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Emmanuelle	By : TippyMidget Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2021 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Javert gently creaked open the bedroom door at three in the morning on January 3^rd, trying desperately to be silent. But his boot heels clicked on the wooden floor as he stepped into the room, and as he made his way to his wardrobe, he heard Emmanuelle's soft, whimpering voice behind him.

“Mmm...” she said into the shadows. “Is that you?”

“It's just me,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

“How are you?”

“Go back to sleep, Emmanuelle; I'll see you in the morning.”

“I'm cold without you in the bed,” she said, her voice cracking from sleep.

“You won't be cold if you're sleeping,” he reasoned. He thought about building up the fire, but then internally argued that what he'd just told Emmanuelle applied to him, too. “I'll be there soon,” he murmured.

He saw a flash of white from the bed in the darkness, and something white float to the ground, and he furrowed his brow, thinking he was seeing things, and got undressed at his wardrobe and into his nightshirt. He trod quickly over to the bed and climbed under the blankets, reaching for Emmanuelle to pull her close to him.

She was completely nude, and he balked. “Where's your nightgown? No wonder you're cold!” he exclaimed, his hushed voice hissing through the silence.

“Body heat works better with no clothes,” she said simply. “You should take your nightshirt off.”

“Oh, yes, because you and I will be able to lie here just fine with no clothes on at all and just fall asleep,” he laughed.

“I will; I'm tired,” she argued.

“You won't! You'll start kissing and touching me, and before you know it, you'll be on top of me grinding your hips against me until there's nothing I can do!”

“You make me sound like a succubus,” she complained.

“Hmm... are you a succubus?” he grinned at her through the darkness, and she giggled. She hiked up the hem of his nightshirt, and he sighed heavily, pulling it up and over his head and letting it fall to the ground beside the bed.

Emmanuelle snuggled close to him, pulling her body flush against the side of his and throwing a short leg across both of his long ones. She wrapped an arm around his torso and tucked her head into his shoulder.

“There, see?” she asked, and Javert made a low noise of want, feeling every inch of her soft skin cradled against his own body.

“Not helpful,” he uttered. “Go back to your own side of the bed,” he joked.

“No!” she whined. “Go to sleep!”

“How on Earth am I supposed to go to sleep when I can feel this -” he reached down and touched her moist opening, and she gasped and laughed, “against my thigh, and when I can feel these -” he reached over to fondle a breast, “against my chest?”

“Self-control,” Emmanuelle answered.

“Haven't I told you before that in every other avenue of my life, I am in complete control of myself and my surroundings, and around you I am completely helpless?” he laughed bitterly under his breath.

“Fine, then,” she said. “You suggested that I would be on top of you grinding my hips against you.” She swung herself up so she was straddling him and began moving her hips in a figure-eight motion, his erection twitching beneath her. Her hair fell down in waves around her face in the shadows of the room. He could barely see her in the darkness, but he could feel her moving against him as he grew harder and harder. “Self-fulfilling prophecy,” she told him with a wicked giggle.

“Oh, no, you don't,” Javert said, and he pushed her down so she was on her back.

“Oof!” she exclaimed, her laughter continuing. He uttered a low, rumbling growl and rubbed his bare torso against hers. He guided himself into her and she gasped and whimpered as he pushed in.

Javert leaned down and kissed her earnestly, deftly dancing his tongue around her mouth as she moaned into his. Her hands were everywhere as he thrust quickly and deeply. She wrapped her legs around him and crossed her ankles, pulling her knees up against her chest. Her hands wandered the vast expanse of Javert's muscular back, her nails digging slightly into his rough skin as he relentlessly pistoned into her.

He released their kiss and she was panting, desperately gasping for air as she mewled with each thrust. Javert savagely went for her neck then, nipping, licking, and sucking on her soft skin. Emmanuelle cried out into the darkness. Javert sat up onto his knees and squinted through the night to see her. The dim moonlight, diffused by clouds, just barely illuminated the strands of her hair, flared out around her head on the mattress, and the glint of her eyes searching the black air for him.

