Chapter 10 #4
Darcy turned from her slowly, blinking at the absurd calm of her proposal. “A cottage.”
“Yes.”
“You mean to keep a house for me like I am a kept woman?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “To wait for you like… like a courtesan on a schedule?”
“No,” she said, frowning. “I mean to protect both of us from scandal.”
He laughed once, sharp, humourless. He strode across the room, stopping short before her, his hands clenching at his sides.
“Or you could just marry me and stop acting like a doxy!!!” he burst out.
Her eyes narrowed. “While that is a certain improvement on your first offer,” she said dryly, “my answer is still the same.”
“Elizabeth…” His voice broke. “I mean it. I cannot go on like this. It is eating me alive.”
She inhaled, lips parting slightly, then shut them again, pressing her mouth into a stubborn line.
Darcy ran a hand through his hair, turning away, his voice lower now.
“I do not want some arrangement. I do not want you hidden. I want you beside me. I want to wake up next to you. Every morning. I want.. damn it, I want peace. And you are the only place I have ever felt it.”
She looked away then, eyes shimmering, but her voice was steady.
“Your peace comes at the price of my freedom, Mr Darcy.”
He took a step toward her. “I would never take away your freedom, you will be protected.”
She smiled bitterly. “Even you must see, it is not sound.”
He reached for her hand, and when she didn’t pull away, he brought it to his lips and whispered into her skin: “I do.” Defeated.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only stared down at their hands, his large one cradling hers like something fragile and irreplaceable.
Then, slowly, she stepped forward, pressed her forehead against his chest. He froze. And then wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her hair.
Their breaths tangled, shallow, erratic.
“Just once more,” she murmured against his collar. “Let us have one more night. Then no more offers. No more pleas. Let us burn out quietly, with dignity.”
He pulled back to look at her. Her eyes were already wet.
“There is no dignity in this,” he rasped. “But I will take whatever you will give me.”
Their kiss was slow at first. No hunger, only longing.
His lips brushed hers like a prayer, like an apology.
But the moment she whimpered, just a little, they lost themselves.
Clothes fell. Hands trembled. They moved like people afraid to forget how it felt.
The fire was low. The room smelled of embers and skin.
He sat cross-legged on the rug, bare and open, watching her approach like she was something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch again.
She knelt before him. Silently. Then she climbed into his lap, one thigh folding over his hip, then the other. Her arms wound around his neck. Her forehead found his.
They said nothing.
He entered her slowly, carefully, their bodies already so familiar,but this… this was different. There was no urgency. No hunger.
Only ache.
She moved with him in an unhurried rhythm, barely rising, barely falling. Their breath was one. Her hands stroked his back. His thumb swept along the dip of her spine, over and over, as if trying to memorize it.
Every thrust was a memory. Every moan, a plea to stay. He told her with his body where words had failed: I love you. I love you. I love you.
He buried his face in her neck. She pressed her lips to his shoulder.
Their movements were slow, constant, reverent.
They moved together in silence, limbs intertwined, the fire casting long shadows across the floor. Her breath ghosted against his neck, his fingers drawing idle lines along her back.
She didn’t cry. Not yet.
Instead, she spoke softly, barely above a whisper, each word pressing between them like a stone.
“You deserve more than this,” she said. “You deserve better than me.”
He grabbed her face in his hands, large, trembling, tender. His thumbs brushed her cheeks as if trying to wipe away her words before they could settle into truth.
His eyes were full of tears.
“Be quiet,” he whispered hoarsely. “I am here with you tonight. Can we just…”
His voice broke. He couldn’t finish.
His head fell to her shoulder, his open mouth brushing the curve of her neck. A sound escaped her, something between a gasp and a sob, as her arms wrapped around him with sudden ferocity.
“I am here, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered, her lips at his temple. “I am yours tonight.”
They moved as one, no rhythm, no need to chase pleasure. Just closeness. His hands mapped her back, her ribs, the nape of her neck. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Their mouths met in lingering kisses, lips brushing again and again with desperate softness.
His rhythm faltered first, a tremor, a stuttering breath, his arms tight around her, not letting go, as if the act itself could bind her to him.
“Elizabeth…” he whispered, almost like a prayer.
She kissed his temple, his cheek, his eyelid.
“Let go,” she murmured, her lips against his skin. “I am with you.”
He buried his face in her neck, breath shuddering as his body finally gave in, slow and quiet, long pulses of release trembling through him as she held him close. He didn’t cry, but his entire body shivered in her arms, like a man undone after holding everything in for too long.
She wrapped herself tighter around him, rocking them gently in the aftershocks. His weight pressed into her, warm and solid and still.
And then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look at her. His gaze awash with wonder and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite fathom what she’d given him.
Without a word, he eased her down onto the rug and settled between her thighs. Still pulsing with afterglow, he reached between them and found her with a touch as familiar as it was worshipful. “Like this?” he asked softly.
She nodded, her voice catching. “Like this.”
His fingers circled the pearl hidden in her folds, not fast, not teasing, just steady.
She gasped, hips shifting into his touch, but he didn’t rush her. He watched her. Studied her. Every flicker of eyelash, every quickened breath. His free hand cradled her cheek.
“I want to see you,” he whispered. “when you fall apart. I want to remember.”
Her lips parted on a moan, her fingers clutching at his arms as the pleasure built, deep and slow, no longer about need but about being seen, known, and cherished in full.
“Yes,” she breathed, and her body trembled, her climax blooming like a secret she gave only to him. He kissed her as she crested, soft and open and so full of love he could barely stand it.
Afterward, they stayed forehead to forehead, their limbs still entangled. His hand rested over her heart, feeling the echo of it against his palm.
“Do not say anything yet,” he whispered. “Just be with me a little longer.”