence she so yearned for, and a way to provide for herself, and a purpose in looking after her girls, and yet if she accepted what Lucien offered her now she believed she would have to give it up. That she would have to sacrifice everything, for his sake. Of course Lucien would never ask such a boon of her; much as he wanted her here, in his home, in his arms, in his bed, always, he loved her too dearly to force away from the life she had built for herself. If she meant to leave it, he would leave that choice in her hands, support her no matter what she chose. How, then, could he answer her?

"Whatever you want, my darling, you shall have," he answered her, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. "Whatever it is, whatever it takes. The decision doesn't have to be made now, or tomorrow, or next week. But when you're ready, when you know what you want...all you need do is tell me, and we will make it a reality. Together."

Tears were sliding slowly down her cheeks, but he understood it was not sorrow that set them loose; her eyes were round and full of wonder, as if she were looking at him for the very first time.

"You mean that, don't you?" she whispered, her fingers trailing across the back of his neck, sliding up into his hair.

"I love you," he whispered. Yes, he wanted her here, but he knew that he had chosen a fierce, wild creature for himself, and he knew that to trap her in a cage against her own will would be a cruelty, and not an act of love. There would be no gilded cage for his songbird; she would have an open door, and if she chose to join him it would be all the sweeter, for her having chosen.

"I want a home," she confessed, and that word home contained within it a multitude of sorrow, and of joy. Had she longed for a home, down through the years, remembered the little farmhouse where she had raised her babies and cooked their meals and loved her husband, wanting only to return to it? Did she want the same thing now, a place where her sons would not hesitate to visit her, a door that did not open to every man in town, a bed that was meant for her, and the one she loved?

"I want a garden, and a kitchen, and I never want to count coins again. And I want you, Lucien."

Those things he could give her, and happily; the garden was desolate, now, the sunroom bare and empty, but he would deliver them both into her hands with a happy heart, would take such pleasure in watching her claim them for herself. If she wanted to, if she willed it, and it seemed to him that she did.

"You have me, my darling," he promised her. "Body and soul, you have me." And everything else besides, he thought, but did not say, for he knew his Jean, and he knew that she could read his face like the pages of her favorite book. Everything she wanted existed within this house, was hers for the taking, if only she wished.

"And you have me," she answered, and as she spoke she shifted beneath him, bent her legs at the knees and gasped as his cock pressed that much more firmly against her. This, too, Lucien understood; she'd had enough of talking, for now. They'd said what was needed, and confessed to one another, and now that they were free, and blessed, there was only one thing left for them to do.

Jean's hands abandoned their perusal of his hair and reached instead for his cock, pumping him slowly while he closed his eyes and groaned in bliss. Against him she was hellfire hot and soft, yielding, asking, offering him, and he was powerless to resist such an invitation. While he held himself up with his hands planted on the mattress by her shoulders his hips surged forward, and she guided him, helped him, and as the head of his cock plunged between her dripping folds they sighed, together, content. Slowly, he told himself, though his back was slick with sweat and his every muscle trembled with the need to barrel into her; slowly, he thought, and so sank against her, letting her feel him, all of him, even as he drank in the glorious sensation of her. One of her hands reached behind him, found the swell of his bum and pulled her into him, her hips rocking up towards him, encouraging the achingly slow capitulation of his body into hers. With the other she reached for his face, fingertips splaying out against the rise of his cheek, her thumb catching against his bottom lip, holding there. Her back arched, lifted, pressed the glorious softness of her breasts hard to his chest, and all the while he looked down on her in wonder, watching the way her entire body seemed to flush with pleasure, the way she moved, graceful and unbearably erotic.

When at last his body was flush against hers, every inch of his cock buried within her trembling heat, her thighs grasping at his hips while she shivered beneath him, Lucien pressed a gentle kiss against the pad of her thumb where it lingered against his lip. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled up at him, beautiful, serene, relieved and yet eager, and he watched her face as slowly, so slowly, he drew his hips back, sliding almost entirely out of her, holding them both captive for a moment with no more than the head of his cock between her folds, and her brow furrowed, and her hips bucked up against him, and it was his turn to grin, then, as he once more began his descent, as slow now as he had been before.

And so they came together in that place, neither rushed nor fevered but savoring every exquisite second of the pleasure they could draw from one another. It was not only release he sought, though his body was aching for it; it was her, Jean he wanted, Jean he loved, Jean he yearned to be close to, always, forever. They moved together, hands clutching at one another, grasping, begging, taking; he built her up, higher and higher, determined to feel her come apart around him before at last he spilled himself inside her. Gradually his restraint began to slip; she was too beautiful, and he needed her too desperately. As the thrusting of his hips grew more and more determined Jean's hands reached for him; she bound him with her arms, pulled him down atop her, and he fell against her, relieved. His forearms bore the bulk of his weight now, his hips working ceaseless as he drove within her, and Jean just held him, tightly, let him bury his face in the crook of her neck, let him lick the sweat from her skin while she whispered to him how she loved him, how she needed him, how good it felt, to hold him inside her, her breath washing warm and sweet over the curve of his ear. The pace of her panting breaths increased in time to the rising tempo of his thrusts, and in the heat and the wet of them their bodies molded together, melted down into one creature. Her arms around his back, her ankles locked tight around his hips, her skin beneath his lips; at last, she had consumed him, as he had always thought she might, and he could not resist her. Harder, and faster, and harder still he took her, the old mattress creaking alarming beneath them, the wet slap of their bodies driving him mad with need, the beautiful, unbearable softness of her clutching at him. She drove every thought from his head, until all that was left was Jean.