He smiled slightly into the night and pulled out of her. She huffed in protest, but he slipped his arms under her and picked her up, rotating her. She knew what he wanted and complied, getting on her hands and knees. Javert entered her again and Emmanuelle began moaning loudly every time he buried himself inside her and slammed his pelvis against her rear. She let out impassioned “uh, uh, uh”s that made Javert insanely aroused, and he gripped her narrow waist firmly as he pounded her as hard as he could. He emitted noises of his own, quiet groans that rumbled in the dark room.

Before he could even prepare for it, he was climaxing, unloading his seed into her. For a moment he felt as though he couldn't move as sensations of heat and tingling washed over him. When at last he felt his ears cool and heard his breathing slowing down, he pulled out of her and climbed off the bed.

“Where are you going?” he heard her pant from behind him.

“To build the fire back up. It's freezing,” he said.

He returned to her when the room was bathed in glowing orange light and heat was starting to emanate from the fireplace. She was already tucked back under the blankets, and he joined her beneath the warmth of the covers.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Why?” she asked sleepily, yawning. She laid her head straddling his strong bicep and chest and cast her little arm across his bare torso.

“You didn't...” he trailed off.

“It still felt good,” she assured him, patting his chest.

“Do you want me to -”

“No,” she cut him off. “It's all right. I'm tired. You must be very tired after working. That was nice. Let's go to sleep.” She yawned again.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, and she tipped her head up so he could kiss her on the lips. He did, gently, and within minutes she was fast asleep, snuggled against him.

Javert had a horrible dream that he encountered a prostitute in an alley while on patrol and had offered her money, and that they'd had sex up against the plaster wall of a building. He startled awake, his eyes shocked by the brightness of the white light. He rubbed his eyes and looked out the window, sitting upright. It was snowing heavily, and he could hear piano music. Emmanuelle. He looked beside him and she was gone. He glanced at the clock. Ten-thirty. He'd slept late. He had to work from three o'clock to ten o'clock today.

Trying to shake off the bad dream, Javert skittered his nude body across the cold room to his wardrobe and got dressed into his uniform. His fingers shook as he threaded the brass buttons through their holes on his woolen jacket, and he cursed quietly under his breath. So it was going to be one of those kind of days, was it?

He stalked down the stairs and through the hallway, and the piano music stopped. He kept walking into the parlor, and frowned at Emmanuelle.

“Why did you stop playing?” he asked.

“Good morning,” she said slowly, as though chastising him for not saying it first.

Javert put his lips into a straight line and sighed.

“Good morning,” he replied sullenly. He was still learning how to be pleasant on a regular basis.

“What on Earth is wrong?” Emmanuelle raised an eyebrow. She was wearing her new dress, the one Javert had just let her have made at the dressmaker's. It was white with dark blue decorations around the neckline and hem, with poufy sleeves that tapered to a tight blue wristband. Around her waist there was a blue satin sash tied into a bow with long trailing tails. Javert thought the dress was fancy and bourgeois, but Emmanuelle loved it, and she'd had a matching hat made that should be ready at the milliner's any day.

“What's wrong?” Emmanuelle asked again, jarring Javert out of his reverie.

“N-nothing,” he stammered, rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes.

“Well, that's a lie,” she said, annoyed.

He looked around him for Jeanette, and, seeing her scurry into the bedroom he'd just come out of to clean it, he stepped closer to Emmanuelle.

“I had a horrible dream,” he said quietly.

She looked concerned then, and tipped her head to the side. “What sort of dream?” she asked.

He bit the inside of his cheek and hesitated. “I dreamed I had sex with a prostitute in an alley while I was on patrol,” he said darkly. If he expected her to be angry, he got the complete opposite reaction. She burst into laughter, rocking back and forth on the piano bench with her hand clasped over her mouth. “It's not funny!” he exclaimed, his voice low and harsh.

She quieted but still grinned at him. “Oh, yes, it is!” she said. “Because I know you would never lay a hand on a prostitute unless you were dragging her off to the police station.”

“Of course I wouldn't!” he said, his voice urgent and irritated. “That's not the point! It was... disturbing... because it felt very real.”

