Page 38 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

Before he could finish his sentence, Elizabeth had risen above him.

She straddled him, the soft flesh of her inner thighs pressing against him as she stared down at her.

He could not help but stare greedily at her breasts, this new angle making them seem even more bountiful.

He raised his hands, cupping them as she moaned in delight above him.

“You have explored my body,” she said breathily. “Now I should like to do the same.”

“You do not have to.”

“I know. I want to. Your body is so different to anything I have ever seen before, Fitzwilliam. Surely it is only right that I endeavour to know it as you know mine? I wish to touch you, to know how to please you – more than that. I wish to touch you because I cannot resist. You are very beautiful, you know.”

“Men are not beautiful.”

Darcy’s voice was low, almost stern, as though he feared making himself ridiculous in confessing such a thought.

“Oh, I would beg to differ. You are handsome, of course, but there is beauty there too. The way your muscles move beneath your skin – your skin itself. It is so soft, and then there is this…”

She leaned nearer, her breath brushing his chest, and threaded her fingers through the dark curls there. He stilled beneath her touch, as though the smallest movement might shatter the spell between them.

“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 of speech.

“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.

“I do not know the technical term,” he said, gritting his teeth as his hands fisted in the sheets beneath them. “Sheath, cunt, a cunny, pussy, any of those. They are vulgar words, my love.”

She slid off him with a joyful ‘pop’, licking her lips as she glanced up at him. He shut his eyes tightly, grasping at fragments of discipline as though Latin verses could anchor him.

Unus, duo, tres…tres…tres

Numbers failed him when sense itself was slipping away. She would be the end of him, he was certain. And yet, when at last he dared open his eyes, half afraid she had dissolved like a dream too sweet to last, there she remained - Elizabeth Darcy, radiant and impossibly real.

“I believe it is vulgar to even ask the questions I have asked of you this night, my dearest husband. I think,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she observed him from her vantage point between his thighs, “Perhaps, after a time, you may pick your favourite. I should quite enjoy some vulgarity. Your words excite me, Fitzwilliam. They did from the moment I first read your diary.”

“You are not offended?”

She answered him by taking him into her mouth once again. Her tongue danced around him, sparks shooting up his spine. The muscles of his stomach tightened and he felt his release threaten him so violently it was all he could do to speak.

“Stop!”

She pulled away at once.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, hurt shining in her eyes.

When at last he pulled her up to him, clutching her as if the force of his embrace alone could shield her from doubt, his words were rough against her hair.

“A man may give himself but once in such a moment. And I would give myself to you, Lizzy. Only to you.”

She answered him with only a smile, bright and fearless, a smile that left him powerless. His heart beat so violently in his chest he thought it might burst, and still she gazed at him with that same unshaken affection, as though nothing in the world could dissuade her from loving him.

“What next?” she mumbled against his mouth. “Mama said…”

“Do not mention your mother,” he groaned, feeling his arousal ebb slightly at the mention of Mrs Bennet.

“My apologies,” she laughed. “I was told that you would insert yourself inside me.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes flickered down to where his erection still insisted upon itself. It was beginning to hurt, actually, to be so aroused for so long. He would make no mention of his discomfort, for he was not sure that he could bear the humiliation of her laughing at him.

“It looks too big.”

He looked down; he had nothing to compare himself to, but he supposed that he was not small. Proportionate, he believed, to his tall height and broad figure.

“We are made to fit together,” he said simply.

“Will it hurt? Mama says…”

“Elizabeth,” he said warningly, though it took all his strength not to laugh.

“I was told,” she said, an eyebrow raised, “that there will be blood. I was told there must be blood, actually.”

Her expression turned solemn, and he knew that she was thinking of those nasty, untrue rumours that had been spread.

Though her name had never been mentioned, he knew that a few had assumed it was her.

He cursed them all – and Wickham most of all, for it had been his wretched interference that had tainted that first union they had shared, no matter how misguided it may have been.

“I do not doubt your virtue. I believe there may be a small amount of blood, as your maidenhead is torn.”

“I see. It must hurt, then?”

“I will endeavour to make it as pleasant as possible. I cannot promise that there will not be pain, but I shall do my very best to alleviate it.”

“I see.”

“I have oil, to make things easier,” he explained, his cheeks burning. “I would not hurt you for anything in the world, my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, but for this first time…”

She nodded, her smile fading. He kissed her again, his hands cradling her face.

“I suppose we had best get it over with,” she sighed. “You will stop, won’t you, if it is too terrible?”

“Yes,” he promised. “Damn, I left the oil in my room. If you would give me a moment…”

He could not leave the room in this state. Even if the hallway was empty, the possibility of being caught was too humiliating.

“Do we need it?” she asked. “I do not want you to leave me, however briefly.”

“It may make things better, but I believe you…” he cleared his throat, “produce lubrication of your own.”

Her nose wrinkled.

“Do not say it like that, Fitzwilliam,” she said with distaste. “You make me sound like some sort of barnyard animal.”

“I am sorry. I would not cause you pain for anything in the world, my dearest. Only comfort. Only joy.”

Elizabeth’s smile softened, though a flicker of apprehension passed across her face. He kissed her again, his hands tender at her cheeks.

“Promise you will stop, if it is too dreadful?”

“Of course.”

“Do not leave me. Not now, not even for a moment,” she whispered. She leaned closer to him, her lips touching his ear as she spoke, so softly he would have been ignorant to her words had she not been so close to him. “I am ready. I know that I am ready. When I think of you…”