13 May 1959
It was very late, but Jean was not sleeping. He was coming home today, her beautiful, brilliant king, ten days late but finally returning to her, and though her heart was glad to know that soon he would be back home where he belonged - that he had not spurned her and their homeland in favor of a more exciting life somewhere else - she would not rest easy until she'd laid eyes on him. The threat Sir Patrick had mentioned lingered on the edges of her consciousness, always; her king's love for his daughter was admirable, but it had made him vulnerable, too. There was a risk he might be attacked when he disembarked from his plane; the security services had only a few hours' notice to put their protections in place, and if someone inside the castle was passing that information along it would be no difficult thing to put an end to his reign right there on the tarmac. The plane itself might plummet from the sky; it was all well and good for other people to go hurtling through the air in those deathtraps but Jean did not trust them, and she knew how easily an ordinary day could turn to disaster. It would be a cruel twist of fate indeed, she thought, if her king had resolved to come home, only to be snatched away at the last moment by some mechanical failure. If she'd shared her fears with Alice she was certain Miss Harvey would tell her she was being silly, but fate had been cruel to Jean more times than she could count, and she knew that only the very foolish do not feel fear.
And so she had curled herself beneath the blankets in her little bed, lying in the darkness with her eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling and knowing sleep would not come. It would be better, she thought, to fret in silence and rise with the sun and find him safely in residence than to drift through the corridors of the castle anxious and unoccupied. If her mind had been less tumultuous she might have turned to her book for distraction, but as it was she knew she could not focus on the words, and so she did not even make the attempt. She simply lay there, letting her mind go wherever it willed, not trying to control her wayward thoughts or even to make sense of them.
She wanted him home. She wanted to see him, to speak to him, to share tea and a few quiet words with him. She wanted him here, where she could keep an eye on him, where she could see for herself that he was safe and well. These things she wanted, and others besides, but beneath her longing her rational mind asserted itself; he was the king, and so could not ever be anything more to her. She could not expect him to court her, could not dream of kissing him, could not think of rings and bodies winding together in the darkness; those things were prohibited her. The longing might remain, but she lacked the ability to act on it. Well, perhaps not the ability; she was certainly able enough, but she knew her place, even if he did not know his own. One of them would have to be strong enough to mind the lines that class and circumstance and power had drawn between them, and the king had proven himself unequal to that task. He needs me to protect him, she thought, from himself, as much as anyone else. The kingdom was restless; oh, the people loved him, had accepted him into their hearts the moment the newsreels from that day at the hospital had begun to play. In that footage he was magnificent, tall and strong, his jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, blood on his hands as he tended to Charlie's wound and barked orders with all the command his position implied, disregarding his own safety in the name of caring for the brave lad who had stepped in front of the bullet meant for him. The king had been every inch the soldier in those ghostly images, proud and brave, determined and full of compassion, and yes, the people did love their soldiers, and him most of all. The politicians, and the king's extended family, and indeed most of the nobility, however, did not approve of him at all. To their minds he was reckless and brash and dangerous; unpredictable and uncontrollable he remained a threat to their status quo, and those people so accustomed to comfort and getting their own way did not react well to such a threat. They wanted him gone, replaced with someone more like them, and Jean feared what would become of their little kingdom, should those angry men succeed.
To her mind, the kingdom did not need another spoilt noble in charge of things, making imperious demands and neglecting the concerns of the common people. King Lucien knew what it was to suffer, to be deprived, to grieve and struggle as any ordinary man might, and that knowledge made him - to Jean's mind - uniquely suited for the task at hand. He did not care for profit or status; he cared for people. It was one of the many things she loved about him.
And so ran the course of her thoughts as she tossed and turned, waiting for daylight and the triumphant return of this man who had somehow become the center of her whole world.
It was very late when Lucien finally returned to the castle. They had taken a roundabout course from the airstrip to his home, and he had been shuffled in through a seldom used rear entrance. The reason for that, Matthew had told him, was that the security services believed his life was still in danger, and measures had to be taken to ensure his safety. Lucien supposed he ought to be grateful for all the work that had gone into keeping him alive, but he was bone-weary and out of sorts, and he only wanted to be home.