Emmanuelle rose and stood in front of him. She fingered a button on his chest and looked up at him. “Only I get to have you,” she said seductively. “And only you get to have me. And everything else is completely imaginary.” She leaned up on her tiptoes and pulled down his head so she could plant a kiss on his lips. “Only I am real for you,” she whispered, and he nodded down at her solemnly.

She pulled back then, and smiled at him. “My hat is ready at the milliner's,” she said happily. “Will you come with me to get it? Then we can get some food afterward at your favorite tavern.”

He nodded again, and went to the coat rack to get his long black overcoat. Emmanuelle dashed off. As he threaded the belt of his overcoat, Emmanuelle came bounding down the hallway merrily, wearing her dark blue cape, her ringlets bouncing as she ran.

“I thought nice young ladies were supposed to walk demurely,” Javert teased her.

“If we had guests here, I wouldn't run around,” she answered.

“Just don't trip and fall in your new dress,” he cautioned, giving her a grave look.

She giggled. “I think you'd laugh if I were running down the hallway and all of a sudden I was flat on my face.”

“I would never laugh at you falling down!” he insisted.

“Oh, yes, you would,” she asserted, still laughing, “because it would be very funny.”

“Would you laugh at me if I fell down?” Javert asked, finally cracking a smile.

She giggled vivaciously. “Maybe,” she admitted. “If you didn't get hurt.”

He shook his head and opened the door, putting his hat on. “The things that amuse you,” he observed with a grin. Emmanuelle tied her blue bonnet around her head and they headed out.

The milliner's was about a half mile away, on the Rue de l'Echaude. They made the twenty-minute walk in relative silence, with Javert unable to clear the vividness of his dream from his mind. He tried instead to think of making love to Emmanuelle the night before, and times before that, seeing her face, her body, instead of that of his made-up prostitute.

“Don't you think so?” Emmanuelle said next to him, and Javert's head fizzled. What had she said?

“Uh... yes,” he answered quickly, but she was onto him.

“You weren't listening,” she said frustratedly, looking up at him and stopping just a few shops short of the milliner's.

“I'm sorry. I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking about?” she asked curiously.

“It doesn't matter. What did you ask me?”

“I said that we received the invitation to Beatrice's wedding today, and we have to go, but I think you should wear your uniform, just to prove it doesn't matter that you're not a businessman.” Emmanuelle looked at him expectantly then, wanting input or opinion.

“I can wear a suit,” Javert mumbled, wrapping his overcoat tighter around his chest and frowning.

“I know you can. I also know you don't want to, and I think you look most handsome in your uniform, anyway, and I'm proud to be married to a police officer.”

“You sound as though you've made up your mind. And mine,” he told her.

“Please?” She looked at him with her wide green eyes, moist with emotion and gleaming in the white light.

Javert sighed and shook his head. “You women and your dramatics,” he lamented. “I'll play along with your little game, Emmanuelle, but only because I'm not embarrassed to be an inspector. What people like them fail to realize is that without people like me, law and order would not exist and they wouldn't have their precious wealth. If I had my way, we wouldn't be going to the wedding at all, but apparently that's not an option. I'll even brag about how old I am and tell them about the grisly murder scenes I've investigated,” he joked, and she laughed and shivered. “Let's go,” he urged her, heading toward the milliner's. She followed him, trotting to keep up with his long steps.

They walked through the door of the milliner's shop and Javert balked. There were feathers and silk flowers everywhere on the dozens of hats on cotton heads throughout the shop. He took off his hat, and Emmanuelle removed her bonnet. At the sound of the bell hanging over the door, a man of about thirty came strolling out of a back room.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly to both of them, nodding politely. “How may I help you?”

“My name is Emmanuelle Javert,” Emmanuelle said, “I have a hat to pick up.”

“Of course,” the milliner said. “Let me go get it.”

He disappeared back into the room at the rear of the shop, and Emmanuelle turned to Javert, clapping her hands excitedly and bobbing up and down quickly on her toes. He half-smiled at her, shaking his head. He would never understand women.

