“This,” he said. “You can do this.”
He showed her, his hand over hers, teaching her the rhythm, the pressure, the slow slide that sent lightning up his spine. She learned quickly, and soon he released her hand, letting her set the pace, his breath coming harsh and ragged against her ear.
She stroked him through the fabric, growing bolder, and he was lost. The pleasure was coiling tighter with every pass of her hand. He could feel the edge approaching, the point beyond which there would be no return.
“Enough.” He caught her wrist, stilling her. His voice was wrecked, barely recognisable. “Enough, Elizabeth. I want—I need to give you pleasure.”
He walked her backwards until her legs met the edge of the bed. He eased her down, guiding her onto the mattress, her dark hair spilling across his pillows like ink on snow. She looked up at him, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
He knelt between her knees. He slid her skirts upwards, baring her legs inch by inch, giving her time to object. She did not object. She watched him, her eyes dark and trusting, and when he pressed his mouth to the inside of her knee, she shivered.
He went slow this time. He kissed his way up her thigh, learning the texture of her skin, the salt-sweetness of her body. When he reached the apex, he paused—one breath, two—and then lowered his mouth to her.
She gasped. Her hands flew to his hair, gripping, and the sound she made was the same broken cry he remembered from before. He worshipped her slowly, thoroughly, reading her responses, adjusting his rhythm to the small sounds that escaped her throat. She arched beneath him, her thighs trembling, her breath coming in sharp, desperate pants.
The pressure built in his own body, untouched, impossible to ignore. He was straining against his breeches, aching, and her pleasure was feeding his in a loop that was driving him to madness. He focused on her, only her, the taste of her, the feel of her, the way her body tightened around nothing as she approached the edge.
She shattered with a cry, her hips lifting off the bed, her fingers pulling at his hair. The release rolled through her in waves, and Darcy stayed with her through every tremor, gentling his touch only when she began to soften.
And then his own climax crashed over him. He groaned against her thigh, his body shuddering, spending in his breeches with a release so intense it whited out his vision. He had not been touched and still he had come undone, wrecked by the simple act of giving her pleasure.
He rested his forehead against her thigh, breathing hard. She was breathing hard too, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her body boneless against the mattress.
Silence settled over the room. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Elizabeth laughed.
It was full, startled, incredulous, the laugh of a woman who could not quite believe what had just happened. Darcy lifted his head and found her grinning at the ceiling, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with joy.
He crawled up the bed until he was beside her, his forehead touching hers. He was still trembling and she was still laughing. The absurdity of it struck him: he was undone in his own breeches like a schoolboy, lying beside the woman who had unmade him with nothing more than curiosity and courage.
He started to laugh too.
They lay there, foreheads pressed together, laughing at the wonder of it, at the improbability, at the startling fact that they had crossed a threshold together, and the world had not ended.
Elizabeth’s laughter subsided. She lifted her head, just slightly, and pressed her lips to his.
The kiss was soft, deliberate. A seal on what had just happened, a promise of what might come. He kissed her back, gently, without urgency, tasting her smile.
She pulled away first.
“Goodnight, Mr Darcy.”
He watched her rise from the bed, watched her smooth her skirts and tuck her hair behind her ears. She crossed to the door of his drawing room, paused at the threshold, and looked back at him, a glance that held heat, humour, and mischief.
Then she was gone.
Darcy lay on his bed, staring at the canopy, his body wrung out and his heart pounding. The room still smelled of her, the sheets where she had lain still warm.
He pressed his hand to his chest and felt his heartbeat gradually slow.
He was ruined. Thoroughly, completely, irreversibly ruined.
And he had never been happier in his life.
Eighteen
The carriage arrived at half past ten, earlier than anticipated, and the household held its breath.