Mind addled by lust, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy leaned over his beautiful wife’s shoulder, and his breath caught as his gaze flitted over the closed volume, hiding the images of his dark, hidden fantasies.
Had Elizabeth seen?
She must have seen.
Yet she writhed against him, the signs and scent of her arousal unmistakable.
Never had Darcy dared hope Elizabeth might share his fantasies. She was not an opera house lady, an experienced mistress, or a lady visitor to Foxlins’ club, to understand and at least feign interest in such things.
Quickly, Darcy blew out the candle. Thankfully, Georgiana was away, spending the fortnight with a nearby friend of her station on their estate. And the servants would not talk, knowing the drawings were the lesser of the illicit activities Darcy had hosted in his youth.
Did Darcy dare hope he could coax Elizabeth to share his debauched, wicked desires?
When they reached his chamber, Darcy lowered his wife carefully to the bed.
Elizabeth, her face flushed and glinting with a sheen of sweat in the flickering candlelight, ran her tongue between her lips, her gaze catching a moment on his cravat. Her cheeks pinked, and she averted her gaze to his face.
The image he had glimpsed before blowing out the candle—a lady, dark-haired and dark-eyed, her arms, legs, and breasts bound as she stared with an expression of unfettered yearning—had fueled too many illicit fantasies both before and, more embarrassingly, after his first rejected proposal to Elizabeth.
“Are you well?” Elizabeth asked, parting her legs as she bit the right side of her full lower lip, a nervous gesture.
Darcy smiled. “Very well,” he said, bringing his hands up to the knot of his cravat. If he was correct, and Elizabeth shared his interest, he might be more than “very well.” He might be the most fortunate man to breathe between the ground and sky.
Slowly, he pulled the knot free. If Elizabeth was intrigued or at least not repulsed, Darcy knew he had to introduce her to this slowly. Firmly, but carefully, mindful of her every shiver of pleasure.
Darcy parted the white linen, revealing the dark curls of his chest.
Elizabeth’s gaze followed the movement, and her lids lowered until he could see only the fringe of her lashes.
“I admire you, my darling,” Darcy said, his voice husky. “And I could never deny you anything.”
“I—” Elizabeth swallowed. “I want to make you as joyful as you have made me.”
“You have,” Darcy assured her. “I want you and only you. To whatever degree you will have me.”
Elizabeth was breathing faster; her breasts rose and fell with her deep breaths, her nipples hard. Her muslin day dress was damp, the cloth clinging to the generous swell of her bosom as she cast her gaze in every direction but his.
Darcy swallowed against the thickening of his throat. He wanted to touch her, and he eased forward, toes barely brushing the carpeted floor as he unfastened his boots.
Slowly, he unwound the cravat from his neck, holding it in his left hand.
Her gaze tracked it, and to Darcy’s delight, she brought her wrists closer together.
Oh yes, Elizabeth had seen, and she wanted.
Before propriety or doubt could make Darcy second guess his instincts, he leaned over her, gently easing her shoulders back onto the silk coverlet.
Elizabeth lay back with a sigh, and Darcy took her wrists, looping the cravat around them and pulling her hands over her head.
“Oh Fitzwilliam!” Elizabeth moaned, her lips parted.
Darcy’s manhood ached, the reality of Elizabeth’s passion blistering his fantasies into so much ash and smoke.
Elizabeth tugged at the bonds, and then her whole body seemed to open to him. Her dark eyes now fully black with want, she parted her legs.
“You realize it is wrong to look through a gentleman’s private papers,” Mr. Darcy said, his lips curling into a smile.
Elizabeth squirmed beneath his gaze, but she made no protest nor any attempt to free herself. “My husband said I could read any book I liked.”
“Your husband feared you might be a chaste, proper lady, not to intrude on a gentleman’s secret perversions.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I—”
“Your husband was mistaken,” Darcy said, brushing her lower lip with his thumb.
“A happy mistake?” Elizabeth breathed, flicking her tongue to his thumb, a moment of heat.
“Very happy.” The word did not begin to touch his emotions. Love and mingled lust. “Now, you are mine, and you will take what I give.”
Elizabeth whimpered.
Only Elizabeth’s hands were bound, but her acceptance of his control, her clear lust as she squirmed beneath his gaze, made his pulse roar in his ears, a counterpoint to his throbbing member.
It was a heady, intoxicating feeling as he kissed her mouth, her neck, her throat. He needed to get her out of this gown and stays, to feast himself on every part of her naked skin as she, arms bound, writhed beneath him.
