Chapter Fourteen
Darcy
A s they parted, Darcy was certain he had never beheld a sight more exquisite than Elizabeth Darcy.
Her dark curls, unbound at last, tumbled in wild abandon over her shoulders and down her back, just as he had so often imagined. She was a vision in white, the delicate fabric of her nightgown clinging to her curves in a way that made his fingers ache to touch her, his body tighten with longing.
A primal need surged within him, raw and unrestrained, urging him to sweep her into his arms, to claim her completely. The careful restraint that had governed him all his life was slipping away, replaced by something far more elemental.
She wanted him too - he could see it in the way her chest rose and fell, in the dark hunger in her gaze. And knowing that, knowing she desired him just as fiercely, was his undoing. What he had been so hesitant about suddenly seemed natural, as it had that night in the library. Their bodies made for this act, his heart and hers perfectly in time.
“It has been agony,” Elizabeth whispered, her fingers threading through his hair. “I have thought of nothing but you. Tell me, did you think of me?”
“Endlessly.”
“Did you touch yourself?” she asked, her voice dark.
He groaned, her question making him somehow even harder. She spoke of intimacy so easily, as though it came naturally to her. She touched him with such ease, kissed him as though she owned him.
“You are a wicked creature, Mrs Darcy, to ask such a question. No. No touch could compare with yours.”
“You never did show me,” she whispered. “Will you show me all of you tonight?”
He could restrain himself no longer. With a low growl of need, he surged forward, sweeping her into his arms and pressing her flush against his body. She gasped - a sweet, breathless sound of delight - and he swallowed it with a searing kiss, his lips claiming hers as he carried her to the bed.
It was not their bed - their true sanctuary awaited them at Pemberley - but for tonight, it would have to suffice. He set her down gently, her wild hair fanning out beneath her. She gazed up at him, her smile fading.
“Lie with me, Fitzwilliam.”
He lay down beside her, his fearlessness fading as he found himself unable to move. They lay side by side, motionless and silent, staring up at the ceiling. Her hand brushed against his, her fingers curling over his own.
“Are you nervous?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“Of disappointing you. I have done it often enough in the past.”
“No more talk of the past, Fitzwilliam. There is only the future now. You could not disappoint me.”
“There are many ways a husband can disappoint a wife. It is impossible to say that I will never do anything to disappoint you.”
“You are thinking too much, my love. I apologise if I have been too forward, or wanton. I have no wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“I cannot believe you would desire me in such a way.”
“I do, Fitzwilliam. I desire you above all else.”
She turned on her side, curling herself to him as she embraced him. She pressed her lips to his neck, and he shivered. She was impossibly tender, each touch so gentle he thought he might weep. He had never been touched, and he felt his defences slip with each brush of her fingers and kiss from her divine lips. He could not move, pinned to the mattress by his own anxieties.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Talk to me, please. Tell me what is going on in your mind, my love.”
“I do not deserve you.”
“I do not agree,” she said, punctuating her sentence with a kiss to his hair. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“You may be more comfortable in a little less clothing; I feel quite underdressed, Fitzwilliam.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
He rose to his feet, turning to offer her privacy.
“No,” Elizabeth interrupted. “No, stay. Come here, my love.”
She stood before him, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable save for the unmistakable warmth in her dark eyes. Slowly, her hands lifted to his cravat, fingers hovering just above the already-loosened knot. She looked up at him then, silently seeking his permission.
He gave a single, breathless nod.
With surprising deftness, she worked the knot loose, the silk sliding free beneath her touch. When she finally let it slip to the floor, a small, triumphant smile played on her lips. Darcy could do nothing but stare at her, utterly captivated.
She toyed with the collar of his shirt next, her fingers tracing the crisp fabric with a mixture of curiosity and intent. He fought to keep still, though he could feel the fine tremor in his own hands, his restraint hanging by a thread. That thread was tested even more as her fingers slipped beneath his collar. Her touch sent sparks through him as she explored the sensitive skin. Who could have thought such an ordinary place could feel such sensations?
“Elizabeth,” he murmured, his voice rough.
She paused, tilting her head slightly, her fingers still caressing his neck.
“Yes?”
He hesitated, and then caught the hem of his shirt in his fingers. He began to draw the material up, exposing his skin inch by inch. Elizabeth’s gaze was burning into him. Somehow, it did not frighten him to be under such close scrutiny; rather, it emboldened him. He pulled his shirt off without further hesitation, allowing it to fall to the floor beside his discarded cravat.
Her hands were on him in a moment, palms flat against his chest.
“You were right,” she murmured.
“About what?”
“You said that you run hot. It is as though a fire burns beneath your skin.”
“Oh.”
“You shall keep me warm on winter nights,” she teased, her fingers dancing upwards. “I have never seen the male body at such proximity. It differs greatly from my own.”
