She could only nod, the words beyond her.
He lowered his head and took the sensitive peak into his mouth through the thin fabric, first soothing with his tongue, then gently biting, then soothing again. Elizabeth arched instinctively, leaning back against the support of his arm, offering herself more fully. The sensation wasexquisite—sharp pleasure bordering on pain, then melting into liquid warmth that pooled low in her belly and slid downward until she felt slick and aching with need.
His free hand continued its slow exploration, mapping the curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, the trembling line of her thigh. She was scarcely aware that she was still standing, her knees weakening, until his arm tightened around her, holding her upright.
He lifted his head, his eyes almost black with desire, his breathing as ragged as her own.
“Do you trust me, Elizabeth?”
She whispered the only truth she still possessed. “Yes.”
He dropped to his knees before her with reverence.
Elizabeth’s hands flew to his shoulders for balance as he gathered the hem of her nightgown and lifted it slowly, exposing her legs to the cool air of the room. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, his mouth tracing a burning path along her inner thigh. When he reached the apex of her legs, he paused, looking up at her with a question in his eyes.
She did not look away.
He leaned forward and tasted her.
The first slow stroke of his tongue drew a broken sound from her throat. He licked her again, deeper, savouring, learning what made her tremble and gasp. His hands steadied her hips as her knees threatened to buckle. When he found the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circled it with the flat of his tongue, pleasure coiled tight and bright inside her.
He did not rush. He worshipped her with long, languid strokes interspersed with gentle suction. Then came the careful press of one finger sliding inside her, then two, curling with devastating precision while his tongue continued its relentless rhythm.
Elizabeth’s head fell back. Her fingers tightened in his hair. The pleasure built higher and higher, a wave cresting until it crashed over her with shocking force. She cried out softly, her body shuddering, her thighs trembling as release swept through her in long, pulsing waves. He stayed with her through every tremor, gentling his touch only when she began to soften.
When the last ripple faded, reality returned in a rush.
Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. She was still standing, barely, supported by his strong hands at her hips. Her legs felt unsteady and her heart was racing so violently she feared it might escape her chest.
Mr Darcy remained on his knees before her, his forehead resting against her thigh, breathing hard. His hands still held her gently, as though he could not yet bear to let her go.
For one heartbeat, tenderness threatened to overwhelm her.
Then panic surged in its place. She saw the man on his knees before her, his shirt untucked, his hair wild, his mouth still glistening. The nightgown bunched at her waist, her bare legs.
Elizabeth pulled her nightgown down with shaking hands. She stepped back abruptly. He released her immediately—his hands falling to his sides, his face tilted up, his expression raw, open, and vulnerable.
“I—I cannot—” The words tangled in her throat. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, turned, and fled.
She did not look back.
The corridor was dark and mercifully empty. She ran on silent feet until she reached her own chamber, slipped inside, and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the wood, her chest heaving, the taste of him still on her lips and the echo of her own pleasure still ringing in her blood.
What had she done?
She slid down the door until she sat on the floor, drew her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her arms.
In the quiet of her room, with the taste of Mr Darcy still lingering on her tongue and the memory of his mouth between her legs burning like fire, Elizabeth Bennet realised she had just crossed a line from which there might be no return.
Thirteen
Darcy had not slept a wink.
He had lain in the four-poster bed, staring at the canopy until the patterns of shadow and firelight blurred into one another. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Elizabeth—her flushed cheeks, the way her fingers had tightened in his waistcoat, the soft gasp she had given when his mouth found hers. The memory of her taste, of the way she had arched into his touch, had kept him hard and restless until dawn.
He rose before the household stirred, sloshed cold water on his face, and dressed without waiting for his valet. By the time the clock struck eight he was already climbing the stairs, driven by the single fixed point in his day: saying good morning to Anne.
He pushed open the nursery door.