The milliner reappeared with a large hatbox, which he opened at the front of the store. He extracted a wide white hat with iridescent blue feathers shooting off in an elaborate plume. Emmanuelle gasped and took the hat from the milliner.

“There is a mirror over here, if you want to see how it looks,” he told her, and Emmanuelle followed him to a full-length mirror and put the hat on her head, pinning it onto her curls. She gasped again and grinned widely, turning to Javert.

“How does it look?” she asked him, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Very nice,” he told her, smiling and trying to sound sincere. He thought it was ostentatious.

She took the hat off and put it back in its box, carrying it over to Javert. She put her blue bonnet back on for the cold weather. Javert started to take out his billfold to pay the milliner, but the man stopped him.

“Oh, Monsieur, the Mademoiselle already paid, when she ordered the hat.”

Javert and Emmanuelle looked at each other, confused. Mademoiselle?! They both turned to the milliner, and Javert was just going to tell him to have a good day and excuse the error, but Emmanuelle was not, apparently.

“He's my husband, not my father!” she blurted contemptuously, putting her free hand on her hip and tipping her head to the side. She held up her left hand so the milliner could see her wedding ring.

The milliner looked surprised. “My sincere apologies, Madame, Monsieur” he said quickly. “I meant no offense.”

Javert looked the man in the eye and nodded curtly, turning to go. “Come on, Emmanuelle,” he said to her, and she took his hand as they went out the door.

He walked quickly back toward the tavern on Rue Sainte Marguerite, and she lagged behind him, huffing angrily.

“How stupid can he be?” she asked sharply.

“Very, apparently,” Javert answered with a sigh.

“Honestly, why would I go to a milliner's shop with my father?” she asked testily.

“I don't know,” Javert answered blandly. "Why would you go with your husband?"

“It seems very obvious to me that you are my husband and not -”

“Emmanuelle!” he stopped and whirled to look at her and she skidded to a halt. She looked at him with defiant eyes. “Enough!” he said firmly, and he turned to start walking again, more slowly now, so he wasn't dragging her behind him, and released her hand.

“Please don't be angry with me!” she said after a minute of walking, her voice now pleading and sad.

“I'm not,” he insisted, but he continued walking determinedly and gruffly.

“I love you,” she offered quietly, looking up from beside him.

“I love you, too,” he said after a moment.

“Do you promise?” Her voice sounded child-like now.

“Yes. I promise,” he answered.

She took his hand again and he let her take it, squeezing gently against her tiny palm and fingers. At last they arrived at the tavern, stepping inside the warm room and selecting an empty table in the corner. Emmanuelle put her hatbox down in one chair, and Javert pulled another chair out for her and pushed her in when she'd sat down. He moved to sit across from her, but she tugged on his sleeve to pull him down into the chair beside her. It was noisy in the tavern, and she didn't want to shout or eat without talking, he thought.

He removed his overcoat and hat and there was a brief lull in the noise of the tavern as people realized a police officer was eating lunch with them. Two men got up suddenly and walked out the door. If Javert were on duty or eating alone, he'd have followed them, but he looked at Emmanuelle and she gave him a look imploring him to ignore the men. Javert sighed and sat down.

They ordered bread, soup, and wine, and were eating quietly when Emmanuelle said to him, “He thought you were my father. That's what he thought.”

“Yes. I was there. I heard him,” Javert said bitterly. He truly did not want to expound upon this incident.

“You don't look old enough to be my father!” she exclaimed.

He sighed and put down his spoon. “Yes, I do, Emmanuelle. There are probably people in this tavern who think I'm your father. Part of it is that you don't look your age.”

“I don't?” she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“No. You look... I don't know... sixteen?” he surmised, taking a bite of bread.

“Then why are you attracted to me?” she inquired, folding her hands on the table and looking accusatory.

Javert looked offended. “Because you're beautiful,” he told her simply.

“What if, when you'd asked my age for the report, I'd told you I was sixteen?”

“I would not have pursued you,” Javert replied, swigging down wine. “Eat your food,” he told her. “Your soup is getting cold.”