“I…”
“You have hair, for example, where I do not.”
He looked down, looking at the dark hair that scattered his torso.
“I am sorry if you find it to be vulgar.”
“Vulgar?” she asked with disbelief. “How could anything about my beloved husband be considered vulgar? You are beautiful. I did not expect you to be so muscular.”
“I ride often,” he said by way of explanation.
She ran her palms over his shoulders and down over his arms, concluding with lacing her fingers through his as she looked up at him adoringly. He was sure he had done nothing to warrant such a gaze, but he basked in it all the same.
They stood in the quiet, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire. She did not look away, and nor did he. In that charged stillness, Darcy felt utterly lost to her. Desire coiled tight within him, an aching need to touch her, to close the space between them, to shatter this unbearable tension. And yet, he hesitated, suspended between longing and restraint, uncertain of how to begin when all he wanted was everything.
He wanted to touch her everywhere, kiss her everywhere. He had had a taste of her, and he was a starving man desperate for more. Damn propriety, damn his own mind restricting him from what he so desperately wanted.
He surged forward, taking her in his arms and crushing his lips to hers. She moaned against his lips, and he swallowed the sound eagerly. Hours could have passed and he would not have not known it, for he was utterly consumed by his bewitching wife. Her lips seemed to fit his perfectly, her tongue dancing over his with such skill as to weak his knees. His mind was silent for the first time in his life; desire was all he had now, his body moving of its own accord.
“Take me to bed,” Elizabeth panted against his lips as they parted. “Take me to bed. Cease this hesitation. I want you, all of you, and I grow impatient.”
They stumbled to the bed in a tangled embrace, Elizabeth meeting the edge of the bed with a thud. She threw herself backwards, quickly moving up the bed so she lay once more on the pillows. He caught the hem of her nightgown, tugging it upwards. She only nodded breathlessly as he dove between her legs, his tongue meeting that sweet nectar once more.
Her fingers were tight in his hair, tugging him closer as her moans filled the air. They sounded even sweeter now, for there was not a soul on earth who could bring Darcy to ask her to be quiet. He would take every sound and commit it to memory.
“Oh, my…” she whimpered, her legs spasming beneath his splayed palms. “More, love, more, please!”
He possessed no skill, only enthusiasm, but he recalled that dreadful book making mention of the clitoris, a small bundle of nerves that provided a woman with the greatest pleasure. He located it with his togue, feeling the intimate rise of flesh, and swirled over it with purpose. Elizabeth bucked against his mouth, her cries growing louder.
Suddenly, her back arched, her fingers clawing at his hair with such ferocity he winced, though his ministrations did not slow. Her ragged breaths replaced blissful cries, and she pulled him away from her. He stared up at her, his heart hammering as he feared her disapproval.
“Oh,” she panted, staring down at him with awe. “Oh, my word. It is too much, my love. What…what was that?”
“I am no expert.”
“And yet you seem to know what to do far better than I. How?”
“I…I was given a book.”
“A book? By who?”
“I do not wish to speak of that wretched book. It was a gift from Colonel Fitzwilliam.”
“May I see it?” Elizabeth asked mischievously. “You know I am awfully fond of books.”
“It is not fit for a woman’s eyes.”
“Then I should like to see it all the more,” she said.
He could not help the laughter that escaped him. He looked forward to showing his wife those sinful pages. He imagined her curled up against him, his face buried in her neck as she chose what she would like him to do to her. He would be her humble servant, enacting whatever she chose.
“My sweet, darling Elizabeth.”
He pressed a kiss to her thigh, before rising and pulling down her nightgown. She let out a little noise of impatience.
“Let me touch you. Let us discard these clothes, and be bare before one another.”
He nodded, turning onto his back and fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers hastily. He could not wait to be free of the restriction, his manhood straining against the fabric of his breeches most painfully. He shoved them down, kicking them away. He stared down at himself, his penis crude and ungentlemanly. He wished to dive beneath the covers and hide himself. How could he present himself to Elizabeth in this manner?
When he turned to her, her nightgown had vanished. His Elizabeth lay before him, a bare temptress. He could not help but devour her body with his eyes; she seemed to have been painted by an artist. She had complimented his masculinity; she was the very picture of femininity. She was all soft curves and perfectly round breasts. Her thighs pressed together at his inspection, her hands reaching to cover herself.
“No,” he said. “No, do not hide.”
“Come,” she beckoned.
He joined her on the bed, once more lying side by side. They were atop the covers, the gentle light of the fire and the dying lamp casting their bare bodies in a glow that made her seem magical. How could such a creature have consented to be his wife?
“May I touch you?” she whispered. “Please?”
“Yes.”
“You must tell me if I am asking too much of you,” Elizabeth whispered. “I do not know how a proper wife ought to behave.”
“You are my wife. My wife, whose husband longs for her touch.”
