Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
The command in his voice struck something deep in Elizabeth's core, a part of her she hadn't known existed until this moment.
Her body obeyed before her mind could form thought, reclining against the mattress that smelled so thoroughly of him—dark chocolate and autumn leaves in every fiber.
She trembled, watching him through eyes that couldn't quite focus.
Kneeling, Darcy's hands went to her ankles, fingers circling the delicate bones, and even that simple touch ripped a gasp from her throat. The contact sang through her nerves, fire and relief tangled together until she couldn't separate them.
"I'm going to help you." His voice had gone rough as gravel, each word seeming dragged from him. "Trust me."
Elizabeth nodded frantically, words scattered beyond reach. She did trust him—had trusted him since learning the truth of his character, since understanding the man beneath the proud exterior. That trust felt like the only solid thing in a world turned liquid and burning.
His hands slid up her calves with agonizing slowness, thumbs pressing into the muscles, fingers splayed to cover as much skin as possible.
Each inch he traveled sent sparks racing ahead, her body anticipating, craving, demanding more.
Over her knees now, that sensitive hollow behind them that she'd never known could feel like this.
Her nightgown rode up with his progress, the fine cotton bunching around her thighs.
Shame should have flooded her—Elizabeth Bennet, sprawled wanton on Fitzwilliam Darcy's bed with her legs bare to his gaze.
But mortification required thought, and thought had drowned in sensation.
She needed more. Needed everything. Needed whatever would fill this hollow ache that threatened to tear her apart.
"Please, please—"
The begging fell from her lips without permission, her hips lifting off the mattress, seeking something she couldn't name. Darcy's hands reached her thighs and stopped, fingers pressing into the soft flesh hard enough she'd probably bruise. She wanted to bruise. Wanted his marks on her skin.
"God help us both."
His voice came out wrecked, and when she managed to focus on his face, she saw her desperation reflected there.
"You're going to feel my touch now. Intimately." The words shook, unsteady as she'd never heard him. "It will help. I promise it will help."
His hand slid higher, beneath the bunched cotton of her nightgown, and then—oh.
Oh. His palm cupped her center, fingers sliding through wetness she hadn't known was there.
Elizabeth cried out at the contact, her back arching off the bed.
Shocking. Overwhelming. Exactly, precisely, fundamentally what she needed.
"So wet." The words escaped him on an exhale, almost to himself, wonder and hunger mixed in two small syllables.
His fingers explored her with maddening gentleness, learning her in ways she'd never imagined anyone would.
Elizabeth had never been touched there—good daughters of country gentlemen didn't even touch themselves there—never imagined she could feel like this.
Each stroke of his fingers found new places that made her mindless, made her sob with relief even as the need climbed higher. She was drowning and flying at once.
"More." She barely recognized her own voice, raw and desperate. "I need more."
Darcy obliged—one finger sliding inside her while his thumb found a spot that made her see stars.
The intrusion should have hurt, should have shocked her back to sense, but instead her body welcomed him, clenched around him, begged for more without words.
She needed—she needed— Her hands tore at her nightgown, needing his touch, and if not his touch then his gaze, which followed as she exposed the stiff peaks of her breasts to the too-warm air.
"Beautiful." The word came out reverent, broken. "Perfect."
Before she could preen under the praise, before she could think how wrong this was and how much she didn't care, Darcy leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth. The wet heat of it, the gentle scrape of teeth, the pull that seemed connected to everywhere his fingers touched—
Elizabeth shattered.
The climax hit her like a wall of fire, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
She heard herself cry out—strangled, wordless—while her hands fisted in Darcy's hair, holding him to her breast as her body convulsed around his fingers.
Nothing in whispered conversations with married friends had prepared her for this white-hot perfection, this moment where thought ceased entirely.
But even as the waves receded, even as she gasped for air against his shoulder, the need began building again. The relief lasted heartbeats before that hollow ache returned, worse for having been briefly filled.
