Chapter 6 #3
He pulled her to him and covered her mouth with his. Passionately, but slowly, teasingly. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to spur him on. He looked into her eyes, chuckled, picked her up and carried her to the bed.
He put her down, arranging her hair on the pillow. His demeanor was serious, almost sombre. She let out a little giggle when his hand travelled down her neck, into the plunge of her nightgown’s neckline. He smiled when she gasped as his fingers brushed her nipple.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You look like a goddess …”
He took her hand and burned a kiss into her palm.
The kiss he bestowed on her hand ignited such an ache in her sex that the sheer power of her reaction shocked her, his breath on the sensitive skin of her forearm…
She still remembered the primal reaction of her body when he had held her hand as they danced at Netherfield.
She lifted her palm to cup his cheek as he leaned over her, kneeling at the side of the bed.
“I want to see you. All of you…” His breath caught. “Will you let me… touch you?”
His eyes were dark and full of something she had never seen before. He looked like he was praying for his deepest wish to come true.
She nodded her consent. She wanted to laugh, but she could not.
His arm stretched all the way to her naked ankle, his eyes never leaving hers, looking into them with purpose.
His palm moved over the inner side of her leg and stopped just an inch from the apex.
He watched her bite her lower lip, the fleeting disappointment in her eyes as his hand moved to her stomach, teasingly brushing over the curly bush covering her womanhood.
He was mesmerized by the softness of her skin, the way her eyes responded to his touch, he would explore all those places that produced the irregularities in her breath’s rhythm, but he wanted to find them all first.
When his finger traced the base of her breast, she arched her back to push herself closer to his touch. A corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.
“Darcy!” she pleaded, no, commanded.
But it did not move him; it strengthened his resolve.
This was him quenching the thirst he had carried for far too long. He did not want to sip or gulp her; he wanted to bathe and luxuriate in her, memorise her forever.
“I am not going to merely sketch you, Elizabeth. I am going to paint you in detail…”
A mew escaped her lips.
He remembered that dance as vividly as she did.
That was maybe more arousing than everything he was not doing.
He leaned closer to her, kissed her lips lightly, and brushed her nipple again.
“I am going to trace you…” His lips moved to her neck. “Sketch you…” He nuzzled the aching globe with his cheek. “Paint you…” He kissed her bare stomach as he lifted her gown up. “So I can treasure that picture…” He pushed her legs apart, “for the rest of my days.”
His eyes connected with hers with such intensity she forgot to breathe.
Elizabeth wriggled to help him with the removal of the pesky nightgown. He stood up, but not to join her in the bed and finally claim her, but only to turn her onto her stomach and continue his quest to drive her into bedlam.
Yet, she could not make herself protest, or complain… She wanted to discover her body through his hands, feel him fighting the urge to dwell on places that brought her pleasure only to remember to move away.
He played with her hair again, measuring the length, testing the weight; then caught a handful and pressed his face into the silk of it, eyes closed, lost.
She noticed the movement in his breeches and smirked.
When he finished the arrangement, his lips started to trace her neck, shoulders, and down her spine, his fingers brushing her sides.
As his lips (and teeth) explored her buttocks, his palm followed up the inside of her leg again, but this time not stopping, lightly cupping the centre of her desire.
She let out a grateful moan as she felt the pressure against her mount.
He left her.
Suddenly.
Wet and aching, she groaned and kicked her legs in frustration.
Then she saw him, standing next to the fire, lazily removing his clothes. Piling them onto an armchair. His face lit up in mischief and smugness.
She raised onto her elbows, and turned her torso so she could see him better. He was a truly pleasing specimen of masculine beauty.
She caught his eyes watching her nipples stiffen. She would give him something to watch.
Her hand raised to her breast, cupped it, gave a squeeze to the softness, gently and sensually her fingers toyed with the nipple.
The look in his eyes shifted, his jaw strained… Was there some kind of reproach in his eyes?
The sight of her touching herself made his mouth water. It was all he could do not to jump on top of her and ravish her. He closed his eyes and shook his head, exhaling slowly to regain a modicum of control over himself, over what he was doing.
How he wanted to savour this, even the look of her teasing him.
He sat down, watching her expectantly.
She shifted her whole body, so she now half-reclined on the pillows, bent her knees, offering him a glimpse of her arousal, and then covered herself with the palm of her hand, cupping herself just as he had a couple of minutes ago.
He rid himself of his trousers and crossed the room back to her side.
