Chapter Twelve
HE WAS AT breakfast.
Wickham was.
Elizabeth gaped at him, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He was quiet that morning, very subdued.
More than once, she looked up and found him looking at her, something wounded in his eyes, but whenever she looked up, he quickly looked away.
Mr. Darcy seemed unruffled by the silence at the table, but he was the silent sort, after all.
Letters were brought in towards the end of the meal, and Elizabeth had one from Jane, which she tucked away for later, but also one from the Countess of Matlock, which she opened with trepidation.
The enclosed note said that they had not met, but that she had heard of her from her son, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and that she was most eager to meet her, and that she requested the pleasure of their company at a dinner three nights hence.
Elizabeth relayed this information to the table and Mr. Darcy said that he was glad his aunt was reaching out to her, and that they would obviously have to reply in the affirmative.
Elizabeth caught Mr. Wickham in the hallway after breakfast as she was on her way to fret about how to word her acceptance of this letter with Lady Matlock.
“You said you were leaving,” she said to him.
He bowed his head.
“George, I do not wish you to leave, you understand,” she said. “But if he finds out that we were together without him, I do not think he will like it.”
“He definitely won’t,” said Wickham.
“You are not supposed to have been allowed to do that until I was with child.”
“Oh, and he will have wanted to watch,” said Wickham with a shudder. “He would be incensed with me. The only reason I risked it is because I thought I could—” He broke off. “Lizzy, I have never felt what I felt with you last night.”
“You’re staying because of that.”
“No.” He thought about it. “Yes. No. Because I am in love with you, and I didn’t realize how much until I could not leave after I had done what I said.
I did not mean to lie there and hold you in the darkness, to sleep next to you.
I certainly didn’t mean to have you again close to dawn when we could have been discovered and without…
without anything to prevent… I did not spend in you.
It is unlikely that any child you have would be mine, but…
I cannot leave you. I am mad for you. I do not care what degradation he has in store for me, how he wishes to use me, none of it. I am yours, and I am here.”
She was not sure what to say to this speech.
He kissed her temple furtively, quickly. “I am sorry for making such a hash of it all.”
“George.” She reached for him.
“We shall keep it to ourselves? You will not tell him?”
She did not like keeping things from her husband, but she nodded. “It’s our secret.”
“We shall find some way to make this work,” he said, nodding at her. “As long as we are together, that is all that matters.”
ELIZABETH WAS SUMMONED to her husband’s chamber after luncheon, and Wickham was there, and her husband was there, and Mr. Darcy caught her and kissed her and touched her through her clothes and said she must not be sore anymore, and she said that was true, but Wickham spoke up and said that she might yet be, and stood next to them both, touching her and touching him, and he maneuvered them to move over to the chairs in front of the fireplace, where he eased Elizabeth into a seated position.
“There, now, Lizzy, I think Fitz would like to feel that sweet, wet mouth of yours,” he said, nodding at her. “Go on and start on the buttons to his trousers, would you, there’s a sweet girl.”
Mr. Darcy blustered a bit, but not very much, Elizabeth didn’t think.
Wickham unbuttoned her dress and loosened her stays, and started toying with her breasts.
And she realized she hadn’t had much of a chance to examine her husband’s member. With Wickham, she’d held and stroked and teased him, had licked him, had gotten quite, quite acquainted with him there, but with Darcy, she’d only felt him inside her.
He was thicker than Wickham, a bit blunter, the head of him shaped differently.
He had a little curve to him, not much, but when erect, he curved toward the ceiling and she found herself oohing and sighing over him, running both of her hands over him and he gazed down at her, lips parted, his gaze full of adoration.
“Give him a nice kiss, Lizzy,” Wickham urged her. “Fitz will like that, I should think.”
“You don’t have to,” Darcy gasped. “You are my wife, and I cannot ask you to—”
“I want to,” she said, and she took him into her mouth, and she liked the smooth glide of his skin there, and she began to think she might enjoy this rather a lot.
Perhaps it was the idea of it, so deviant, or the pure pleasant sensation, but she clamped her thighs together because she was swelling there, growing quite aroused by the activity.
And then Wickham was there, next to Darcy, undoing his own trousers, pressing the head of him against her lips. “Back and forth for a bit, sweet Lizzy, if you please,” he said.
She turned and sucked Wickham’s prick into her mouth, bobbed on him and then went back to Darcy. In between she stroked them with her free hands, their members wet with her saliva.
She liked this, liked it in that way she’d like it before, liked the way she was being lowered, forced to service them, forced to sit while they stood, giving them pleasure while she was just being used, and with her breasts bare for them to look at as well.