Darcy pulled her stays down and pushed the gown away from her breasts as he nuzzled her white neck. Soon, he had her breasts free, the tight buds of her nipples hard and rosy.
Darcy bent to suckle one breast and lavished attention on the other with his lips and fingers, tracing circles on her tight, taught flesh. Elizabeth arched into his touch, her lips parting on a breathy sigh.
“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth panted. Her moan was muffled against his shoulder, but he felt the vibration in his lips.
Darcy knew he should be careful, that he should ease her into this, but his need to taste her was too strong.
Roughly, he pulled the edges of her damp muslin day gown upwards, revealing the length of her lithe, strong legs. He eased her legs wider, and Elizabeth’s hips rose from the coverlet. The gown shifted, leaving the most intimate part of her exposed. He could see her wetness, smell her arousal.
Darcy lowered his mouth and licked her, his tongue tasting her as his hands molded to her soft, taught thighs.
Elizabeth cried out and arched her back. He ran fingertips over her inner thighs as he licked, his tongue teasing the pearl of her pleasure and dipping in deeper until she was shaking and moaning against him, arching her hips into his mouth. “Please!”
Looking up over the bunched nest of skirts, he saw her jerk against her bonds.
“Lizzy,” he murmured, teasing his tongue over her sensitive flesh with what he knew to be a touch too maddeningly light for release. “I want your arms over your head.”
Elizabeth bit her lower lip again and raised her hands over her head, laying her arms on the nest of pillows above her.
“Very good,” Darcy said, caressing her thigh. He would bring her to release first and then plunge himself into her, riding the waves of her pleasure until she crested again.
Darcy pulled the pearl of her pleasure into his mouth, tasting and rubbing at the hooded flesh.
Elizabeth’s hips jerked, thrusting as she ground her wet heat against his tongue.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” she repeated.
Darcy glanced up to see Elizabeth lifting her hands and lowering them behind her, obeying to his order to leave them in place even as she squirmed with need.
That struggle and her acquiescence drove him to an even more painful arousal. His clothing was absurdly constricting, far too tight for the forceful swell of his manhood. With one hand, he fiddled with the falls of his breeches, and, desperate for relief, loosened the vent of his drawers to cup himself. It would only take a few strokes to spend, an embarrassing showing.
Darcy squeezed the base of his shaft, frantic to ease his passion long enough to take her. To feel her hot walls around him and lose himself in the delight of her.
Elizabeth squirmed and shook against him, her hips swaying in entreaty.
This woman, his wife, was a miracle of beauty and passion such that no dream had prepared him. Elizabeth’s hands plucked at the ends of the cravat, tugging against the restraints. Darcy knew Elizabeth well enough to know she was close, so deliciously close to coming undone.
“Take me,” she begged, her voice lowering into an almost growl. No longer begging, she ordered, “Now.”
“I dictate the terms of your pleasure,” Darcy said. He lapped at her wet seam again, his tongue and lips teasing the nub at the apex.
Elizabeth’s back arched as her whole body tensed, and her release flooded his mouth. She cried out, her hips jerking with each new spasm.
Manhood aching, Darcy rose. He needed to be inside Elizabeth, to plunge himself in her tight, hot core.
Still shaking, Elizabeth opened her eyes, gazing up at him with her dark eyes clouded with desire.
Darcy nudged at her entrance. “Mine,” he said and sheathed himself in a long, smooth thrust, lowering himself to capture her mouth in a kiss both rough and tender.
“Yours, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, her acquiescence a wave of warmth. Tight cries of pleasure filled his ears as she met every thrust with abandon. Riding her passion, he felt her tighten around him in another release.
Darcy’s body moved with a mind of its own, a steady rhythm driving every sensation into a sharp point.
“Love you,” Darcy gasped, surrendering to her body and his. He cried out his release, his face buried in the curve of her neck.
The world fell away except his body and hers, joined so tightly he could feel her heartbeat, her breath, the heat of her blood in his veins.
This was what he hungered for, what he had fought hard to ignore. Love and lust, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, joy and passion.
Darcy marveled that she wanted this. Him. All of him, even the parts he had dared not imagine he could share.
He opened his eyes to see Elizabeth’s face, the skin of her chest still flushed from her passion. His breath shuddering, he held Elizabeth close as she trembled, cradling her until her breathing slowed and her heart stilled its racing. Slowly, reverently, he unwrapped the cravat from around her wrists.