“My retribution,” he repeated, his mouth twisting. “I should visit something upon them both. When I think of all you have suffered, Elizabeth—”
“Lizzy,” she broke in, stopping all of this. Time enough for it later, she thought. Now, she needed to be sure of him, and she could think of one way to be quite sure of him. He was an honorable man, and he had said to her, over and over, that she drove him mad, that his desire for her was such that he would dodishonorable things for her. So, she must get him to claim her, and then he would be bound by his honor to her, bound by the force of his desire, entirely bound, and that was what she needed.
She must do whatever it took to protect the babe, after all.
“Lizzy,” he repeated, his voice soft and reverent.
She put her hand over his, where it was still resting against the swell of her belly. “You have run yourself ragged, Fitz, gone to the ends of the earth for us, and you must take your comfort here. With me. Allow me to comfort you.” She felt bold, full of some force she had not had before. She put her other hand to his trousers, and she found the falls of them and she began to undo them.
He let out a surprised noise. “Lizzy,” he breathed. “You do not have to do that. You do not have to do anything at all. You have been through far too much. I cannot take further advantage of you.”
She moved her other hand and continued to unbutton him. “I want to,” she said, which was sort of a lie, really. Shewas frightened, and she remembered that it had been sort of uncomfortable and invasive, and she did not know if she wished to surrender to it, but if she was going to marry him—and marrying him was the clear and best choice, for the babe, for her, for everyone, truly—she would have to do it, anyway.
“Yes, but…” He seemed to be searching for some words of protest, but not finding them.
She had his trousers undone now, and that part of him, that male part, was suddenly quite apparent, straining to be freed, and it was rather large and rather stiff, and she took a breath for courage, and then reached in and found him. She wrapped her hand around the girth of him.
He let out a long, slow groan. He kissed her again.
She didn’t know what to do with it. She tried squeezing it.
He made a strangled noise, and she might have thought it was wrong except for the way he deepened the kiss, the way his hips canted toward her. So, she did it again, and then she tried to stroke it. She remembered there being a lot of in and out movement, so perhaps that was the way to touch a man here. She didn’t know.
He panted, letting out a series of low noises. His mouth faltered against hers, and then he was putting his mouth to her cheekbone, to her eyebrow. “Lizzy, we must wait. I think… you have been through… this isn’t necessary. We marry, and then we can take…time.There will be time for… for all of this.”
She wanted to be certain. She wanted him to claim her. If he had her, he would not abandon her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m all right.” She squeezed and stroked at the same time.
He shut his eyes, mouth going slack. He let out a helpless chuckle. “At the very least, you must stop enough for us to… get undressed. You’ll have me spending in your hand at this rate.”
Wickham had not undressed her. That wasn’t necessary, she didn’t think. “Just lift my skirts.” She kissed him. She squeezedhim. “Now, here, quickly, do you not want this?” She pulled, gentle, and inwardly thought she was literally leading him by the prick, a phrase she thought she’d heard onstage in a play once and not really quite understood, but this seemed to be exactly what it was, and he came along with her. She kept hold of him, and she backed up, and he stumbled along, and then they had tumbled backwards onto the bed.
They were kissing.
He was still protesting, kissing her forehead, kissing her jaw. “This is not the way I wish it between us, not the first time, Lizzy. You cannot be so eager.”
“I am,” she insisted, and her voice was breathy, and she was eager, though not from the same desire as he felt. She struggled to move her own skirts. She was not wearing drawers. She only did when she was having her bleeding, so she had foregone them since finding she was with child. She wriggled around under him, trying to move the both of them into the right place.
“Are you?” he groaned. “Are you truly?”
“Yes,” she hissed.
And he took over, arranging them easily, pushing her skirts aside, parting her thighs, reaching between them to seize himself there. He moved himself against her.
She tensed.
His mouth was against hers as he breached her.
She did not breathe.
It felt… fine. It felt fine. It did not hurt. It was not even uncomfortable. She could quite do this. She let out a noisy, relieved breath.
He seemed to take this as a sound of pleasure, and he thrust all the way home, filling her entirely.
Now, it felt exactly as it had when she had awoken under Mr. Wickham. Weight against her, the hugeness of him splitting her, stretching her open, all the way in, taking up room, invading her.
Mr. Darcy’s breath was tattered. He was still kissing her.
She put her hands up to clutch his shoulders, to hold on, to endure this, because she had done this herself.
