45. Lizzy #2
“Not outside, but maybe on a soft feather bed.” He rolled over on me. “You’re a menace, you are. Good thing I love you.” His tongue parted the seam of my mouth, and his hands skated all over my body. We ground into each other, my whole body burning for him.
“I want you so much,” I said, tugging at his clothing. “Now.”
A small bark came from nearby, pulling our attention away. The dogs peered down at us.
“It feels like the kids are watching us again,” he said.
I chuckled. “C’mon. I do have an inside, you know.”
He got to his feet and pulled me up too.
He stood there for a second, hands on hips, tall and lean and muscled in his sweatsuit and down jacket.
He should have made my home look small, he should have looked out of place, but he didn’t.
I wasn’t sure if it was because I was looking at him so closely, not from afar, or that we’d been through so much together in so little time and that he’d declared his love for me.
My heart bubbled up to overflowing, him being here, the two of us being together with a future.
“I didn’t get the chance to say I like your house,” he said as he opened my bright-pink front door.
I ushered him in. “It’s small, as you will see. Only two bedrooms. But thanks, I like it too.”
“I love the inside as well,” he said, stepping into the large room—an old kitchen on one side and a living room around a fireplace.
He lingered over the boots and outdoor shoes piled in a wicker basket at the door, wandered over to the kitchen, where he studied the two mugs next to the wildflowers propped on the windowsill.
He traced a finger along the blue-and-white artisanal tiles in the beamed kitchen, smiled at the old, wonky wooden floor covered with richly pattered rugs.
In the living room, he patted the yellow couches, arranged cozily facing the fire, and pulled out a book from the vintage bookshelves.
The room was pretty and light with views out to the meadow, but nothing like his stately home in Derbyshire and, I was certain, less stylish than his apartment in London.
Nothing for show. I felt quite nervous as he scrutinized the space.
He looked up at me from the book, then around the room again, and bit his lip.
Darcy returned to my side, stroked my hair, and slid a finger down my neck as he kissed me.
Our lips moved together, and his tongue slipped in, tasting and flicking.
A raw pleasure I’d only ever felt with him trickled down into my center.
He groaned and I answered with a moan, and something in those noises shot straight to my core.
He rolled his hips against mine, his hands searching down my back, and I melted into his body.
“I’m kind of jealous of you living here,” he said. “Everything here is pretty or has a purpose.”
“Darcy, my whole place could fit in your wardrobe. I don’t even have an office. I write at the kitchen table or on the couch, lying down.”
“I love your cottage. It’s warm and cozy and pretty with views of your garden and the meadows and forest. A lawn for the dogs to run around.” He pulled me into him and rocked me. “And it’s small enough that I can bump into you all day long. It has everything I need.”
I smiled up at him. I’d been vulnerable, worrying about my meager home compared to his estate. The way he’d embellished on why he loved my home was a reflection of me in the best way.
He kissed my neck. “Let’s not leave your cottage tonight and all day tomorrow.”
“What would we do for all those hours?” I asked innocently.
“Remember that night at Pemberley?”
“Yes.”
“More of the same would make me very, very happy.” He kept on kissing my neck. “Or if you want, more of the same but different. Isn’t that what romance writers aim for? What we readers want? Besides the gray sweatpants?”
I laughed at his apt mention of the gray sweatpants, which had become a trope in itself, and my heart melted. I loved that he was taking so much notice of my readers. “I do need to leave the house for my book-reading tomorrow.”
“I’m coming with you,” he said. “My first book-reading.”
The thought of how the presence of the handsome Darcy would create a ripple of interest among my readers made me giggle. “Darcy, you are becoming quite the card-carrying member of Romancelandia.”
“I would be honored to be a citizen of that land.” He paused from kissing my neck. “But I wanted to ask you something.”
“This sounds serious.”
Under my hands, I felt the rumbling of his amusement from his chest. He moved his solidly carved thighs against mine.
“I might have to persuade you harder…” He took my hand and led me through the door to my bedroom.
“Bringing out the big guns?” I asked cheekily. “Metaphorically, of course.”
He backed me toward my large white bed. His body was lit by the dusk through the windows, curtains pushed to the side as I’d left them this morning.
“Bringing out the big gun, literally.” He pulled my hips to his and rolled against me. I giggled despite the intensity, and he scowled. “I’m glad the dogs didn’t overhear me talking about big guns. I’m not only running at the mouth, I’m becoming a cliché too.”
“Darcy?”
“Yes?”
“The man who famously only growls and grunts. What makes you so chatty around me?”