Even through the thick layer of her skirts, Darcy heard Elizabeth call out his name, his given name, as he licked and sucked at the nub of her pleasure, relentlessly working her towards release. Her taste, salt and sour, made his manhood swell even more, pressing against the constriction of his drawers and breeches, painful in his need.
Darcy wanted to plunge inside the wet heat he tasted, feel her pulse around him and slake his desire in her. But not yet. He would wring every drop of pleasure from her, and then when she thought she could take no more, he would take her and bring her to the peak again and then satisfy them both.
Lizzy, his dear Lizzy, cried, lifting her hips, and her release came. He carried her through and beyond, loving the taste and scent of her, anticipating the feel of her womanhood around him as he brought her to release a second time.
When the signs of her peak had passed, Darcy pulled away from her and sat up on his knees, evidence of her passion on his lips. Womanly desire mixed with the scent of wood smoke. He stared down at his fiancé: wanton, legs parted, curls of her womanhood peeking beneath her raised skirts, breasts exposed in the firelight, and counted himself the luckiest and most wretched rogue in England.
Darcy had thoroughly ruined his wife mere days before their wedding night.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Her dark gaze caught in the flickering firelight, and she reached for him. “I am not an innocent,” she said.
No, she was not. And Darcy was grateful, beyond grateful, for his wanton fiancé. Soon to be his wanton wife. Whoever said it was best a man save his passion, for his mistress was a fool.
Near mad with lust and need, Darcy let his fiancée draw him close. He kissed her, the taste of her womanhood on his lips. He reached for himself, desperate to free his manhood from his breeches and yet afraid of frightening her. Elizabeth might not be as innocent as she had been, but he doubted she had seen a man fully erect. Still, it was a husband’s job to introduce his wife to the pleasure of the marriage bed. They might not be married in word, but from the moment she had accepted his proposal, Darcy had considered himself married to her in his heart.
Darcy could not imagine desiring another woman.
Elizabeth pushed her hands beneath his shirt, sweeping fingers over his belly. “You are furry,” she said.
Darcy laughed. “I hope it is to your liking.”
“Everything about you is to my liking, Will.”
Darcy’s face heated. He had tasted Elizabeth in the most intimate manner, and yet she disarmed him with a few simple words. “I love you,” he said.
Elizabeth’s teeth flashed in the firelight. “And I you.”
Her left hand drifted to his hip, tracing the arc of his bottom. “May I touch you?” she asked.
“Yes.” Darcy swallowed.
Biting her bottom lip, she traced her fingers along the length of his manhood.
Darcy breathed in through her teeth. He had never been so hard in his life, and even this feather light touch had him leaking.
“May I see it?”
Darcy opened his breeches and pulled himself free. Elizabeth touched it again, brushing her fingers along the length. Too light. Too good. She swiped her thumb over the head where moisture gathered. “You are wet too.”
“I want you,” he said.
“I—” Elizabeth pressed her lips together. “Will it fit?”
“It will,” Darcy assured her. He had never had to explain this before, and with her fingers tracing patterns up and down his length, it was a miracle he could form thoughts at all, let alone frame a delicate explanation of the act.
Darcy hardly wanted to dissuade her from her explorations. He wanted her to enjoy, to relish, every moment of their lovemaking, and return with a firm desire to perform the act again and again.
And again.
Darcy gripped the base of his manhood and gave himself a slow stroke, not that his erection needed further encouragement.
“May I kiss you?” Elizabeth asked. Her voice was low, and she averted her gaze.
This woman would drive him mad. Her innocence, curiosity, and the wicked streak that formed between them compelled his mind, body, and heart.
“Yes,” he said.
And she did. The positioning was at first awkward, and she giggled once, arranging her skirts beneath her in an almost demure fashion before she took hold of him and swiped her tongue over his wet head.
Darcy could not help but moan. Hers was not a practiced gesture and all the sweeter for it.
“Hmm,” she mused, then blessedly licked again.
Her grip on his tightened. He put his hand atop hers, showing her how to stroke him. His manhood leaked in earnest now, and she took him in her mouth, just the top of his head. The pressure of her hand and wet heat of her mouth almost too much. With her dark curls freed from her pins, her hair fell over her shoulders, back, and bare breasts as she took him in her mouth, licking and tasting,
An innocent, yes, but not.
Finally, fearing he might spill too soon, he said, “Stop.” A breath. “Please.”
Elizabeth froze. “Did I—?”