She ignored him. “If you had told me you were fifty-eight, I still would have wanted you.”

He sighed heavily and looked her in the eye. “Can we please talk about something – anything – else?”

“I know what I want to give Beatrice for her wedding present,” Emmanuelle said, smiling weakly at him.

“Oh?”

“A lace tablecloth from Alençon. I saw it in the shop a few days ago. It's beautiful,” she said.

Javert sighed. He cared precisely nothing about lace tablecloths, and he would much rather be finding out why the two men felt the need to leave the tavern as soon as they realized he was police. But he looked at Emmanuelle, smiled, nodded, and looked back down at his soup.

“Don't worry,” she said rather bitterly, “Only two hours until work, and then you're rid of me.”

“I don't want to be rid of you, Emmanuelle,” Javert said wearily. “I just don't like hats and tablecloths.”

She laughed then, and he looked up at her, surprised.

“I'm sorry,” she said, patting his hand. “I've been torturing you. Tomorrow we can do whatever you'd like and I won't complain a word,” she promised.

“That is why I love you,” Javert joked with a straight face, and she giggled again.

That evening, around seven o'clock, Javert took his short break for supper. He ate alone in a tavern on the Rue de Seine.

When he came out at seven-thirty, beginning his walk back to the police station to interview witnesses to a case, he saw a figure in the shadows that he recognized instantly. When she crossed under a street lamp and he got a glimpse of her face, he furrowed his brow, confused, and jogged over to her.

“Emmanuelle,” he said, sounding surprised. She nearly jumped and turned to face him.

“You frightened me!” she said breathlessly. “You shouldn't run up to a woman in the dark!”

“What on Earth are you doing walking around alone at night?”

“I'm going to Beatrice's house for supper. She sent over a message to invite me. Well, us, but you're working.” She hugged her blue cape tighter around her.

“I'm sorry...” Javert said off-handedly. “Why didn't you get a carriage?” he asked, frowning.

“You made sure I didn't have any money for your birthday, and you never gave me any, so I don't have any, so I'm walking.” She looked a bit peeved at him and scowled, her lips pale in the darkness from the cold.

Javert cursed himself and smacked his forehead. “I'm so sorry, Emmanuelle,” he said sincerely, taking out money. “It's in the bottom drawer of the writing-desk, but that's -”

“Locked. And you have the only key,” she told him matter-of-factly, taking the money in her tiny gloved hand. “I didn't want to go to my mother's and ask for money.”

“Well, I'm glad you didn't do that,” Javert said uncomfortably. “But I truly am sorry.”

He waited with her until she was in a carriage and sent her on her way with a kiss, cursing himself again for being so insistent about not letting her buy him a birthday gift, to the point that the next day she was roaming the cold, dark streets of Paris by herself without a sou in her possession. He'd make it up to her tonight, he decided, stalking back to the station.

Javert arrived home at a few minutes after ten to a dark, quiet house. Jeanette must already be in bed, he thought, and Emmanuelle was either upstairs or still at Beatrice's house. He thought the latter more likely and took off his hat and overcoat. He took a candle with him to see going up the stairs and into the pitch-black bedroom. He walked to the fireplace and built up the smoldering remains of the fire. He went to the writing-desk, where there was a note in Emmanuelle's neat script telling him where she was, and opened the bottom drawer with his key, taking out three hundred francs and folding the notes. He put them on the bedside table on Emmanuelle's side of the bed tucked under the base of a lit candle.

He left his uniform on, because it was warm, and took a book, The Fair Maid of Perth, to one of the chairs in front of the fire. The book was in English, and Javert's English was not very good, so he furrowed his brow and struggled through the first pages. After about an hour of reading, he heard the door open and shut downstairs, then heard Emmanuelle's soft footsteps on the stairs. He rose and faced the door, where she appeared a moment later.

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked nervously.

She glanced down to the bedside table and saw the money tucked beneath the candle. She sighed. “No, of course not,” she said quietly. “I was frustrated, that's all.”