As they entered the castle Matthew offered to walk up the stairs with him, to see him to his room, but Lucien gently declined, and sent him off to bed. Likely Matthew was even more exhausted than Lucien was himself, and the stairs would be hard on his leg after so long spent travelling. On another night Lucien might have ignored this and invited him up anyway, enjoyed a nightcap with his old friend, sitting up until the sun rose talking of everything and nothing, but his nerves were restless and he did not think he would be very good company.
There was so much noise in his head he could hardly make sense of it as he mounted the stairs, home at last. He had spent ten glorious, too-short days with his beloved Li, and returned to his kingdom with her address tucked in his bag and the knowledge that she did not despise him treasured in his heart. She was safe, and well, happy enough and loved, and he knew now where she was, how to find her, knew at last what had become of his family. Finally, after so many years, his soul knew peace.
It was not easier, Jean had told him once. But it was a gift. It hurt, but it put an end to that unbearable waiting.
He understood what she meant, now. Learning that his wife had died had not made him feel better, exactly, but it had finally answered the question that had driven him through all the long miserable years, and set him free. He knew, now, that Mei Lin was gone, lost so many years before, and he knew that he could mourn her, and look for her no more. He knew, now, that Li was safe, that while she had spent so long thinking he did not care for her she had finally learned the depth of his love for her, and she loved him now, as he had always wished she would. Without the worry, without the doubt, without the self-recrimination, he could finally begin to live a life of his own choosing, free from all those constraints. He could make his own way, now, unfettered by the past. He was not glad that his wife was dead, was not glad that his daughter would remain so far from his side, but he understood it, and he would fight against it no more.
As if his feet had made the decision entirely unprompted by his rational mind he found that he had stepped off the stairs on the wrong landing. Like a diver coming up from deep water he returned to himself, and saw that he faced a plain wooden door that was not his own. He knew what door this was, who slept on the other side of it, and if he could not quite admit to himself why he had come here, still he knew he would not leave this place until he raised his hand and knocked. From the moment he'd left Shanghai the compass in his heart had been pointing unerringly in this direction, and he had reached his desired destination at last. It was not right, was not proper, was probably foolish in the extreme, but now that he was here he could not even contemplate leaving without seeing her face.
He lifted his hand and rapped his knuckles gently against the door, trying not to make too much noise; it would not do for someone else to wake and find him here. What his intentions were, once that door opened, he could not say, but he simply had to see her, had to look upon her face and hear her sweet voice and know that she was well, and still here, waiting for him. Everything else could wait; all that mattered in this moment was Jean.
It was Jean who had set his feet on the path towards Shanghai, Jean who had reminded him that he took orders from no one, that his life was his own - within limits. It was Jean's voice he heard in the back of his mind, warning him to be prudent, to hold his tongue, to listen and to treat his daughter gently. It was Jean he had to thank, really, for helping him to restore his relationship with Li, and it was Jean he had to thank for his decision to return here; the thought of her disappointment was enough to remind him that he had obligations back home that could not be ignored. He had gone because of her, and returned because of her as well, and wasn't it strange, that she had become the beginning and the end of everything for him.
After a moment the door swung open. On the other side she stood, disgruntled and mussed from sleep. She wore no makeup, and her soft curls fell all around her face, free from the restraints of pins and fashion. She had taken the time to wrap herself in a horrible pink robe, and her face went pale as she saw him. She looked...soft, and sweet, and lovely, and in that moment he wanted her so badly that he ached with it.
"Jean," he breathed her name in wonder. Over a month had passed since last he'd found himself alone with her, and the sight of her face washed over him like a cool breeze on a sweltering day, relieved him and revived him.
"What on earth are you doing?" she answered, her tone full of fire. He had not meant to cause her distress, but he realized at once that he had, of course he had; coming to her private room in the dead of the night, risking both their reputations and no doubt discomfiting her by his presence, he had overstepped every rule of courtesy and comportment. A small part of him felt guilty, for making her so uncomfortable, for putting her in this position, but the rest of him was so relieved to see her that he did not waste a moment on doubt.
"Quickly, before someone sees you," she hissed, and then to his great surprise she reached out and caught hold of his arm, and dragged him into the room.
The lights were off, and when Jean closed the door sharply behind him they were plunged into darkness, alone and standing so close, so unbelievably close, with no one there to see. He was standing with his back almost flush to the door, Jean just in front of him; there was one little window, and though the curtains were drawn some faint light carried in from the night beyond those walls, painted the shapes of bed and bureau in shadows, but Lucien paid no mind to the furnishings. He had eyes only for Jean.