He knelt on the bed in front of her and whispered, “May I?” as he put his hands on her knees, his eyes boring into hers again.
She was now sure he was going to connect with her.
She was sure he could not hold off any longer. God knew she could not.
She nodded.
He parted her legs and bestowed lingering kisses down her inner thigh one after another.
When his lips grew near her center, she panicked.
She tried to close her legs, but his strong arms held them wide open.
“Fitzwilliam, you cannot…” she pleaded as she tried to push his head away.
He looked up, brushed his cheek against her straining leg.
“I want to taste you…”
“It is hardly proper…” She pleaded, her conviction slipping as his fingers teased her weeping slit.
“Is any of this proper?” He chuckled mirthlessly.
She only shook her head no, and, biting her lower lip, she fell back into the sheets and parted her legs so he could do as he pleased. He looked at her sex, his hand tracing its folds.
“You are so beautiful, Elizabeth. I cannot believe how perfect you are…” He kissed her mound. “Everywhere.”
As he delved deeper, her fingers tangled into his hair.
She had never experienced anything like this, the softness of his tongue, the agility of his fingers, the looks he bestowed to make sure she wanted this.
Her throat produced noises she had never heard, low and primal.
The steady flicks of his tongue on the nub of pleasure sent her to realms she did not know existed.
All she could do was take. Take this pleasure and let its waves destroy her, and when she thought she could not soar any higher, it hit her: an explosion within her, making her sex gush, her body shake and her lips whimper.
She was floating, drifting on a cloud of exquisite bliss.
She panted, covering her face with her hands as she chuckled in disbelief.
Fitzwilliam crawled next to her, gathered her in his arms, pulling her hands away from her face and kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her ear.
She shook again, but he held her tight.
When her climax subsided and her body calmed, he rolled on top of her, nestled between her legs, her eyes smiling at him.
“May I?” he asked, moving his hips to show his intention.
“Please!” she reached down to pull his hips to her.
He entered her slowly, grinding his hips against her in circles.
Before he knew it, she soared again… gasping, breathless, fingers clawing at his back.
And then,
“Oh, My!” She shattered again.
Her body clenched, pulsing around him, her pleasure pulling him with her.
He groaned, his rhythm stuttering, his thrusts losing all control. And then he let go. Pleasure swallowed him whole. Heat spilled deep inside her. His body trembled, shuddered, and finally collapsed, his weight crushing her.
For a moment, there was only silence, just the sound of their ragged breathing. His forehead rested against hers. Their bodies were still connected, still entwined. He was utterly spent, utterly lost in the haze of release.
When his senses began to return, he heard it: A tiny sniffle, a shaky breath.
A sob!
His eyes flew open. Elizabeth was beneath him; her face crumpled, wet, utterly undone. Not just a few tears, or a quiet emotion; she was crying.
He was mortified.
“Did I hurt you?” he spiraled into panic.
He moved to give her space, but she shook her head violently, clinging to him with all her might, sobbing even louder.
He was absolutely lost. Had he forced himself on her? Was she regretting this? What was wrong? He looked at her. She could not speak for sobs, she tried to comfort him by smiling, cupping his face in her hands, but looking at him made her cry harder.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked again.
She shook her head no.
“Are you in pain?”
She shook her head no, letting out a chuckle.
“Do you wish me to leave?”
She hugged him. “No!”
“Do you have regrets?”
She shook her head no. She looked into his eyes, full of fear and concern.
“It was too good, Fitzwilliam. Too good…” she sobbed.
Darcy stopped breathing for a moment, searching her eyes. He did not see hurt, he did not see pain or regret. He saw a woman overwhelmed with pleasure, a pleasure he had brought her. He let out a sudden, relieved laugh.
Then, he kissed her tears away.
He kissed her cheeks, her nose, her swollen lips.
He kissed her until she stopped crying.
“Too good, huh?”
“No need to be all smug about it, Mr Darcy!” she said, turning in his arms with a feigned huff. If this was what his pride was about, he had every right to be proud, she smiled.
He did not let go of her as she slowly drifted to sleep.
With the fire burning low, her body relaxed against his, his fingertips gently brushing her lower abdomen, a thought came to him unbidden: I will take care of you. I will cherish you. For as long as I shall live.
It was not a vow to her, but to himself.
One truth became crystal clear tonight:
Nothing would ever bring him more pleasure than seeing this woman happy and safe.