She laughed in delight, kneeling before him with a contended smile. He could not help but admire the swell of her breasts, his hand rising to caress her. Her eyes fluttered closed as he caressed her perfect form, her perfectly pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“Husband, you distract me. I believe it was my turn.”
He lowered his hand, allowing it to fall to his side as Elizabeth’s gaze once more swept over his body.
“This is what I felt, then,” she stated, trailing a finger down his stomach and towards his erection, which was flushed and angry at being teased for so long. “Does it hurt, to be like this?”
He shook his head, biting his lower lip as her fingers grazed ever lower. He closed his eyes as she finally touched him where he ached for her. His breath shuddered from him in great gasps as his new wife gently explored that most intimate part of him.
She curled her hand around him, and he saw stars.
“I must confess,” she whispered, “the night I watched you. I went to my bed, and I placed my hand between my legs, wishing it was you.”
“Oh,” he hissed, thrusting helplessly upwards as release threatened him. “Elizabeth, my Lizzy, you must stop, I will embarrass myself.”
She snatched her hand away.
“What?”
“When a man reaches his…pinnacle…he cannot recover quickly. I wish to make love to my wife, if she would have me.”
“Always,” she smiled, though he saw trepidation cross her features. “You will be gentle, won’t you?”
“I will. I am sorry for any pain; you must tell me at once if you wish me to stop. Promise me that.”
“I promise, but pain is an expected part of the marriage bed, I am told.”
“I do not want our marriage bed to be a place of suffering, or endurance. I could not bear it.”
“I do not think it will be, my love. Come, we have spoken enough. Kiss me, Fitzwilliam.”
He moved to lie over her, staring down at her as their bodies pressed together. Their breath mingled, warm and unsteady, as they adjusted to the unfamiliar closeness. Her fingers traced tentative patterns along his shoulders, exploring the solid lines of muscle. He swallowed hard, his pulse quickening at the sensation of her touch.
She tilted her head up, her lips parting slightly as if inviting him closer, and he obliged, his hands sliding to her waist, anchoring her against him. A quiet gasp escaped her as their bodies moulded together, the moment thick with anticipation.
His hand rose to cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone with reverence.
"Is this what you want?" he murmured, his voice husky with restraint.
Her gaze locked onto his, dark with longing.
"Yes," she whispered. "More than anything. I am ready, Fitzwilliam."
He grasped himself with one hand, aligning himself with her entrance. With care, he pushed forward until he slipped inside her. They gasped, and he inched forward until he was seated fully within her. He had not expected such heat, the grip of her cunt as tight as a vise around him. It was all he could do to control himself, lest he embarrass himself and leave his new bride unsatisfied.
“Are you well?” he whispered against her ear. “Tell me, Elizabeth.”
“It does not hurt, but it feels strange. And you?”
“I never dreamt...” he said, barely able to speak. “I…”
“What does it feel like?”
“You are sure you are not in pain?”
She shook her head, her fingers stroking the soft skin of his cheek as she gazed up at him. He leant into her touch, willing himself the restraint required to stay still as she adjusted to his intrusion.
“No, I am well. Tell me, my love, tell me how you feel. You look enraptured, and I dare to hope it is my doing.”
“You feel…to put it into words would be…”
“Put it into words,” she whispered, reaching up and kissing his neck. “Tell me. I demand it.”
“You feel like heaven,” he panted. “You are hot, and tight, and, oh, Lizzy, please, I cannot….”
“Move, Fitzwilliam. Do as you said you would, when I came to you in that library. Fuck me.”
He shuddered, her words filthy and perfect. He tilted his hips forward, desperately trying to recall the instruction from the book. She gasped, her fingers tightening against his shoulders. Their breaths mingled in heated gasps, bodies pressing and shifting in perfect rhythm. His hands roamed her curves, memorizing every dip and rise as if he were mapping her, learning her body. She arched into him, a soft moan escaping her lips, spurring him on.
The world outside of them ceased to exist. There was only this moment - skin against skin, heat and need entwining as they gave in to the pull between them. His lips traced a path down her neck, lingering in the hollow of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin. She trembled beneath him, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.
His name spilled from her lips, breathless, pleading. The sound sent a bolt of desire straight through him. He answered her with another slow roll of his hips, eliciting a shuddering sigh. They moved together, caught in the ebb and flow of something deeper than mere desire, something raw and consuming.
Time lost meaning as they surrendered to each other, to the fire between them. And when they finally reached that peak together, bodies taut with pleasure, they clung to one another, their hearts hammering in unison, their breaths uneven but satisfied.
As the waves of pleasure slowly subsided, he pressed a lingering kiss to her temple, his arms wrapping around her as if he could hold onto this moment forever. She nestled against him, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. There was no need. Everything had already been said in the way they moved, the way they touched, the way they came undone in each other’s arms.