Without her usual pumps she stood almost a head shorter than he, her chin lifted as she gazed up at him; how lovely she was, even now, in the darkness. She made to reach for the lightswitch, but as she moved so, too, did Lucien; he bowed his head towards her, and her cheek brushed against the bristle of his beard. A soft gasp escaped her, and Lucien's heart nearly stopped at the sound. Silence fell around them as they froze in place, a silence thick and full of promise, and Lucien reveled in it, in the knowledge that his presence affected her as deeply as hers did him.
"I've missed you, Jean," he breathed into the stillness. There were many other things he longed to say to her, so many other secrets he dearly wished to pour out at her feet, but he felt this was the best place to start. He had missed her, longed for her, for so many weeks, and as she stood before him now he felt the yearning in his chest only growing. For her part Jean seemed similarly dazed; she made no move to step away from him, their cheeks resting against one another, her breathing sharp and shallow, the softness of her brushing against his chest with every one of those staccato breaths. It was dark, and they were alone, and she smelled of flowers, and sleep, and home.
"I missed you, too, Lucien," she answered, her voice no more than a whisper. He took that as a very good sign indeed, for in his experience those encounters when she forgot herself entirely and called him by his name were always the sweetest.
She had meant to turn the lights on, to bathe them both in the gentle glow of the overhead lamp and take a step back from him, to sit down upon the end of her bed while he sat on the little bench in front of her dressing table so that they might speak to one another properly and from a respectable distance, but she had been waylaid by the very proximity of him, distracted by the smell of him floating on the air between them, by the warmth radiating off him in waves, by the tender sincerity of his voice and the rasp of his beard against her soft cheek. She had been overwhelmed and overcome, utterly and without recourse.
She had missed him; oh, but she had missed him, and now he was here, in her bedroom, late at night, as if the desperation of her wanting heart had conjured the vision of him just to soothe her. In the darkness she could not hide from her desires or her own fragile heart. In the darkness she could only feel, yearning for him washing over her in waves. I have to protect him, the thought came back to her, but now she did not want to save him with reminders of restraint and obligation; she wanted to shield him with her own body, wrap her arms around him and never let him go. The world outside her room was full of dangers, but here he was safe, and here she wanted to keep him.
Still they stood, frozen, only the trembling of their hands to give them away. He was a tall man, a broad man, but he stood with his head bowed as if in reverence; cheek-to-cheek they stood, hardly breathing, and Jean could not help but think of the first time he'd kissed her, how quickly they had lost all restraint, the way his powerful arms had held her, the way he made her feel when he pushed her back against the wall, delicate, fragile, free. There was passion lurking in both their hearts, waiting for the right moment to burst forth and burn them both to ashes, and she ought to know better than to give herself over to it, but oh, she wanted…
"I don't want to be apart from you, Jean," he breathed into the stillness. "You...you make everything better. You make me better. You've made me see clearly."
Perhaps what he said was true; perhaps he could see more clearly, now. For her part Jean felt only confusion, standing so close to him; before him everything about her life had made sense, had been neat and orderly and perfectly logical, and then he had come barreling in and torn it all to pieces. She felt lost, felt as if she were spinning out in space and he was the only tether she could cling to. There was very little clarity for Jean, in that moment; she knew what she ought do, and she knew what she wanted to do, and there in the darkness she could not say which choice was truly the right one.
She drew in a ragged breath, but no words came to her. It was all but impossible to think, surrounded by him as she was. As if he sensed this her king lifted his head and reached for her, cradled her cheek in his palm and tilted her chin so that she was once more looking up into his earnest blue eyes, so full of warmth, so full of longing for her.
"Tell me what you want, Jean," he said softly, heatedly. "Not what you can't do, not what's expected, not what other people will think. Tell me what you want. Let me give it to you."
He made it sound so easy. As if all she had to do was speak the truth, and then suddenly, somehow, he would make everything all right again, would with his power and his stubborn determination somehow erase every obstacle that stood between Jean and what she wanted most. In the darkness, it was hard not to believe him; he looked so sure, so certain of himself and his strength, so certain that whatever she asked of him he could give it to her. She wanted, very much, to believe him.