He held out his arms and she walked quickly across the room, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso. The top of her head just barely reached his shoulder, so he wrapped his arms around her neck and rested his hands on her back.

“How was Beatrice?” Javert asked.

“Fine,” Emmanuelle said, her voice muffled by his wool jacket. “She's very excited for the wedding.”

“Was Laurent there?”

“Yes; Beatrice's parents and Beatrice and Laurent were there,” she answered.

“I'm sorry I couldn't come,” Javert said, though he was much happier conducting witness statements than he was engaging in social conversation.

“You wouldn't have liked it,” Emmanuelle said, as if she could read his mind. “Even I was quite ready to go by the end of it. I bragged all about you, though.”

“Bragged?” Javert asked incredulously, pulled her back so he could see her face. He raised an eyebrow. “What's there to brag about?”

“I told them about how you carried me home the first day we met, and about how you tackled Henri Boisson, and that you were asked to come to the Paris Police from Montreuil-sur-Mer because you're such an impressive officer.”

Javert felt his cheeks grow red and hot with embarrassment, and Emmanuelle laughed, brushing her leather-gloved finger against his face. “I'm proud of you,” she said sincerely.

“Didn't they wonder why none of them were invited to our wedding?” he asked after a moment.

“I told them it was a very small affair because of my father dying last year,” Emmanuelle said, looking wistful.

“Do you wish it had been grand and fancy?”

“No,” she insisted, shaking her head. “All I cared about was becoming your wife.” She smiled gently at him. “I'm going to go get Jeanette and get undressed.”

“There's no need to wake her. I'll help you,” Javert said, letting her go and stepping back. Emmanuelle walked to the door and shut it, untying her bonnet and taking off her leather gloves as she walked back to him. Her hair was elaborately styled, with curls around her face and down the back of her head, all around a braided bun that sat atop her head. She turned around so her back was to Javert, and he began to carefully unbutton the fancy white dress. They slipped it over her head when he'd finished unbuttoning, laying it carefully across the back of a chair. She was wearing a plain white boned corset beneath the dress.

“Why aren't you wearing the corset I got you at Christmas?” Javert asked quietly.

“The pink would show through the white silk of the dress,” Emmanuelle said simply.

“Oh,” Javert replied. He knew nothing at all of women's fashion, but, in retrospect, that seemed like common sense.

“I wear it almost every day,” she told him, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder. He smiled gently at her and began untying her corset. She shucked it when he'd finished, along with her petticoat. “I'll just sleep in this,” she said when she stood in her chemise, turning to face him.

“I'm not tired yet. I slept late this morning,” he told her. “I'm going to stay up and read.”

“Thank you for the money,” she said very quietly, looking down.

“Emmanuelle... you don't ever have to thank me for money. You have to yell at me for not giving it to you.” She looked up at him and he was smiling crookedly at her, his mouth shut, and she smiled shyly back.

She fingered the brass buttons on his jacket nonchalantly, staring at his chest.

“What's wrong?” he asked after she'd been silent for a few moments.

“Nothing's wrong,” she insisted. “I... want to help you get rid of that dream you had last night.”

“It was just a dream, Emmanuelle,” Javert sighed, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead. “I dream of you most nights.”

“Well, I want to make you dream of me, then.”

“You don't have to try very hard to do that,” he said.

She began unbuttoning his jacket then, and he could hear her breath getting shallower and faster. She pushed the jacket off his chest and down his arms until it fell to the ground, and he smiled to himself. She was getting herself quite worked up.

“You're so handsome,” she told him, her voice hollow with desire.

“No; I am most certainly not handsome,” he laughed.

She glared up at him. “Don't laugh! Your face is very dignified and... I don't know; imposing, I suppose. And your body is very muscular. Women like muscular men.”

“Do women like old men?” he grinned at her.

“I like you. That's all I know. Now hush.”

She went to work on his white shirt next, frantically removing it. He stopped her once he stood in his trousers and boots and leaned down to kiss her. He placed one finger under her chin and tipped her head up, lazily swirling his tongue through her mouth and kissing her lips gently. She huffed; she wanted much more than that and was making it abundantly clear by frenetically unbuttoning his trousers with her deft little fingers.

