Page 21 of Another Gentleman’s Betrothed

Elizabeth felt his lips brush her temple, her neck, the shell of her ear. She felt his hands move over her body, exploring the silky feel of her skin.

His lips found their way down to her shoulder, down to her collarbone, down to the plump swell of her breast.

“Mr. Darcy.”

“Elizabeth.”

Mr. Darcy bit down on her nipple, laving it with his tongue, adoring it as he continued to thrust into her. He kept his mouth fastened to her delicious flesh as he grasped her thigh with one hand and cupped her bottom with the other, pulling her snugly against him.

She could feel her body tightening around him. A culmination of all her bliss was coming, she was sure of it. Her insides were a tangle of anticipation, ready to explode with the force of a thousand stars. Her muscles tensed, her body squeezed him tightly, as if to consume all of him.

“Mr. Darcy!” Elizabeth called out, panting.

He continued to ravish her breast until her body gave an enormous final convulsion, and she collapsed atop him, completely spent.

He was still inside her, she realized, filling her, a delicious reminder of his impending release. She held her breath, waiting for him to finish. Her body quivering, she closed her eyes, bracing for the explosive rush of his invading manliness.

His body covered with a sheen of perspiration, his breath coming in short gasps, Mr. Darcy pushed forward, deliberately, carefully. Until he was no longer inside her, withdrawing instead—exercising extraordinary measures, entirely necessary and yet thoroughly satiating as his moaning attested—an intoxicating melody Elizabeth was sure she would never grow tired of.

“Elizabeth,” he groaned, his passions released.

“I am here,” she whispered softly, feeling more cherished than she had ever felt in her life, and energized by the realization that their night was a long way from ending.

Chapter 7

Another evening found the Longbourn party at Netherfield again—the fifth in as many days as it seemed. All Mrs. Bennet’s attempts to put her younger daughters in Mr. Darcy’s path were in vain. He only had eyes for Elizabeth. Try as he might, he could hardly tear his eyes away from her, and he was always looking for reasons to be close to her.

If his friend, Bingley, supposed Darcy was spending more time in Elizabeth’s company than he spent with anyone else since his arrival, Bingley kept it to himself. If only the same could be said for Bingley’s younger sister, who was always teasing Darcy about his newfound admiration for the young widow, Mrs. Tilman. Darcy could honestly say that he was glad for the recent arrival of Bingley’s other relations: Mr. Randall Hurst and his wife, Mrs. Louisa Hurst, Bingley’s older sister. They were not Darcy’s friends, but their presence gave Miss Bingley someone to bother besides himself. Still, these frequent gatherings between the Netherfield and Longbourn parties were a trial for Darcy’s patience, for he wanted only to be alone with Elizabeth.

When he could, Darcy walked to where Elizabeth was standing. Feigning interest in the painting she was admiring, he said, “I cannot begin to tell you how much I have missed you. Is it my imagination, or have you been going out of your way to avoid me all evening?”

Elizabeth said, “Sir, I do not know what else I can do other than avoid you as best I can.”

“You did not call on Netherfield earlier today either. Please do not feel that you have to avoid your sister on my behalf.”

He was standing so close—close enough to brush fingers against each other’s, had they chosen. Elizabeth could not keep her eyes from poring all over Mr. Darcy’s person, his increasing discomfort and all. The sight of him made her moist. Finally, he arrested her eyes by putting his hands in his breeches’ pockets.

“Pardon my stare, sir. I suppose that is just another reason it is best that you and I keep our distance. Were I a man, my desire for you would be just as obvious, I assure you.”