For all that she had tried to live the last twenty years of her life with grace and dignity according to the teachings of her church and the bounds of her society the truth was that in her heart Jean was still the same girl she had always been. Eager for freedom, for independence, determined to make her own way. Somewhere, deep inside her, was the same hungry farmgirl who had gone tumbling into the hayloft with Christopher, who would do it again in a heartbeat, even knowing now how her life would change. That girl had always been within her, and she always would be. Here, now, that girl believed Jean could have what she wanted, could take hold of the dearest longing of her heart, if only for a little while, and sort through the rest of the mess later. It was dark, and they were alone, and the door was locked behind him, and he was offering her everything.
And so she gathered her courage, took a deep, trembling breath, and looked into his eyes as she answered.
"You, Lucien," she said. "I want you."
He grinned at her in the darkness, teeth flashing white and dangerous, and then he was on her. The hand that cradled her cheek drew her to him while the other came to rest low on her back, and her arms wound around his neck while his lips crashed into hers, soft and yet demanding. Some small sound escaped her; a whimper, a sigh, it didn't matter. It was a sound of capitulation as she gave herself over utterly to him, melting in his arms and pressing him back against the door with the weight of her body. One of her hands drifted up to ruffle the hair at the nape of his neck and he smiled; she felt him smile, felt the way his lips moved against her own, and she could not help but smile back. The moment she did his tongue slipped past her lips and all her fears seemed to melt away. She wanted him, and he wanted her, and tomorrow could wait until tomorrow, for in this moment she intended only to love him. He had come to her at last, her wayward man, and she wanted only to hold him.
With each passing second the fire inside her seemed only to grow; the slip and slide of their tongues was echoed by the movement of their hips, searching, eager for purchase, for friction, wanting to learn just how well they fit together. His hand roved from her back down to the swell of her bum, his broad palm covering her, squeezing her, rocking her against him. She mewled, relieved to know that after all this time it still felt so good, so right when he touched her, but he frowned and pulled away from her. For a moment she was afraid - had she not pleased him? Had he changed his mind already? Her hand tensed at the back of his neck, fingernails pressing against his skin, but then he kissed the corner of her mouth and reached for the tie of her robe.
"You are so beautiful, my darling," he told her. "But this robe is horrible."
She laughed into the darkness, a tinkling, merry sound; yes, her pink robe was hardly the height of elegance and sophistication, but it was warm and soft, and that was all she needed it to be. Just now, however, her body was electric with sensation and she had no need of its comfort; she only needed him. And so she did not protest when he unfastened the tie, when he slid his hands beneath the robe, over her shoulders, and carefully pulled it away. Beneath it she wore only a soft, pink satin nightdress, and she could tell at once the Lucien preferred this vision of her. The fabric was thin and clung to her slender frame, and she knew that when he looked at her in the dim light filtering in through the curtains he could see the buds of her nipple, the sharp points of her hips, the shadow at the apex of her thighs, and in his eyes she could see his hunger for her.
"Oh, Jean," he breathed, and then he reached for her, lifted her deftly with hands clenched hard around her bum. A breathless sound escaped her, not quite a squeal, as she wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in the crook of his neck, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium. He had, with his hands and his lips and his earnest words turned her entire world upside down, and she found she liked it that way.
She kissed his neck, let her lips drag against the straining tendons there while one of his kneaded her bum, while the other slipped beneath her nightdress to trace patterns against the bare skin of her thigh.
"Well, then?" she asked him lightly, teeth catching against the tanned skin of his neck.
He needed no further prodding; he nudged her with his chin, and she lifted her head, and then his lips were on hers again, and his powerful legs were covering the short distance from the door to her bed. Gently, ever so gently he laid her down there, stretched himself out along the length of her body, holding himself up on his elbows while still his tongue surged into her mouth, while still her thighs clutched at his hips, trying to drag him into her. She could not remember when last she had been kissed with such desperate, reckless fervor, and she could not fathom how she could have gone so long without such passion to feed her weary soul.
A strange thing happened then, or strange to her mind at least. She had thought, given how intense things were between them already, given how she could feel his hardness straining for her through his trousers, that he would simply lift up her nightdress, and upon finding her knickerless would waste no time in freeing himself from his trousers before plunging into her. In her - admittedly somewhat limited - experience, a man so close to the edge would not afford himself the luxury of patience. And yet he did no such thing; he rolled to the side, and steadied himself on his knees, looking down on her in wonder for a moment.
