Page 80 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

He kissed the hollow at its base, where her pulse beat, and then the line of her collarbone. He moved down slowly. He took each breast in turn into his mouth and drew on it until she arched and caught her breath. Her nipples stood up hard under his tongue.

Her hands went into his hair. He liked that. He liked it very much.

He moved lower. He kissed the soft skin under her breasts, and the curve of her belly, and the jut of each hip. She was all warmth under his mouth.

When he reached the dark curls between her thighs, she went quite still. "Fitzwilliam," she whispered.

"Yes?"

"Go on."

He went on.

He had done this once before, at Netherfield, with no hands. He had had to do it all with his mouth, while his ruined palms rested useless on the arms of her chair. He had been proud even then.

Now he had his hands. He used them.

He spread her open with his thumbs and kissed her there, slow and deep. He found that small, swollen bud and circled it with his tongue. He slid one finger into her, and then two. She was slick and hot around them, and she made a sound he would remember all his life.

He learned her. He paid attention to every sound, every catch of breath, every small movement of her hips. When she gasped, he did it again. When she pulled at his hair, he did it harder. When she began to tremble, he slowed down, and she cursed him in a whisper.

"Elizabeth. Such language."

"I learned it from you," she gasped. "In the library. When you could not turn the page."

He laughed against her, and she cried out at that.

He kept the same slow, steady rhythm, with his tongue and his fingers. He felt her rise toward it. Her thighs tightened round his shoulders, and her back arched off the bed.

Her release came on her in a long, shuddering wave. She cried his name out loud, in broad daylight, with the whole house awake below them. He held her hips and stayed with her through every tremor of it. He kept on until she went limp and pushed weakly at his head.

He came up beside her, and she turned her face into his chest and laughed helplessly.

"The servants," she said. "The servants will have heard."

"The servants are in the kitchen, three floors down."

"I was very loud."

"You were." He could not keep the satisfaction out of his voice. "I mean to make you louder."

She looked up at him. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were dark and heavy. She pushed him flat on his back. "Do you," she said.

She swung her leg over him and sat astride his hips. He looked up at her and forgot to breathe.

The firelight was on her now. It turned her skin gold and her hair to dark flame round her shoulders.

She sat above him with her lip caught in her teeth, and he could see her deciding. "Is this permitted?" she said.

"Anything is permitted."

"I do not know quite how."

"Neither do I," said Darcy. "We shall find out."

She reached down and took him in her hand. He was hard, aching, and he groaned at her touch. She guided him to her entrance. Then she sank down onto him, slowly, a little at a time, watching his face the whole way.

It was a long, hot, perfect slide. He gripped the sheets so that he would not grip her too hard.