Just theirs. It excited her, and she was quite excited by the time Darcy was muttering in a strangled voice that he would not last, that if she kept doing that, she would have a mouthful of him.
She sucked him deep, very deep, almost to her throat, and he let out a guttural sound and pumped into her, and she found that quite gratifying, though she was not entirely sure why, but she liked swallowing him, liked having him empty into her mouth of all places, liked it and and when Wickham spilled on her breasts as she was getting every last drop from her husband, she liked that even more.
Wickham knelt in front of her afterwards, telling her to lift her skirts for him, that he wanted to lick her clean. “Have you gotten quite wet there?” he said, as she pulled the fabric out of the way. “I know it aroused you, suckling us both, did it not?”
“It did, it did,” she sighed, and he applied his mouth to her and she was wound so tightly she barely lasted.
Mr. Darcy sat in the other chair and gazed at them, sighing that he would never grow tired of watching Wickham do that to her and Wickham breathed, into her sex, that Darcy would never have to.
“Come on George’s tongue, pretty wife,” sighed Mr. Darcy. “That’s a good Lizzy.”
She was a very good Lizzy and came hard as she was pleasured.
THE NEXT NIGHT, Wickham had her sit on Darcy’s lap as they had done the time before, but this time, with Darcy’s prick buried inside her, moving in and out of her, Wickham knelt and applied his tongue.
He licked her and then he went lower and lathed his tongue over Darcy’s bollocks and every time he did it Darcy would swear and jerk inside her and say, “Have mercy on me, George, you are too good to me.”
“Just the right amount of good, Fitz, now fill her cunny nice and full of your spend and get your child on her, hmm?” he said.
“Yes, yes,” said Darcy, sighing, happy. “Because, of course, you want your turn in her.”
“Dying for it,” said Wickham.
The night after that, they sat together on the bed and Wickham cradled her from behind and toyed with her body and brought her while Darcy lay and watched, as they had done before.
She sighed and said she would like it if Wickham could stay this way while her husband was inside her, if she could be pressed between them, and they obliged her, even though she protested she must get her mouth on Wickham, that she wanted them all joined.
Wickham stroked himself against her, and he murmured to her, “There is a way for that, of course, is that what you’re asking for, Lizzy?”
She didn’t know what he meant. “Do you mean, you’d both fit in my cunny at once? I think it might work, that I might be able to stretch—”
“Well, that’s…” Wickham coughed, and he caught Darcy’s eye and the other man looked similarly startled.
“That’s quite an idea,” said Darcy.
“Oh, but no,” said Elizabeth. “Because George is not to be in me there until I am with child.”
“We shall try it, once you are with child, if you are still willing for such a thing,” said Darcy, kissing her, moving in her.
“I meant here,” said Wickham, touching her. His fingers were warm and shocking as they brushed against the bud of her arsehole.
She gasped. “Oh, no, that’s… what? No one does that.”
Both of the men chuckled against her.
“Lizzy, you know of sodomy,” said Wickham at her ear.
“That’s what that is?” She let out a breath. “Would it hurt? It would have to hurt.”
“I…” Wickham kissed her neck. “I should stop if it did. But I think that with careful stretching and a great deal of grease, it can be accomplished. If it were so very awful, people wouldn’t keep doing it, after all. They wouldn’t have to hang people for doing it.”
“I suppose it must be quite something,” said Elizabeth. “Because people keep doing it even though there’s the risk of being hung.”
“We cannot sodomize my wife,” said Darcy, who was moving inside her, and sounded winded and quite entirely aroused at the thought of it. “She would not welcome it.”
“Not tonight,” said Elizabeth.
“Not tonight,” said Wickham in agreement.
“And I don’t wish to be hung,” she said.
“They wouldn’t hang you,” said Wickham. “They’d hang me.”
“They wouldn’t hang you either,” said Darcy. “I should smuggle us all off to the continent, where people are not so stodgy.” He caught her gaze. “Lizzy, would you do that? Would you take George there? Both of us in you at the same time? Truly?”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she nodded. “I want that.” She very much wanted it, in fact, thought it would be perfect to be held between them, both of them pressed against her, both of them buried in her… it sounded perfect.
“We can’t,” groaned Darcy, speeding up as he moved in her.
“Lord, we cannot do that, but the thought of it, the thought of you with George pushing into you, there, the thought of your sweet small arse being stretched for him, the thought—” He swore as he spent in her.
He panted, resting his head against her shoulder.
Behind her, George stroked himself intently, moving to press against the crease of her. “Going to spend here, Lizzy,” he breathed.
She convulsed.