Page 29 of Penned By Mr Darcy
He flinched, only slightly, but enough. “It was never my intention to appear rude.”
“I believe you succeeded nonetheless.”
He looked away, jaw tightening. “There are things I wish I could explain. But I doubt any explanation would satisfy propriety—or your opinion of me.”
“That is not for you to decide,” she said, surprising even herself with the softness of her tone.
His eyes snapped back to hers.
“Then I will be plain. I find myself… affected by you, Miss Bennet. More than is wise, more than I understand. And when I saw you that night…” he stopped short, visibly restraining himself. “It was a moment of weakness. I have not allowed myself many.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. The heat in the room suddenly felt suffocating.
She stepped closer—too close, perhaps—but neither of them moved away.
“And now?”
“I fear I have said too much already.”
They stood there, still and charged, a hair’s breadth between them. Elizabeth could feel the tension ripple in the air, as though even the flickering candlelight hesitated.
But Darcy did not reach for her, and she did not lean in. Words hung between them like frost in the cold. Yet something in her shifted—a trembling, reckless spark ignited beneath her ribs.
“Is it weakness,” she whispered, voice barely above breath, “to want what one shouldn’t?”
His eyes darkened, and the space between them vanished as though the air itself had collapsed. “It is agony,” he murmured, “and it is the most exquisite sin.”
His hand hovered near her cheek, hesitating. Then—slowly, deliberately—he brushed his knuckles along her jaw. A simple touch, and still her body shuddered as though he had stripped her bare.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed her name like a prayer he feared to say aloud. “Tell me to stop.”
But she did not.
His lips crashed into hers with all the restraint of a storm finally loosed. It was no gentle confession—it was hunger. Her back met the wall, and he followed, his body flush to hers, his hands claiming her waist, then her hips, as if memorizing every curve he had long denied himself.
She moaned softly into his mouth, her fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring herself to him as the heat spiralled into something feral. He tasted like desperation and something deeper—longing, perhaps, or ruin.
One hand slid up her spine, slowly, reverently, until it cupped the back of her neck, holding her to him. The other drifted dangerously low, his thumb grazing the edge of her thigh through the thin muslin of her dress. Her knees weakened, and his body caught her without hesitation.
Her breath hitched as his mouth left hers only to trail down her neck, his lips brushing the hollow of her throat, his tongue tasting her pulse. She arched against him, gasping his name—“Fitzwilliam”—as if it were the only word that still mattered.
He groaned in response, a sound so deep and primal it sent heat spiraling through her belly. “Tell me this is madness,” he rasped against her skin. “Tell me I am not dreaming.”
“You aren’t,” she whispered. “Or if you are… let us never wake.”
His lips returned to hers, hungrier now, devouring. Her fingers tugged open the buttons of his waistcoat, trembling but determined, while his hands fumbled at the stays of her bodice. The candlelight danced wildly around them, throwing shadows on the walls—two bodies tangled in fire and breath and forbidden want.
Her dress slipped from her shoulders, pooling like water around her feet. He pulled back just enough to look at her, chest heaving, lips swollen from their kisses. “God help me,” he whispered. “You are all I see.”
And then…and then there was nothing but darkness.
Elizabeth jolted upright in bed, chest rising and falling like she had run for miles. Her sheets were tangled, her skin slick with sweat, her lips parted as though still whispering his name.
Alone.
Only the moonlight filtered through the curtains. Only the hush of the midnight wind answered her.
But she could still feel him—on her lips, against her skin, inside her chest.
