Page 81 of Penned By Mr Darcy
He removed his hand, glancing down at his member. It was erect – god, it felt as though he had been hard for months – and flushed red. She stared down at him, and he had to look away. He could not bear her scrutiny at such close proximity.
“This is what makes a baby,” she said softly. “I have seen paintings, of course, and statues, but they did not look anything like this.”
“It is far smaller when I am not…” he could barely say the word. “Aroused.”
“And I arouse you?”
“Is that even a question?”
She laughed, a hand on his lower arm. She stroked the skin there softly with her thumb, and every stroke sent sparks through him. How could such an innocent touch inflame him so?
“What now?” she asked.
“I would like to touch you, if I may.”
“You may,” she smiled. “You ask with every formality. You need no permission. I am yours.”
“As I am yours.”
“Then I may touch you as well?”
“Always.”
He inhaled sharply as her hand moved from his arm to his stomach. She splayed her hand over him, and he stared down at her. His stomach was covered in coarse, curly dark hair, as was much of his body, and her creamy white skin stood out against him. She caressed him, her fingertips trailing a path up and down his torso. He was still motionless, frozen as she explored him.
“You are warm,” she whispered. “So warm.”
She stepped closer, her arms wrapping around his waist as she embraced him. He felt the press of her body against his, not an inch between them as she held herself close. His arms lingered uselessly by his side.
“Hold me, Fitzwilliam,” she mumbled against his chest.
He did as she instructed, tugging her impossibly closer. He felt the swell of her bosom tight against his body, the whisper of the hair between her legs against him. His cock strained, pressed tight against her stomach, and he tired to bite back a groan at the exquisite friction of her skin against his. He had never experienced such closeness, such perfect intimacy. He felt as though he could weep with it.
His hands began to roam. He began first at her shoulders, feeling the braid of her hair.
“May I let your hair down?” he asked. “I have so rarely seen you like that.”
“Very well,” she consented, “but you shall have to help me with the bird’s nest it will inevitably become in the morning.”
“Of course.”
He tugged at whatever it was that was binding the braid – he knew nothing of the intricacies of women’s hairstyles – and gently unwound the plait as her hair tumbled free. He stepped back, admiring his efforts as her hair framed her face.
“You are beautiful.”
“Do I tempt you now?” she asked with a smile.
“You tempted me then; I was too proud to admit to it.”
“Let us not speak of the past; there is a future to look forward to now.”
He nodded, capturing her lips in a kiss once more. Words fell away as her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling deliciously at his scalp. She seemed to command him in this as she did all other things, and he was happy to follow her every instruction.
Her hands roamed lower, touching him everywhere. He felt trails of fire left wherever she caressed; his shoulders, his chest, his hips. He burned for her, and yet his own hands still rested firmly on her waist for fear of disappointing her. Inhaling sharply, he reminded himself that he was no coward.
He began by caressing the dip of her waist with his thumb, his wide hands splayed along the small of her back. She moaned happily into his mouth, and he began to journey lower. Over her hips, to the rounded heaven of her backside, he lingered in no one place for too long, until she softened against him.
“Take me to bed, husband.”
