Twelve #2
For one perfect, suspended moment the world narrowed to the press of his mouth, the heat of his body so close to hers, and the thunder of her own heart.
When he finally drew back, only inches separated them. His forehead rested lightly against hers, his breathing ragged.
“Elizabeth,” he said again, her name a vow and a plea at once.
She kept her eyes closed, afraid that if she opened them the spell would break and reality would rush back in. Her lips still tingled from the kiss. She licked them slowly, tasting him. When she lifted her gaze, she found him staring at her mouth with such raw intensity that her breath caught.
“This was my first kiss,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened. For a moment he seemed unable to speak, his gaze fixed on her lips, mesmerised.
Then Elizabeth rose onto her toes, gathered the front of his waistcoat in both hands, and kissed him again.
This time he did not hold back.
His mouth met hers with hunger. One large hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her flush against him, while the other cradled the nape of her neck.
When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she gasped softly.
He took the invitation, deepening the kiss, teaching her with slow, sure strokes how to respond.
She learned quickly, meeting him, letting the pleasure of it wash through her like warm wine.
A low, guttural moan vibrated from his chest into her mouth. The sound sent a sharp thrill straight to her core.
His hands roamed—possessive yet reverent—sliding over the curve of her hips, up the line of her spine, pressing her closer until she could feel every hard plane of his body through the thin layers of fabric that separated them.
She trembled, clinging to his waistcoat as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth along her jaw and down the sensitive column of her neck, his breath hot against her skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough and pleading, “and I will. I beg you—stop me, Elizabeth.”
She said nothing. Her head fell back, offering him more, and he took what she gave. His lips moved lower, tasting the hollow at the base of her throat, then returning to her mouth with renewed fervour.
One of his hands rose slowly from her ribs, tracing the side of her breast through the fine lawn of her nightgown.
When his thumb brushed the soft swell, she gasped into his mouth.
He circled the peak of her nipple until it tightened into a hard, aching point beneath his touch.
He pinched it softly. A deep groan escaped him as he felt her response.
“Did that hurt?” he whispered against her ear, his voice sending fresh waves of heat between her legs. “Let me soothe it.”
She could only nod, the words beyond her.
He lowered his head and took the sensitive peak into his mouth through the thin fabric, first soothing with his tongue, then gently biting, then soothing again.
Elizabeth arched instinctively, leaning back against the support of his arm, offering herself more fully.
The sensation was exquisite—sharp pleasure bordering on pain, then melting into liquid warmth that pooled low in her belly and slid downward until she felt slick and aching with need.
His free hand continued its slow exploration, mapping the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, the trembling line of her thigh. She was scarcely aware that she was still standing, her knees weakening, until his arm tightened around her, holding her upright.
He lifted his head, his eyes almost black with desire, his breathing as ragged as her own.
“Do you trust me, Elizabeth?”
She whispered the only truth she still possessed. “Yes.”
He dropped to his knees before her with reverence.
Elizabeth’s hands flew to his shoulders for balance as he gathered the hem of her nightgown and lifted it slowly, exposing her legs to the cool air of the room.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, his mouth tracing a burning path along her inner thigh.
When he reached the apex of her legs, he paused, looking up at her with a question in his eyes.
She did not look away.
He leaned forward and tasted her.
The first slow stroke of his tongue drew a broken sound from her throat.
He licked her again, deeper, savouring, learning what made her tremble and gasp.
His hands steadied her hips as her knees threatened to buckle.
When he found the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circled it with the flat of his tongue, pleasure coiled tight and bright inside her.
He did not rush. He worshipped her with long, languid strokes interspersed with gentle suction. Then came the careful press of one finger sliding inside her, then two, curling with devastating precision while his tongue continued its relentless rhythm.
Elizabeth’s head fell back. Her fingers tightened in his hair.
The pleasure built higher and higher, a wave cresting until it crashed over her with shocking force.
She cried out softly, her body shuddering, her thighs trembling as release swept through her in long, pulsing waves.
He stayed with her through every tremor, gentling his touch only when she began to soften.
When the last ripple faded, reality returned in a rush.
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. She was still standing, barely, supported by his strong hands at her hips. Her legs felt unsteady and her heart was racing so violently she feared it might escape her chest.
Mr Darcy remained on his knees before her, his forehead resting against her thigh, breathing hard. His hands still held her gently, as though he could not yet bear to let her go.
For one heartbeat, tenderness threatened to overwhelm her.
Then panic surged in its place. She saw the man on his knees before her, his shirt untucked, his hair wild, his mouth still glistening. The nightgown bunched at her waist, her bare legs.
Elizabeth pulled her nightgown down with shaking hands. She stepped back abruptly. He released her immediately—his hands falling to his sides, his face tilted up, his expression raw, open, and vulnerable.
“I—I cannot—” The words tangled in her throat. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, turned, and fled.
She did not look back.
The corridor was dark and mercifully empty. She ran on silent feet until she reached her own chamber, slipped inside, and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the wood, her chest heaving, the taste of him still on her lips and the echo of her own pleasure still ringing in her blood.
What had she done?
She slid down the door until she sat on the floor, drew her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her arms.
In the quiet of her room, with the taste of Mr Darcy still lingering on her tongue and the memory of his mouth between her legs burning like fire, Elizabeth Bennet realised she had just crossed a line from which there might be no return.