“No. Yes. It was perfect.” Darcy touched her head, brushing fingers over her cheeks before cupping her jaw and pulling her up. They kissed again, his salt and the lingering remains of her juices mingling. He pulled her into his arms, her breasts firm against his chest as his manhood ached for her heat.
Darcy had thought himself prepared for this night. He was no neophyte to bringing a woman pleasure. But he had not calculated the effect she would have on him. How his need for her would fog his mind, nor how her clever wit, when applied to bed play, might drive him beyond distraction.
Darcy knew he would have to take control again, to prepare her and bring her to her peak before taking her at last. He kissed her, taking a nipple between his thumb and forefinger and teasing it to a hard nub as he fitted his length to her seam and they rocked together. She moaned into his mouth, her hips moving in time with his.
He explored her body, what he could reach with her still partially gowned, his fingers and tongue searching for the places that made her shiver, moan, and sometimes giggle.
Elizabeth, in return, pulled at his shirt until he finally shed it, following that with his boots, kicked off, and his breeches, inside out in a lump at the foot of their shared pallet.
While Darcy would have enjoyed seeing her fully nude before him, there was something deliciously wicked about having her in her gown and boots while he knelt nearly nude before her.
The fire burned a touch less fiercely than when Darcy had set it however long ago, and a burst of chill air through the old stone walls of the cottage did little to cool his desire as he explored her womanhood with his fingers until she lay open to him, her eyes shut as she made small, delicious moans.
Darcy pushed a finger inside, delighted at how she pressed herself into it, wanting more. He added a second and then a third, feeling for her pleasure as her scent filled his nose. His manhood twitched.
Darcy pleasured her until she was whimpering for release, and only then did he position himself at her entrance.
“I want to feel you come apart around me,” he said.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. “Will it hurt?”
“Only for a short time,” Darcy said. He wished it would not hurt at all. He would never willingly want to cause her pain. “And then it will be good after. I promise.” He would do all he could to make it good.
“I want you,” Elizabeth said.
Darcy’s throat was thick, his chest full with the knowledge of Elizabeth’s love and her trust in him. He rubbed slow circles around the nub of her pleasure until her eyes shut and she gripped the duvet. Then, he pushed himself inside with agonizing slowness, an inch. A breath. Another.
“Oh!” she cried, tensing, and he stopped, rubbing her and whispering endearments until she relaxed enough to let him in further.
She was tight and hot and wet, and the pleasure of it overwhelmed him. His entire being begged to thrust, to bury himself inside her, to take her and wring pleasure from her until the passion sent them both spiraling from some great height, but he could not lose himself, not yet.
“Lizzy,” he whispered.
Elizabeth nodded.
He pulled out a bit and pushed again, seeking that second seat of pleasure that some ladies possessed.
Elizabeth gasped, sharp through her teeth and hitched her hips towards him with a deep, delightful moan.
Darcy thrust again, rubbing at her nub as he took her. Elizabeth cried out again, putting her hands above his hips and pulling him closer.
Oh yes. Now, she truly wanted him.
The rocked together, an endless string of moments, bursts of pleasure like pearls following one after the other as together they sought that glorious peak. Darcy grit his teeth with the effort to hold himself back, not yet, not until he felt her come apart around him.
“Will!” Elizabeth cried, followed by a string of words he wondered how a lady of her class might have learned, until that thought, along with his sight, breath, and all others were washed away in waves of pulsing pleasure as he spent himself in her in erratic, glorious release.
Eventually, Darcy’s manhood softened and slipped free. He lay beside her, nude, sweating, and sated, an arm thrown over her body, just below those wonderful, enticing breasts.
Elizabeth turned her face to him, and he brushed his lips over hers.
“That was—” She breathed in, dark eyes wide as she smiled softly in the firelight. “I have never felt—”
Tap-tap-thwap-scitch.
Darcy, alert, rolled to the noise, fists clenched as above the table and two chairs, a large clump of roof dropped. A small form, an animal of some kind, scratched frantically at the straw and sedge. Darcy caught glimpse of a fat, fluffy tail fringed in white.
“Is that a squirrel?” Elizabeth asked.
Darcy muttered a curse under his breath as he scrambled for his breeches. “Whatever it is, I will be escorting it out of our lodgings.”
“You cannot hurt it!”
“My love,” Darcy promised with a sigh. “I will not harm a hair on its tiny squirrel head.” With an added mutter, he said, “Even as its timing is most troublesome.”