Page 40 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

She came out of the water first and sat on the sand at the cove's edge. Her chemise dried in the sun. Darcy sat beside her. Neither of them spoke, but the silence was heavily freighted with anticipation.

The sun dried them, the salt tightening on their skin. His hand found hers on the sand, his fingers lacing through hers. The gesture felt absurdly innocent after the night before, yet it was not innocent at all. The touch of his hand was a thread connected to every other touch. It pulled at her patiently, insistently, as it had been pulling all day.

Evening came slowly. The light shifted from gold to amber to a deep, warm red, turning the sea the colour of wine and the stones the colour of honey. Elizabeth built the fire, and Darcy brought fish. They ate quickly. The food was a functional necessity rather than a pleasure; the delay was becoming its own kind of unbearable tension.

The fire settled to coals. The air was warm enough that the fire was needed only for light. The low, orange glow made the tower's lower room feel smaller and infinitely more private than it did by day.

Elizabeth looked at him across the fire, and he met her gaze. They had been exchanging such looks all day. The silent communication admitted no uncertainty.

She stood and crossed the space between them. She stopped in front of him where he sat against the wall. When he looked up at her, his face was unguarded in a way she had never seen. His formal composure had been deliberately set aside.

“I want you,” she said. “I am telling you plainly because I do not wish there to be any ambiguity. I want this, and I am choosing it freely. If you are going to ask me if I am certain, the answer is yes. It has been yes since this morning. I would rather you did not waste time asking.”

He stood, slowly unfolding his body from the wall. When he was fully upright, they were closer than they had been since the kiss. His face above hers was steady, grave, and undeniably hungry.

“I was going to ask,” he said.

“I know.”

“Not because I doubted you. Because the asking matters to me.”

She understood.

“Then ask,” she said.

“Are you certain?”

“I am certain.”

He kissed her, his hands framing her face and jaw as they had the first time. The pace was slower now, the initial urgency banked into something deliberate and deep. She kissed him back, pushing his shirt open with her hands. She pressed her palms flat against his bare, warm skin, feeling the muscles tighten beneath her touch.

She pulled his shirt over his head. He lifted his arms to help, and then the fabric was gone. He was bare to the waist. She put both hands flat on his chest, touching him with the same deliberate, focused attention he had shown her the night before.

His breathing changed, becoming shorter and shallower.

He undressed her slowly. He lifted the dress over her head first—a garment so worn and weakened by salt that it came away easily. The fine chemise beneath was the final layer. He paused with his hands on the hem and looked at her. The look was a silent question, and she answered it by lifting her arms.

He drew the chemise off. She stood naked in the firelight. His eyes moved over her with an attention that went beyond assessment; he was memorising her. The deliberate noting of her body in the warm light was visible on his face: her breasts, her waist, and the curve of her hips.

She felt no shyness. Any lingering modesty had been burned away by two weeks of sun, sea, and the particular confidence that came from surviving. Her body had carried her through a shipwreck and sustained her on this island. It was strong, brown, and wholly alive, and she would not apologise for any part of it.

“Lie with me,” she said.

They went to the pallet. The sailcloth and dried grass was insufficient as a mattress, but sufficient as a bed. She lay down, and he knelt beside her. He was still wearing his trousers. “Those as well,” she said. He removed them, and then he was naked beside her. She looked at him directly.

His arousal was evident. She had felt his shape and heat through the fabric the night before, but seeing him was wholly different. Her gaze was direct and unhesitating. She refused to look away; doing so would have been a concession to a modesty she no longer felt.

He lay beside her, placing his hand on her hip and his mouth over hers. The kiss was slow and thorough. His hand moved from her hip to her breast, his thumb circling the peak, before trailing down her stomach. She parted her thighs for him, quite done with waiting.

His fingers found her slick and ready. She gasped against his mouth. His fingers moved with the confident knowledge they had gained the night before. That confidence drew a loud, unrestrained sound from her throat. There was no reason to hold back on an island where the only audience was the man causing her pleasure.

“Now,” she said. “Fitzwilliam. Now.”

He moved over her, taking his weight on his arms and settling his hips between her thighs. His body hovered over hers; his face was close, his breath warm on her mouth. She felt him press against her, and her body answered the silent question by tilting her hips upward.

He entered her slowly. It was a firm, insistent pressure. As he pushed inside her, the sensation of fullness and the sharp, bright sting made her catch her breath.

He stopped immediately. His arms were trembling and his jaw was tight. He held himself quite still, refusing to move until she told him to.