Page 50 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

But she thought of Charlotte's careful hands all evening.

At two o'clock in the morning she opened her door, and he was there.

This time she sat him in her own chair, and he let her. She stood on her good foot with one hand on the chair back. "It is my turn," she said.

He went very still. "Elizabeth."

"You would not let me last night." She lowered herself onto the arm of his chair. It brought her face near his. "I told you it was very unfair, and you agreed with me. I have minded it all day."

"You need not..."

"I know I need not." She put her hand flat on his chest, over his waistcoat. She could feel his heart under it, hard and fast. He was a banked fire under her palm. "I want to. Will you let me?"

He looked at her. His eyes were very dark. "Yes," he said. It came out of him rough.

She undid the waistcoat. She had done it up that morning. Undoing it was a different thing entirely. She pulled his shirt free of his breeches and slid her hand beneath it. His stomach was warm and hard, and it jumped under her palm.

She knew nothing. She knew that she knew nothing. She had grown up in the country and seen the bull and the stallion. She had four sisters, and a mother who whispered. That was all.

Her hand went lower, to the buttons of his breeches. She could not tie a cravat. Buttons she could manage.

He drew in a sharp breath as the flap came down.

She looked. She could not help it. She had never seen a man so before. He was hard and flushed and larger than she had expected. She was a little frightened and a little delighted.

She touched him with one fingertip. He made a sound low in his throat, and his head went back against the chair.

"Show me," she whispered. "Show me how."

"I cannot." His voice shook. He lifted his bandaged hands a little from the arms of the chair and let them fall again. "I cannot, Elizabeth."

"Then tell me."

He opened his eyes. He looked at her, flushed and helpless and wanting, and for a moment he could not speak at all. "Your hand," he said at last. "Close your hand. Around me."

She did. He was smooth and hot, and he pulsed against her palm. He shut his eyes.

"Like that?" she whispered.

"Yes. God. Yes." He swallowed. "Slowly. Move it slowly."

She moved it slowly. She watched his face while she did it. She watched it change. The careful, guarded look he wore at dinner went out of it. A younger, barer look came in.

"Tighter," he said. "A little."

She obeyed. His breath broke.

He talked her through it. His words came low and broken, and then not words at all. There. Yes. Do not stop. She learned him by his voice. When she found the rhythm he wanted, his hips lifted off the chair to meet her hand. His bandaged hands gripped the chair arms, and she saw the linen stain at one palm and did not stop.

"Elizabeth," he said. "Elizabeth, I am going to..."

"Yes," she said. "I know. I want to see."

His release took him hard. He turned his face into the wing of the chair, as she had last night. He bit back the sound. His whole body shook with it. She held him through it, slower and slower, until he caught her wrist with his forearm and stilled her.

For a long moment neither of them moved.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. He looked dazed. He looked at her the way he had looked at her in the lane, by the lantern. "I have ruined your nightgown," he said.