Page 43 of Desired By Mr Darcy
“Endlessly.”
“Did you touch yourself?” she asked, her voice dark.
He groaned, her question making him somehow even harder. She spoke of intimacy so easily, as though it came naturally to her. She touched him with such ease, kissed him as though she owned him.
“You are a wicked creature, Mrs Darcy, to ask such a question. No. No touch could compare with yours.”
“You never did show me,” she whispered. “Will you show me all of you tonight?”
He could restrain himself no longer. With a low growl of need, he surged forward, sweeping her into his arms and pressing her flush against his body. She gasped - a sweet, breathless sound of delight - and he swallowed it with a searing kiss, his lips claiming hers as he carried her to the bed.
It was not their bed - their true sanctuary awaited them at Pemberley - but for tonight, it would have to suffice. He set her down gently, her wild hair fanning out beneath her. She gazed up at him, her smile fading.
“Lie with me, Fitzwilliam.”
He lay down beside her, his fearlessness fading as he found himself unable to move. They lay side by side, motionless and silent, staring up at the ceiling. Her hand brushed against his, her fingers curling over his own.
“Are you nervous?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
“Of me?”
“Of disappointing you. I have done it often enough in the past.”
“No more talk of the past, Fitzwilliam. There is only the future now. You could not disappoint me.”
“There are many ways a husband can disappoint a wife. It is impossible to say that I will never do anything to disappoint you.”
“You are thinking too much, my love. I apologise if I have been too forward, or wanton. I have no wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“I cannot believe you would desire me in such a way.”
“I do, Fitzwilliam. I desire you above all else.”
She turned on her side, curling herself to him as she embraced him. She pressed her lips to his neck, and he shivered. She was impossibly tender, each touch so gentle he thought he might weep. He had never been touched, and he felt his defences slip with each brush of her fingers and kiss from her divine lips. He could not move, pinned to the mattress by his own anxieties.
“What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Talk to me, please. Tell me what is going on in your mind, my love.”
“I do not deserve you.”
“I do not agree,” she said, punctuating her sentence with a kiss to his hair. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No.”
“You may be more comfortable in a little less clothing; I feel quite underdressed, Fitzwilliam.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
He rose to his feet, turning to offer her privacy.
“No,” Elizabeth interrupted. “No, stay. Come here, my love.”
She stood before him, her gaze steady, her expression unreadable save for the unmistakable warmth in her dark eyes. Slowly, her hands lifted to his cravat, fingers hovering just above the already-loosened knot. She looked up at him then, silently seeking his permission.
He gave a single, breathless nod.
With surprising deftness, she worked the knot loose, the silk sliding free beneath her touch. When she finally let it slip to the floor, a small, triumphant smile played on her lips. Darcy could do nothing but stare at her, utterly captivated.
