Page 83 of Penned By Mr Darcy
“I do not like it.”
His tone was clipped, defensive, though his body betrayed him.
“I love it,” she smiled.
The corners of her eyes crinkled in mischief, her delight in opposition as natural as breathing. Darcy could only stare, transfixed by her ease, her boldness—how little she seemed to fear what she awoke in him.
“Lizzy…” His protest was half-hearted, breathless, his composure unravelling.
“What is it called?”
The question startled him, her curiosity so guileless that he could not help a ragged laugh.
“Called?”
“It must have a name. I am sure mine must too, though I have never been told. All things anatomical have names, do they not?”
“Yes.” His answer was taut, one word requiring immense restraint as he tried to steel himself against her continuing explorations..
“Then yours?”
Darcy’s eyes fluttered shut. He struggled for sense, for language, yet every thought was fogged with heat, with the sharp delight of her nearness. The boldness of her question nearly unmanned him. His breath came shallow, his body taut as a bowstring.
“I believe...darling, I cannot think when you are touching it like that.”
“Like this?”
Her teasing was merciless. He groaned, his carefully cultivated dignity slipping further away. As she wrapped her hand, so soft and so unlike his, around him, he bucked into her grip.
“Oh, fuck, please, just like that…”
“What did you say?” she asked, staring down at him with unfeigned fascination. “That is a sailor’s word.”
His cheeks burned, shame and pleasure warring in him.
“Forgive me.”
“I like it,” she said softly, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. Her playfulness had gentled into something warmer, steadier, as though she wanted to soothe the very part of him that feared to be undone. “I like that I can reduce the proper Mr Darcy to a sailor with just a touch of my hand.”
He laughed, though it broke on his lips.
“It is called a penis,” he forced out as he endeavoured to not leave her question unanswered, voice strained with the effort ofspeech. “Or…or the improper word is a cock. There are a dozen others, but – but I have thought of you like this a dozen times, and you would always call it a cock in my fantasies.”
“A cock, then. And mine?”
“They are all far too crude to describe the beauty of yours, my love.”
“Fitzwilliam,” she pressed, her voice at once commanding and tender. “Go on.”
How could she demand words of him when she had already stolen every ounce of his reason? His whole body strained toward her, helpless, as though he were nothing but a man remade by her will.
“The correct term is – ah, I’m sorry, Lizzy,” he groaned, half-laughing through his desperation, “if you want a coherent conversation you must end this torment!”
She did not stop. Her instinct was a powerful thing; she touched him just as he had longed to be touched, with a confidence that he had never possessed. He had always admired her confidence; he ought to have known that it would spread to all areas of her life. How wonderful it was to submit to her curiosity, to submit to her as she explored him at her leisure.
“I am so enjoying this incoherent conversation, husband. Continue.”
She shuffled backwards, lying between his legs. He could not think of a single word to say as she ran her tongue up the length of him before slipping his head past her lips into her warm, willing mouth.