Javert caught her wrists in his hand and dragged them away, and she whimpered, frowning childishly up at him. The clock on the mantle clicked in the silence of the room, and Javert could hear Emmanuelle's shallow breath cut through the chilly air. She squeezed her hands into fists and he tightened his grip on her wrists. With his left hand he pushed her shoulder, and she took a step back. She looked at him, her eyes desperate with want, red curls framing her porcelain features.

Javert burned inside for her, feeling his erection growing stronger by the second. He tried to keep his composure, to look strong and determined, and he bit his bottom lip to control himself.

“What do you want, Emmanuelle?” he asked, his low voice rumbling in the quiet room.

“You!” she whimpered. “All of you.”

He walked briskly to his writing-desk then, dragging her behind him by her wrists, until she stood before the desk. He let her hands go and reached for the hem of her chemise, dragging it quickly over her head. She was wearing lacy pantalettes beneath her chemise, and he unbuttoned them dexterously, sliding them down over her hips. She kicked them aside and slid off her stockings, kicking her flat blue satin shoes aside, as well. She stood before him, stark naked, and he growled in approval.

She reached again for his trousers, and this time he let her unbutton them. She went to work on him, and soon he was free of his clothes. She grasped his erection in her hands, her breath heavy and shallow, and stood close to him.

Javert reached out and took her right breast in his left hand, fondling it roughly, squeezing and rubbing and playing with the nipple, and put his right hand against her wet entrance. She gasped and let out a little noise, looking up at him with desperate eyes. He fluttered his fingers against her, teasing relentlessly. She tipped her head back and Javert took his left hand from her chest to finger her red ringlets. He placed his palm flat against her face and pulled her up to him.

She stood on her toes and reached to kiss him. He leaned down to her but just barely flicked out his tongue to graze her lips, brushing his rough lips against her silky ones, and she uttered in protest. He was withholding unrelentingly, and she pouted at him unhappily. He chuckled and put his hands on her small waist, hiking her up onto the desk. The stalwart wooden piece didn't tremble under her miniscule weight. He pulled her hips to the edge and guided himself into her, sliding as slowly as he could until his entire length was inside her. She gasped and moaned all the while, wrapping her arms around his neck and trying to pull him in closer. He leaned down as though he were going to kiss her on the lips, but instead went for her neck, teasing her sensitive flesh as he pulled out of her slowly and pushed back in again.

“Oh, God, please, please, please!” she cried, digging her nails into his back.

“Please what?” he murmured into her neck, continuing to torture her there, sliding in and out of her again tormentingly slowly.

“Please just... oh, please...”

He nipped under her ear and pushed all the way into her, pausing for a moment once he was buried to the hilt.

“Say it,” he whispered into her ear.

“Just fuck me!” she cried, gasping at her own words.

Javert laughed. “Naughty little girl,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her. “Hold onto me,” he told her, and she grabbed onto his shoulders and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist. He lifted her up, still buried inside of her, and carried her to the wall next to the desk. He set her back against the wall and took a firm hold of her. She was so light, and he was so strong, that her weight barely registered on his hips and in his arms as he began pistoning in and out of her quickly. He slammed her into the wall, again and again, watching her curls bounce erratically as he pounded her. She moaned, meekly at first, and then louder and louder as he continued.

After a while, she cried out, “Oh, God!” and he felt her tightening around him spasmodically. She tipped her head forward and panted frantically. That sent Javert over the edge, and within a minute he was holding onto her for all he was worth, trying not to send them both crashing to the ground as he finished inside of her, gasping and clenching his eyes and teeth.

When the ringing in his ears subsided, he opened his eyes and set Emmanuelle down on the ground, reaching down to embrace her tightly. She hugged him back and laughed.

“I think I'm going to be sore tomorrow,” she told him. “And you shouldn't have teased me and made me swear like that!”

“I'm sorry,” he said guiltily.

“No, you're not,” she giggled.

“No, you're right; I'm not sorry,” he said, and he kissed her rosy lips.
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Emmanuelle