"Lucien-" what on earth are you doing, she started to ask, but then he reached for the hem of her nightdress, his eyes on her face as if gauging her reaction. She swallowed somewhat thickly, and nodded once, and then he was carefully pulling it up and off her. Beneath it she was utterly, completely bare, and yet she did not worry, not even for a moment, what he might think when he saw her like that. Yes, it had been a very long time since last Jean had lain stretched out and naked for a man's inspection, and yes, before this night she had only ever gone to bed with Christopher, but she knew that Lucien wanted her, and she knew that she had kept herself fit, that despite being on the wrong side of forty she was still beautiful enough to tempt him. His kisses, his gentle hands had banished her every doubt, and so she only waited, breathless and eager to see what he might do.
"Oh, Jean," he breathed then. He stretched himself out along her side, his left hand reaching out to knead her breast while his lips settled on her collarbone. Delighted and relieved she hummed happily, and let her hand drift through his hair while he touched her. His kisses blazed a path of fire, over her shoulder, across the curve of her breast, until they wrapped around one dusky pink nipple, and she gasped into the darkness, arching her back and pressing more of herself into his clever mouth. God forgive me, she thought, but that feels good. He knew what he was doing, knew how to inflame her; his hand abandoned her breast and drifted over her belly, strong fingers pressing, kneading, and her legs fell open as she lay there next to him, her body asking for things her mind could not yet comprehend. That hand of his curled around her thigh while his teeth nipped lightly at her breast and her breathing was coming in sharp, desperate pants now.
"Tell me what you want, Jean." He whispered the words against her breast but there was no denying that it was a command. It was hard to ignore, that note of power, expectant demanding; he wanted her to say it, wanted her to tell him to take that hand and press it between her legs, wanted her to tell him that she was wet and ready for him and aching for his thick fingers to plunge into her. And though she wanted those things, though she had no doubt, now, that they would be positively electric together, the words stuck in her throat. That had never been Jean's way; she did not have to be explicit, to make her needs plain, to get what she wanted. She lifted her leg, pressed her foot flat on the mattress and held herself open for him, but she could not do this thing he'd asked of her. She turned her head into the pillows, not wanting him to see her face as she spoke.
"Please," she said desperately. "Please don't make me say it."
He kissed her breast once more and then lifted himself away from her, and Jean looked up at him sharply, suddenly terrified that he meant to leave her. If he needed to hear her say it, if he needed the words to convince himself that she truly wanted him, surely she could find the strength, if the alternative was him leaving her cold and lonely. But she needn't have worried, for he only settled himself in the cradle of her thighs, dropped gentle kisses along the slope of her belly, and down, and down, teeth nipping at her inner thighs. She threw her head back on the pillow, her body reeling as realization of what he meant to do dawned on her. One hand she fisted in the sheets and the other she tangled in his soft hair, and then he bowed his head, and blew her quiet life wide open.
With lips and tongue he traced the shape of her folds, his beard harsh and yet somehow delicious against the softest part of her. Her inner muscles clenched with need and she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from crying out at the beautiful sensation of it. He took his time, learning the shape of her, teasing her, not rushing to be inside her but seeming instead to savor this moment when everything between them was new and bright and joyful. Her hips pressed up hard against his face, desperate for something she could not ask for with words, but he understood her very well, and did not make her wait too long. When it seemed she might fly apart from the tension alone his lips wrapped around the bundle of nerves at her center and his thick finger slipped slowly, ever so slowly between her folds, down into her, curling up against the spot inside her that made her see stars. His tongue flicked at her deftly and that finger moved in time to the rhythm of his lips and all thought left her head.
"Lucien, oh, oh, please," she gasped desperately, and ground herself against his mouth, and a second finger joined the first. Those fingers, bigger and thicker than her own, deft and skilled at all manner of pursuits, threatened to undo her utterly. It seemed to last an eternity as she lay there beneath his ministrations, her body tight and pulsing with need, but Lucien knew exactly what he was doing and all too soon she was flying, crying out with joy as at last she reached her peak and tumbled from it, pulsing against his mouth.
