Page 37 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“Such as staring.”

Her mouth curved. She looked at the fire, then back at him. Her gaze was steady, direct, and completely unguarded. She was no longer hiding her desire, and neither was he. The plainness of it in her eyes was something he could not withstand.

She stood and crossed the four feet between them. She sat beside him, her back against the same wall. Her shoulder pressed against his; the contact was deliberate and unhurried. She did not look at him, but at the fire.

“Elizabeth,” he said.

“I am here,” she said. “I am choosing to be here. If you have objections, this would be the time.”

“I have no objections.”

“Good.”

She turned her face to his. The firelight caught the flecks of gold in her eyes that he had never been near enough to see. It was a privilege the island had granted, and one England would never have permitted.

He kissed her. This time, it was slow. There was no argument behind it, no sudden breaking of a seal. His mouth was careful and deliberate on hers, learning the shape of her lips and the way she tilted her head to the left. Her breath came faster when he deepened the kiss.

Her hands came to his chest. She pressed her palms flat against him, the heat of her skin radiating through his thin linen shirt. She spread her fingers directly over his rapid, uncomposed heartbeat. She felt it, and she smiled against his mouth.

“Your heart,” she said.

“Is making a fool of me. Yes.”

“I was not going to say that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I was thinking that it is reassuring. You are very controlled, Mr Darcy. Fitzwilliam. It is reassuring to discover that something in you is not.”

He put his hand in her hair. It was a proper touch this time—not the desperate clutch of the night before, but a slow, deliberate slide. His fingers threaded through the salt-stiffened waves, finding the warmth of her scalp underneath. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back into his hand. The gesture was so instinctive and unguarded that it struck him with more force than the kiss itself.

He kissed her jaw, right at the hinge where the bone met her ear. He kissed down the line of her neck to the hollow at the base of her throat, where her pulse beat fast and visible. Her skin tasted of salt, warmth, and faintly of rosemary. The taste was particular and unrepeatable. He memorised it with an urgency he could not account for.

She breathed his name — full-voiced: Fitzwilliam. It carried the full weight of the intimacy they had established the night before. This second use of his given name carried something the first had not: explicit permission.

His mouth moved lower to her collarbone, sharp under the thin skin. Her dress had slipped off one shoulder. Her hand came to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there. The hold was a clear directive, and he followed it.

The neckline of her dress had been loose since the second week, the fabric stretched and weakened by salt. It slipped further under his mouth. The skin below her collarbone was paler than her face and neck, untouched by the sun. The paleness was intensely intimate. His mouth traced it with a reverence his rational mind would have forbidden.

She pulled the dress down.

The gesture was small, deliberate, and it changed everything. Her hand rested on the fabric at her shoulder, drawing it down and away. She bared her breast to the firelight, and to him. She kept her eyes open, her gaze fixed on his face, watching him see her.

His breath caught. She was beautiful. The word was inadequate, but it was all he possessed. Her breast was small and round in the firelight. Her face above it remained calm and watchful. She was neither shy nor ashamed; she performed none of the coy emotions he had been taught to expect from a woman in such a moment. She was showing him her body with the same unabashed directness she had shown him her mind. That sheer directness was the most intoxicating thing he had ever witnessed.

“You can touch me,” she said. “I would like you to touch me.”

He touched her. The hand that had been in her hair moved to her breast. The first contact was gentle and exploratory, his palm resting against her soft weight. His thumb brushed her nipple, and it hardened under his touch. Her breath hitched, a soft sound he knew he would never forget.

He lowered his mouth to her, his lips closing around the peak. She made a low, surprised, wholly ungoverned sound. Her hand tightened in his hair and her back arched, pressing herself into his mouth.

He kissed one breast, then the other. She held his head, breathing in short, sharp pulls, and said his name twice. Each time it was less composed and more fractured. Her breaking composure was the finest gift he had ever received.

Her hand moved down, from his hair to his neck, and then to his chest. Her fingers worked the open collar of his shirt, spreading the fabric. She pressed her palm flat against his bare chest. The touch of her hand on his skin was a shock that went through him like a physical blow, undoing his remaining restraint.

She pushed his shirt open further, using both hands to spread the linen and expose his chest to the firelight. Her fingers found the scar on his side, the long line where the shipwreck had torn him. She traced it tenderly. The touch evoked an ache that had nothing to do with the physical wound.

“Does it pain you?” she asked.