Chapter Five #2
“Good Lizzy,” he said, and he teased her nipple in a delicious way, and she was all alight with tingling goodness.
He moved his hand.
She did as he asked, lifting her skirt and petticoats beneath to show him the juncture of her thighs.
“Oh, there we are,” he said. “There’s Lizzy’s pretty cunny.”
She bit down on her bottom lip at the word. He hadn’t used dirty words like that with her before, but Mr. Darcy had said ‘prick’ to her, she remembered.
They are going to use me like a whore, she thought to herself. She would be his wife, but she would be this to them, some object they used beneath the sheets, their property, some possession they fought over.
But with the spring air against her bare body, teasing the sensitive places of her that she was lewdly displaying to this man, she didn’t know if she cared. It sounded exciting.
She had gone mad, certainly, quite mad.
“I should like to give it a kiss,” said Wickham.
“My…?” She looked at him, alarmed.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Does it not want a kiss?”
A moan leaked out of her lips.
“Oh, it does,” he crooned. “Lizzy’s cunny wants a very thorough kiss. It would like it if I made use of my tongue.”
She made a noise in the back of her throat.
“Say please, Lizzy,” he said in a dark voice.
She said it, barely audible. “Please.”
He went down on his knees and applied his mouth to her.
She cried out.
He lifted one of her thighs and tucked it over his shoulder and he delved in between her folds and licked her up and down and side to side, and she could only think that this was the most wicked and vile thing she could have ever thought of, and that she was not married to anyone yet, and that Mr. Darcy could not be pleased to discover she’d let Mr. Wickham do this to her, and that it felt sinfully good, and she never wished him to stop.
He teased her pleasure into a tight whirlwind that tightened and tightened on itself, each revolution more intense than the one before, and then she burst on his tongue, gasping against the sensation of it, because it was so very, very nice.
Wickham stood and pressed into her and kissed her, kissed her with a face smeared with her juices and with one hand he was undoing the falls of his trousers, and then he was guiding her hand onto him.
And she remembered this part, remembered how he wanted stroked after he pleasured her, remembered the sight of his thick and swollen member, his prick, remembered the feel of it in her palm, how it was solid and firm and yet encased in silky skin.
He kissed her and said, huskily, “I shall teach you to give my prick thorough kisses, then, Lizzy,” and she convulsed and thought she could not deny him, of course, because he had done that to her.
She stroked him until he burst, and then they put their clothes back together, and there was more kissing, and he made her assure him that she wished him there on her wedding night at least thrice, and she clutched at his cravat and said, “Where is he? If you are speaking to him, ask him why he avoids me?”
“I shall send him to you,” said Wickham, giving her one last kiss on her lips. He pulled away. “We should come out of the woods separately, perhaps. You go first.”
MR. DARCY CAME the next day, with Mr. Bingley in tow. They both alighted on the doorstep of Netherfield, and there was talk and then soon enough, everyone was on a walk, all of the sisters, both of the men, and Bingley and Jane walked together with their heads very close.
“You brought him back,” said Elizabeth.
“I did,” said Mr. Darcy, reaching down to take her hand, to slip his fingers against hers.
She thought of hand-holding, and its simplicity and innocence, and then she thought of Mr. Wickham with his mouth between her thighs. Something twitched inside her.
“I suppose,” she said, “that you assumed that if I was good enough to marry you, she must be good enough for him.”
“You told me that your sister is shy and that I had misinterpreted that for indifference,” said Mr. Darcy.
“Oh, yes, because it was never about how beneath you we Bennets are.”
“I don’t wish to be that sort of a person,” said Mr. Darcy. “In my opinion, we are all God’s children, and he loves us all the same. I would not be so close to Mr. Wickham if I did not believe such things.”
She turned to look at him, surprised by that.
“He told me he spoke to you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. She looked around. Her sisters were not so far away. They were not speaking loudly, but were they going to speak about her wedding night on this walk? She was blushing.
His lips curved into a grin. “Yes, he told me he did more than speak to you.”
“He did?” She was stunned.
“He taunted me with it, in fact, trying to make me jealous, which I am, but also…” He sucked in a sharp noisy breath. “Excited.”
She met his gaze, swallowing, and she was excited, too.
He squeezed her hand. “You wish him there, though?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said with a longing sort of sigh.
And then they walked in silence for some time, holding hands, the warm spring sun on their faces.
Eventually, he said, “I hope that at some point I shall be able to converse with you more easily, I suppose. It will be a long marriage else. Once we are… well, there will be an intimacy borne of it, perhaps an ease?”
She looked up at him. “We are not at ease with each other, no, I suppose.”
“But you are at ease with him.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t know if I would put it that way.”
“No?”
“No, he badly unnerves me. He is so angry, Mr. Darcy.”
He let out a breath, nodding. He squeezed her hand again.
“Aye, I suppose he is.” He caught her, stopping their movement so that they were no longer walking.
His voice was very soft, and she had to lean quite close to hear him.
“I hurt him, you see. I did not understand what he thought it was between us.”
“What did he think?” she said.
“He is in love with me,” said Mr. Darcy. “And I suppose, I thought it was about something else, but ever since then, he has been so bitter and pained—”
“So you took me from him?” She could not understand this man.
“Oh, took you? Was it that way?” said Mr. Darcy. “Were you his when I proposed or did you assume he was going to marry that Miss King?”
She ducked her head down in acknowledgment. “All right, yes.”
“I am sorry about all of it, Miss Bennet,” he said. “When we are wed, it shall not make up for the way you have been used and abused by both of us—”
“Oh, because you will both continue to make such use of me,” she whispered, nostrils flaring.
He pulled on her hand, tugging her close, shaking his head. “Nothing you don’t wish.”
She searched his gaze. Oh, the devil take him. He was going to make her admit she was excited by the idea of being their plaything. Don’t, please, she thought at him. It was bad enough that she was admitting it to herself, saying it out loud would be mortifying.
“Did he force you to let him pleasure you between your thighs, Miss Bennet?” There was a knowing lilt to his voice.
She wrenched her hand out of his.
He put his hands in his pockets.
“It is not love, sir,” she said quietly. “It is something else, some kind of hate, some kind of rage—”
“Hatred borne of love,” he said. “Love that has soured.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “But you love him yet.”
He drew back, making a face as if something smelled bad.
“Why else, sir? Why else involve him?”
His jaw twitched. “You have said you wish him there with us. You have the chance now to take it back.”
She glared at him. “I might hate you, Mr. Darcy.”
“Well, that is as it may be. You also have the right to get out of our agreement. You do not have to marry me. Women may change their minds with no consequences.”
She only held his gaze.
“No?” he said, that lilt back in his voice.
She clenched a hand into a fist. It was going to be a long marriage indeed.