Page 14 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

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.

She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth. A dream! Of course it had been a dream. In what world what she have found herself in such a situation, willingly kissed by Mr Darcy?

She looked around, finding the room to be the same as it always had been.

It was not night, as it had been in that dream; the dawn light flooded through the curtains, and she closed her eyes once more.

Her body tingled still, her breath uneasy and shallow.

She had never had such a dream in all her life, and the sensations it had pulled from her were confusing and unwelcome.

She certainly did not wish to think of Mr Darcy in such a way.

She pulled out the book, at once turning to the back and pulling the discarded page of his diary free from its hiding place.

She read it again, for only the third or fourth time since its discovery.

She had done her best to put those words from her mind, but now, every slant of his writing across the page only increased the frantic beating of her heart.

She slipped a hand beneath her gown, her fingertips brushing against sensitive skin. She did so without meaning to, without knowing what it was she was searching for…she wished for relief from this ache that burned between her thighs.

She finally pressed the palm of her hand to that forbidden place, her eyes snapping closed and her back arching. Oh, she was wicked, and at once she snatched her hand away. She threw herself from the bed, hastily replacing the paper and slamming the book shut.

She felt utterly shaken, her thoughts strange and haphazard. She crossed to the basin of water left by the maid before she had woken, splashing her face with the cold water. It did little to ease the flaming skin of her heated cheeks, nor the sensations that still washed over her skin.

She did not want Mr Darcy to touch her in such a way. She could scarcely stand to be in the same room as him! Her dreams were unsettled by so long in his company, that was all.

That had to be all.