At some point her right leg had draped over his shoulder, and she had tightened herself so fully around him he could not move from the vise grip of her thighs. She held him there, and he let her, let her wring every last ounce of pleasure from his lips and his fingers that she possibly could until finally she fell back against the mattress, boneless and shivering. With what little strength she had left she lifted her arms, begging him silently to return to her; he kissed her belly and then tore the shirt and vest from his back - wiping his chin discreetly on the vest, she saw - before he stretched himself out over her and kissed her soundly. Somehow this felt even better, his soft, supple skin against her own, her hands curling into the hard muscle of his back while she sucked the taste of herself off his tongue. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the fine spiderweb of scarring that scored his back but she did not question it, only flattened her palms against his pain and hooked her leg once more around his hip, cradling him in her own warmth and silently promising him that she would never let such agony befall him again. She would keep him safe.
His lips trailed away from her mouth and she gasped into the stillness as his kisses fell upon the curve of her neck. Knowing what it was he wanted and not caring in the slightest she tilted her head and let him draw her delicate skin between his teeth, let him hold her, mark her, claim her. Hiding the evidence of their passion would be a problem for the morning; in that moment, she only wanted more of him. Her heel drummed against the small of his back, caught against his belt; if the bare skin of their chests felt this delicious she thought that the slide of their bare legs would be even better, and so she freed her hands and slipped them between their hips, intent on the buckle of his belt.
"Jean-" Lucien started to say, but she only grinned, pressed her lips to his temple and deftly worked his belt free.
"I want to feel you," she answered breathlessly. He wanted the words, and while she had been unable to give them to him before, she found they tripped from her lips quite easily now. "I want you inside me."
He groaned, helpless in the face of such an earnest plea, and buried his face once more in her breast, his teeth scoring her skin while he lifted his hips and let her tug his trousers and pants away. In a rush he kicked them off, but before he could do anything more Jean reached for him, wrapped her hand around his shaft and shivered as she found him hard as marble and weeping with want of her. Every inch of his body was sleek and hard and powerful and this was no different; she felt another rush of wetness overtake her at the thought of holding him close within her. Her thigh had found its way around his hip once more, and when she shifted, desperate for some relief, the head of his cock caught against her inner thigh and painted her skin with the evidence of his need for her. He groaned and bucked into her hand, and she laughed; God, but nothing in her life had felt this good, not for a very, very long time. His love had left her reckless and free and joyful, and so she did not hesitate, then.
Taking him by surprise she used the hold of her body against him to turn them deftly, settling herself upon his thighs while his shaft nestled against her belly, her hand still working over him smoothly. She wanted to see him just like this, wanted to watch this titan of a man laid out flat on his back and helpless to resist the touch of her hands. The thick muscles of his neck strained with yearning and the hard plane of his chest was painted with sweat, his and hers and theirs. His broad hands settled on her hips, and still she ran her hand over his shaft, her thumb catching against the head of his cock, his head snapping back against the pillows in response and her name escaping his lips on a breathless groan.
She liked this, liked the feel of his need throbbing in her hand, liked the hard, hairy muscles of his thighs clenching beneath her, liked the way the vein leapt in his neck, crying out for her lips, liked knowing that she could undo him as utterly as he could her. But she had told him what she wanted, and she would not stop until she had achieved her goal, and so she moved, then, canted her hips and let his shaft settle into the valley of her thighs, rocked her own slickness against him and listened to the way they both gasped into the darkness.
"Christ, you feel good," he groaned, his hands abandoning her hips and instead splaying across her back, holding her steady while still she slid against him, feeling every inch of his hardness dragging against her and shivering at the thought of taking him inside her own aching heat. He was so beautiful, and he was hers, if only for this moment, hers to command, to guide, to love. Though she intended to tease him a bit more, her hand still holding him pressed fast against her, it seemed her king could wait no longer.
From the moment they met she had known that he was strong, much stronger than she, but she had not understood just how powerful he was until now, until she could watch the flexing of his bare muscles beneath her, until suddenly he moved, sitting upright and bending his knees behind her back. There was no way for her to resist him, but then she did not want to; her hands wrapped around his head, her fingers catching against his hair as he crashed into her, kissing her urgently. Those powerful hands lifted her easily, and she kept her grip upon his cock, held him steady while he plunged her down atop him. Her lip was between his teeth but she could not help but throw her head back at the sensation, her lip throbbing and the breath escaping her soundlessly as just like that he filled her, completely, pushed so deep inside her that her muscles clenched around him and she nearly came undone right then and there. Surrounded by him she let go of any thought of her superiority; he had taken over her utterly. His thighs at her back, his lips on her neck, one hand on her breast and the other at her hip, his hardness throbbing inside her; everything was Lucien, in that moment, and all the world around him seemed to have vanished completely.
