Page 66 of The Difference of a Darcy
They were close. So close. The heat between them felt tangible, a pull that thrummed in the air and settled in her skin. His breath mingled with hers, warm and uneven. Her lips parted. She could feel his tension, the hesitation in his stillness.
She waited.
Would he kiss her?
Would I let him?
The question barely had time to form before she knew the answer. Shewantedit. Ached for it. And yet—beneath the yearning, a sliver of fear curled in her stomach.
She had seen what passion had cost Jane—and that was in a house with chaperons and her sister in the next room. One wrong choice, one moment of weakness, and a woman’s life could be altered forever.
Could she truly trust her own judgment in this private, intimate room?
Her pulse pounded as he leaned in, his face close enough now that his nose nearly brushed hers.
She held her breath.
Then—slowly, gently—his lips touched her forehead.
Not her mouth, but somehow that did not matter.
The kiss was soft. Gentle. Reverent.
He lingered there for a moment, his breath stirring her hair, and then he pulled back just enough to whisper:
“Good night.”
She closed her eyes, her heart aching with something fierce and unfamiliar.
“Good night,” she murmured in reply.
And though no more words passed between them, though the space between their bodies remained chaste, she could not remember the last time she had felt soseen.
So safe.
So wanted.
Sleep did not come easily.
But when it did, it was with the ghost of his kiss still pressed to her skin.
∞∞∞
Darcy lay on his back, utterly still, as if any movement might shatter the moment, causing to him to awaken from the most beautiful dream. His heart was hammering in his chest with such force, he feared Elizabeth might hear it.
Eventually, though, her breathing changed—it was slow and deep, and he knew she had drifted off to sleep.
But he was still awake.
His lips still tingled from where they had met her skin—just above her brow, where a few damp strands of hair curled from the heat of her head on the pillow. The taste of her lingered, though it had not been a kiss of passion.
It had been adoration. Restraint. A vow unspoken.
But oh, how he had wanted more.
When she had turned to him and said she did not wish to stay—when she had chosen him—him—his chest had felt too small for the swell of emotion that surged within it. For a brief, breathless moment, the ache and fear and longing of the past three days had vanished, replaced by a single, radiant truth:
She wanted to stay with him.
