Somewhere in the distance, Elizabeth heard the hushed ticking of a clock, the low tin-pan tapping of rain against the eaves, the rustle of sheets as her husband settled beside her, his legs tangled with hers. Her curled hand rested against the hard planes of his chest.
Though other women whispered of the discomfort of the marital bed as something to be endured, once Elizabeth had gotten past the embarrassment of her body’s reactions, she’d reveled in the pleasure of her husband’s touch. She enjoyed every part of the act, the carnal joining of skin to skin, sweaty, sometimes awkward, but ultimately revelatory at the peak.
Never had she felt like this, though. Elizabeth ran her fingers over the reddened skin where the cravat had bound her. The warmth of it felt like a victory. A memory. An embrace.
Fitzwilliam pushed damp hair from her forehead. “Are you... comfortable?”
Comfortable was too bland a word to describe the tumult of emotions running through her in the shivering aftermath of her release. “I—” Elizabeth bit her lower lip. Breathed. “With such a simple thing, I had not imagined so much pleasure,” she admitted. “I have never done...”
“I know. But you responded. You are a marvel,” her husband said. He kissed her lips gently.
“I wish you had shown me,” Elizabeth said. “The postcards. Showed me what you wanted. I do not want us to have secrets between us.”
Fitzwilliam’s arms stiffened around her. “I did not want to frighten you.” Then he laughed. “I should have realized. You are the most fearless woman I have ever known.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed. She did not consider herself fearless. When she had faced Fitzwilliam again at Pemberley after rejecting his proposal, the situation had terrified her. When Lydia had nearly ruined herself and their family, again, Elizabeth had trembled inside. And as much as she’d loved Fitzwilliam, she had feared and anticipated their first night together.
No, she was not fearless.
Stubborn, perhaps, in the pursuit of her dreams, but not fearless.
“Is this...?” Elizabeth waved a hand towards the fallen, crumpled cravat. “Something you have done before?”
And what about the rest of it?
Even in the exhaustion of her release, Elizabeth felt a soft stirring of arousal at the memories of the bound woman in the image. What marks would rope leave on her skin? Would the burn of it stir the same desire as the soft scrape of starched linen?
“I have some experience.”
Though Elizabeth had asked, she could not help the stab of pure fury at the thought of another woman in her husband’s embrace.
“But it was before. And none to match you. None can match you.”
Fitzwilliam’s words soothed and warmed her. Knowing now he lusted for her and no other eased the flame of jealousy.
Envy, truly.
Envy of this stranger had shared a pleasure with her Fitzwilliam that Elizabeth had just discovered.
“I would like to...” A nameless fear closed her throat, and the words caught. Elizabeth knew her husband admired her, and she knew he did not disdain her for enjoying, so well, what he had done. But could she ask for more?
Could she ask him to bind her with rope, to force her to remain open to his attentions even as she strained against her bindings?
Pressing a kiss to her shoulder, her husband said, “Tell me what you want.” It was not a request or a demand but an order.
Elizabeth’s core pulsed in response. “Will you... with me... like your drawings?”
“Anything. All you desire.” Another kiss, this accompanied by the light scrape of teeth over skin.
Elizabeth shivered, breathing out with a low moan as she turned her head to kiss his temple. Just like that, all fear evaporated. In its place spread a sense of joy.
And anticipation.
Elizabeth’s stomach growled. Her face heated.
Fitzwilliam laughed. “I will ring for a footman to bring a meal. And after you are fed, there is something I want you to have.”