Beautiful as it was such things were not meant to last forever; the timbre of his groans deepend, and Jean, recognizing how close they were, reached between them, her fingertips circling, circling, circling around the apex of her pleasure, and he could feel her hand against his cock each time he withdrew and returned to her again, and as she gasped and moaned in his ear he felt himself begin to fall, at last.

Jean hit her mark first, mercifully; she tensed around him, glorious, her entire body drawn taut with need, and as she cried out in wordless pleasure, as her sex clenched and fluttered around his aching shaft, Lucien let himself go. Furiously he thrust into her trembling release, and her shaking breaths drew him on, and on.

"Please, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice shaky from her own release, and yet begging him on. "Let go," she breathed.

And so he did; with all the power his body could muster he plunged within her one final time, and the force of his thrust had her mewling with pleasure, and it was that sound he heard, not the bone-deep groan that tore from his own lips, as at last he spilled out his release, and fell against her, boneless and spent.

In the aftermath of their coming together Jean had very nearly fallen asleep; Lucien rested atop her for as long as he dared, but as soon as he could breathe again he rolled away, and watched as she rolled onto her belly, her face buried in his pillows, her body slack, her legs splayed open while the mess of their joined release ruined the sheets beneath her. Lucien smiled, and kissed the rise of her shoulder, and then he left her, just for a moment.

It was, after all, Jean's birthday, and Lucien had not forgotten, despite the tumult they had endured over the last twenty four hours. He went first to the loo, cleaned himself up and retrieved a warm, wet cloth for Jean, and as he made his way back to her side he stopped by his own bureau, and withdrew the small box containing the present he had purchased for just this occasion. At his bedside he stopped for a moment, watching her, drinking in the sight of her beautiful body, bare and at rest, the elegant curve of her spine, the rise of her bum, the glimpse of her sex, red and swollen and glossy with need, and he grinned, for she was beautiful, and it was the love between them that had left her so relaxed, so comfortable there in his bed, not running from him but resting, on sheets that smelled of him.

Carefully he slotted himself into place beside her; he placed the box on the pillow just in front of her face, the same way he had done at Christmas, and then he reached for her, let his fingertips trail light as a feather from the nape of her neck to the rise of her bum. She shivered at his touch but it was not enough to rouse her; grinning, then, Lucien flatted his palm over her bum, and squeezed her firmly. Jean hummed, and lifted her hips, reflexively, he thought, for they had both exerted themselves far too much to consider further exploration now, but he liked it just the same, the way her body reacted to him. With the cloth in hand he gently cleaned her sex, and that made her hum, too, made her open herself up to him in an act of such simple trust it very nearly brought tears to his eyes. When his task was done he threw the cloth away, and stretched himself out along her back, and as he kissed her neck Jean opened her eyes at last.

"Lucien?" she asked as she caught sight of her present on the pillow. She rose up beneath him, propped herself up on her elbows while Lucien rolled to the side and watched her, grinning.

"Happy birthday, my darling," he said. Perhaps he sounded a bit pleased with himself; perhaps he was.

"It is, isn't it?" she asked, shooting him a cheeky grin over her shoulder.

"Go on, then," he said, his hand gravitating once more to the rise of her bum. He had to touch her, always, longed for the warmth and the softness of her beneath his hands, that reminder of their connection to one another, and she did not begrudge him that need while she carefully untied the ribbon around the box before opening it.

"Oh, Lucien," she sighed, as at last her present was revealed to her. It was not a ring, much as he longed to give her such; Jean had taught him some measure of patience, and he knew that the time was not right, just yet. Soon, he told himself, but not just now.

For now, for this birthday, he had given her a necklace. It was a single teardrop sapphire, ringed with tiny diamonds, set in white gold, on a white gold chain. The stone was small, the necklace itself expensive but subtle; he knew Jean did not appreciate ostentation in any form. But it was delicate, and finely made, as Jean was delicate and finely made, and the color of the stone had reminded him of the color of her eyes, and he had known the moment he saw it that it was meant for her.

"Thank you," she whispered, her fingertips trailing against the necklace where it sat nestled on its little bed of satin.

"Happy birthday," he said again, and then she rolled into his embrace, and kissed him soundly. The day had started in darkness, but they had burst forth into a beautiful light, and his heart was at peace.