"It's not enough." The sob tore from her chest, frustration and desperation making her voice crack. "Why isn't it enough?"
"I know." Darcy's voice gentled despite the visible strain in every line of his body. His fingers still moved inside her, slower now, coaxing rather than demanding. "The heat won't break completely for several days yet. I can only ease it."
He brought her to climax again with those clever fingers, finding a rhythm that had her keening within minutes.
Then again, varying his touch, his pressure, learning what made her gasp and what made her bite her hand to keep from screaming.
Elizabeth lost count of how many times she shattered, lost herself entirely in sensation and his scent and the absolute safety of his hands on her burning skin. Her alpha would take care of her.
Minutes, hours—such measures had ceased to exist. Nothing remained but the steady presence of his hands, the low rumble of his reassurances, how he anchored her through every crest before coaxing her toward another.
Language had fled; she could only sob and beg now, could only call for him over and over, helpless and worshipful.
Finally, finally, when she thought she might die from the intensity, he withdrew his hand. Elizabeth whined at the loss, reaching for him, but he caught her wrists gently.
"One more thing." His voice had gone so rough she barely recognized it. "This will help most."
Through the haze of heat and spent pleasure, Elizabeth watched him open his breeches with shaking hands.
The fine wool parted, and he freed himself with a sharp inhale.
She'd never seen a man like this—had deliberately avoided thinking about this part of male anatomy despite Lydia's crude hints.
Should be shocked. Scandalized. Should look away, cover her eyes, do something other than stare in fascination.
She couldn't look away. The hunger that gripped her emerged from that hidden wellspring of instinct, the same that had yielded so readily when he'd told her to lie back.
His form struck her as almost artistic in its masculine perfection, and though she lacked the words for what she desired, the wanting itself threatened to consume her whole.
"I'm going to—"
Words failed him as he settled between her parted legs, taking himself in hand. Elizabeth found herself transfixed by the movement of his fingers, the practiced grip and motion, and her mouth went dry with wanting.
"My seed on your skin will ease the heat." The words came out strained, clinical despite the situation. "Your biology needs this."
Elizabeth didn't understand the mechanics of it, didn't care.
The sight of him stroking himself above her was the most erotic thing she'd never imagined possible.
His face had drawn tight with pleasure and restraint, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he worked himself with increasing speed.
She could smell his arousal now, dark and rich beneath the chocolate and autumn, making her mouth water and her body clench around emptiness.
"Yes." The whimper escaped without thought. "Please. Whatever you need."
Something shifted in his expression at her words—a fracture in that last wall of control. His eyes locked on hers, dark and wild, and his hand moved faster.
"Say my name."
"Fitzwilliam."
His control shattered completely.
Darcy climaxed with a groan that seemed pulled from his very core, his body shuddering above her.
His seed spilled hot across her thighs and center, marking her in the most primitive way possible.
The chocolate scent of him intensified until she could practically taste it on her tongue, rich and bitter and addictive.
His spend was warmer than she'd expected, almost burning against her sensitive skin before cooling to a strange, tingling comfort.
She watched, mesmerized, as a drop rolled down her inner thigh, and her mouth watered with an urge she didn't understand—to touch, to taste, to claim this part of him too.
Her hand lifted halfway before she caught herself, cheeks burning with shame at the wanton thought.
But he had been right. The effect was profound—like cold water on a burn, the desperate clawing need eased to something manageable.
Elizabeth gasped at the relief, tears streaming down her face as her body finally, finally settled.
The heat banked to embers rather than inferno, present but no longer consuming.
Darcy collapsed beside her, his breathing harsh and uneven. His arm landed across her stomach, whether by design or accident she couldn't tell. Neither spoke. The room filled with only their gradually slowing breaths and the sound of sleet still pelting the windows.
Reality crept back in pieces. The wet cooling on her skin. Her nightgown rucked up around her ribs. His bed. His room. What they'd just done. What she'd begged him to do.