Page 37 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

“I do not see how that is possible. Come,” she rose from the bed, holding out a hand to him. “We shall do it together.”

She waited for him to rise, before gathering the fabric of her nightgown at the waist and beginning to pull it slowly upwards. He was motionless, staring as inches of her skin were revealed. Her perfect feet, her dainty little ankles, her shapely calves…

“Fitzwilliam,” she interrupted. “Are we doing this together or are you just going to stare at me?”

“Yes. Yes of course, forgive me.”

“You are nervous too, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Why? I did not think men got nervous about this sort of thing; you are experienced, as you said.”

“Do not speak of my experience,” he said. “It is shameful; I wish that I had never lain with another.”

“I understand that it is the way of the world,” Elizabeth, his wonderful, forgiving Elizabeth, said. “We will speak no more of it.”

“Thank you.”

“If you are nervous,” she said, “then I will begin.”

He watched, stunned, as she raised her nightgown further, up over her hips and over her head, until finally it was tossed carelessly somewhere behind them. He could say nothing.

She was the very vision of perfection.

Soft, inviting curves and full breasts made his fingers itch to touch her. He took an unconscious step closer, and Elizabeth reached for him, welcoming him.

“I have dreamt of you touching me, Fitzwilliam.”

“As have I.”

“It is your turn,” she whispered, pressing a single kiss to his lips. “Show me.”

He mimicked her previous motion, gathering his nightshirt in hand and hauling it over his head in one motion. If he lingered, he feared he would lose all courage. When he had divested the garment on the floor, he dared to glance at his wife.

Her gaze was fixed between his legs. Instinctively, he went to cover himself.

“I was looking,” she said. “I did not cover myself.”

“You are beautiful. This is not.”

“May I be the judge of that?”

“Elizabeth, I…”

“Uncover yourself, please.”

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.”

He obliged, bending down and sweeping her up into his arms. She gave a delighted giggle, throwing her arms around his shoulders as he carried her effortlessly to their bed.

In Pemberley, the bed in his chamber was far larger and more luxurious, and he decided that he would keep her close to him always.

He wanted nothing more than to wake up beside her and end the day with her, companions in all things.

He lay her out carefully on the bed, kneeling before her.

He remained where he was, looking down at her.

She was truly beautiful; her breasts full, tipped with rose-pink nipples.

He could not stop staring at them, and he soon leaned down and captured one between his lips, swirling over the raised bud with his tongue.

“Fitzwilliam!” she gasped in delight, her fingers once more in his hair, pressing him closer. “Oh!”

He moved his attention to the other breast, his hand taking the place of his tongue on the other side.

She arched beneath him, and he found himself kissing lower, lower, lower, until he had traced a path to just beneath her belly button.

He glanced up at her, and she stared down at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

“May I kiss you here?”

“There?” she frowned. “I…is such a thing proper?”

“It is possible, certainly. I believe it can give pleasure to a woman.”

He did not wish to explain how he knew that to her; although he had never carried out the act, on the rare occasion he had attended a brothel (against his will, at the insistence of first his father and then Wickham), he had seen the act listed upon the ‘menu’ of what was available – as though one was ordering at a restaurant.

It had seemed repulsive to him then. Now, he wanted nothing more than to bury his face between her thighs.

“I would like it, I think,” she whispered. “If you kissed me there.”

At her consent, he lowered himself, pressing the softest kiss to the place he believed would give her the most pleasure.

The sound of her breathy sigh from above him urged him onwards, and he swiped over the sensitive flesh with his tongue.

His reward was her cry of pleasure, as well as the trembling of her thighs beneath his steadying hands.

He must be dead; what had he done to deserve such heavenly bliss? His tongue stroked against her until she became frantic beneath him, her cries echoing around them. He groaned against her, his sounds joining hers, a strange music that was theirs and theirs alone.

“I…” she panted, her hips arching against his mouth. “I…”

He held her down, hands splayed wide over her hips. Her release was unmistakable, cried out in the air above him. He could scarcely fight his own, his hips firm against the mattress. When she began to melt against him, her fingers probed at his head, pushing him away.

He moved back, sitting up and leaning on his heels.

Elizabeth, splayed out before him like a dream, lay with her eyes closed.

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her fingers tangled in the sheets.

A blissful smile played on her lips, and he felt utter privilege at being the man to put it there.

“I…” she inhaled sharply, trying to sit up but falling hopelessly back against the pillows. “I do not understand.”

“I believe the French call it ‘the little death’.”

“How apt,” she laughed. “I feel like I saw heaven, just for a fleeting moment.”

He moved to lie beside her; he did not kiss her. This attempt at gentlemanly conduct was soon thwarted as she crushed her mouth to his, paying no mind to the taste of her on his lips.

“You seemed to know just what to do.”

“It is instinct, rather than practical knowledge.”

“Instinct,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “How curious. And if I were to follow my instinct, I wonder if the results would be as pleasing to you?”

“What do you…”