Desperate for more sensation she rocked against him, and he let her, bound her with arms and legs and simply watched while she took her pleasure against him. The hand that cradled her breast began to knead her, hard, and she whimpered at the sensation, already crumbling. Sensing how near she was to her own completion Lucien leaned in and captured the lobe of her ear with his teeth, tugging it, flicking at it with his tongue, and the sensation of his mouth and the wash of his warm breath against her ear sent her reeling, and in that moment she came undone, thrusting down hard against him and grinding messily into her release, whispering his name over and over again until the breath left her completely and she could do no more than collapse against his chest.
"You are so beautiful, my darling," Lucien told her then, his voice reverent and awed, his hand smoothing over her hair. In that moment she wanted very much to tell him that he was beautiful, too, but she could not find the breath to speak, and he was still achingly hard between her legs, and with each shiver of her sex around him she felt her arousal climbing to new heights. For a moment she rested, but the call of her body was too fervent to be ignored.
"Lucien, please," she managed to gasp, shifting her hips weakly. Her body was spent, her strength gone; though she wanted, very much, to lift herself up and ride him until he was as lost as she her legs were trembling, and would not hold her. But they were not done, and she did not want to stop; she only wanted him.
"Yes," he answered, and then those powerful muscles were moving again, turning them both until it was Jean who lay stretched out before him. The marks of his loving were already making themselves known, the red burn of his beard across her breasts, the purpling bruise of his teeth at her neck and her nipple, the mark of his fingertips against her hip. For a moment he gazed at her in wonder, as if he were only just seeing her for the first time. But then she lifted her arms, weakly, and he fell upon her, kissing her messily while he surged within her and the sudden drive of his fullness into her over-sensitive flesh left her gasping against his lips. He was fierce, and hard, implacable and undeniable, falling into her again, and again, and again. The scrape of her nails scored his back, his sides, his hips, one hand even drifting down to clench against his bum, drawing him into her, begging him for more. The wet slap of their bodies and the chorus of his groans echoed in the small room; please, don't let them hear, she thought dimly, but then he kissed her again, and the thought vanished at once, replaced by please, don't let him stop.
Yes, and please, and God, the words tripped from her trembling lips without her knowing. With one strong hand he caught the back of her thigh, pressed her leg back against her chest and held her open for him, changing the angle between them and pushing them both towards the precipice in a moment. Overwhelming, inescapable; with every powerful thrust of his hips he ground against her aching center and stars began to spark and flutter behind her eyes.
"Please," she gasped, "with me, please, Lucien, I want-"
"Yes," he answered, his lips finding her chin, his head hanging low over her as still he worked them both into a frenzy. "Want to feel you," he added, one hand reaching between them, fingertips vibrating madly against the bundle of nerves at her center.
That was all it took to send Jean shooting off into the stars. Her head snapped back and her body bowed hard against him, clutching him tight to her, and he cursed like a drowning man and ground into her release until he could hold himself back no more. Burying his face in the crook of her neck he cursed again and let himself go, thrusting madly, messily into the fluttering of her muscles until his own need crested and came pulsing out of him, white hot and wet and full of want. If she'd had sense enough to think she would have drawn her hips back and let him spill against her thigh, but there was no thought in her head at all, and she only held him to her, and kept him tight within her until at last he collapsed against her, gasping and relieved.
How long they stayed like that she could not say, but at last he sighed, kissed her shoulder and rolled away from her. Without his comforting weigh atop her, inside her, she shivered, suddenly cold, but he did not leave her for long. Those powerful arms took hold of her and rolled her into him, her head settling on his shoulder, her arm flung out over his belly, her legs wrapped around his thigh. Her eyes were too heavy for her to keep them open, sleep already steeling over her, and so when she heard him speak, his voice came to her as if from a dream.
"I love you, Jean," he said, and kissed the top of her head, and then they both drifted away, sated and happy.