Page 83 of Knowing Mr. Darcy
His hand was hot on her thigh, through the fabric of her dress, and then his hand moved down to touch her bare leg.
She let out a cry that she tried to stifle.
He kissed her harder, as if to quiet her, one hand exploring all of her bare leg, the other migrating up to the small of her back to crush her against his chest.
But this had the effect of making the most intimate part of her body come into contact with the buttons of his trousers.
She didn’t wear drawers. Her mother was firmly against it, going on rants about how no man wanted to wed a woman who had ever had anything between her legs. Of course, Elizabeth was always pointing out that all the Bennet girls had to put things between their legs during their monthly bleeding, but her mother said that didn’t count. So, it was her bare skin hitting the falls of his trousers there and she had not anticipated what that wouldfeellike.
She gasped.
His hands moved, both of them, up to her hips, her upper thighs. He grunted, and then—holding her in place—he drove his pelvis into her.
She let out a long, low groan. It felt lovely. She wasn’t proud of this, not exactly, but sometimes, in the dead of the night, she would take the pillow out from under her head and tuck it between her thighs and squeeze and rock and squeeze and rock until… Well, anyway, it felt likethat.
He panted. His eyes were shut. He did it again, thrusting against her.
She moaned. Oh, Lord, perhaps the driver could hear them. How mortifying.
His hands moved down her hips. His fingers traveled over the bunched up fabric of the skirt of her dress. “This is terribly improper.” His voice was choked. “We must cease all of this.”
She urged her pelvis against him. “Immediately, yes. I am quite in agreement.”
His fingers started to push the fabric of her dress higher up her thighs, baring more and more of her body. “I… this behavior is beneath me,” he gasped.
“Beneath both of us,” she wheezed.
“Utterly wretched of me, really, taking advantage of you in this way,” he whispered, and pushed her dress higher still, so that he could see the place where she was pressed into his trousers. He let out an inscrutable noise. It sounded agonized. Then he thrust against her again.
She bit down on her lip, at the sensation of that there, his trousers against her sensitive flesh, the wondrous pressure. She was reacting to it, her body getting loose but tight in the nicest of ways.
“Look at you,” he breathed. “Look at youright there.”
She rocked into him, the way she rocked into the pillow sometimes. He was firm and warm and pressing into her all over, and it felt ever so much better than the pillow did. A shudder went through her.
His hand slid over her thigh to brush against her. “Apologies. I know I oughtn’t.” His voice was husky.
“It is I who should be apologizing,” she wheezed. “I don’t know what’s come over me, but it feels…” She couldn’t say how it felt.
His hand explored the parts of her body not pressed into his clothing. “Yes? Good? You like that, then.”
Oh, he was touching herethere, all over the mound of her and lower, too, and every one of his touches was a revelation. Her head fell back and her lips parted and she sighed in pleasure.
“That’s all right, I think,” he breathed. “I think that’s just fine. Very good, Elizabeth. I don’t think I want you to apologize for this at all.”
She moaned again, rocking into him, into his fingers, into the firm outline of him encased in his trousers. “No, I should stop.”
“Definitely not,” he rasped. “Don’t stop at all. You should sit right there, right in my lap, just exactly as you are andenjoythis. You should allow me towatchyou enjoy this. I insist upon it.”
Something about his tone or his words undid her, and shestarted rocking in earnest.
He gently matched her movement, and one of his fingers wormed in against her—easily, because she was slippery now, (and what was that going to have done to his trousers,heavens)—and he touched the little part of her that made her feel like she’d been doused in a shower of bright sparks.
She’d only touched it herself once or twice (maybe more often but rarely, so rarely; she knew it was shameful) but his finger, it was so thick and male and different than her own and she liked it against her, liked it more than she had quite known she could like a thing.
So, she gave herself over to it, and he murmured words of encouragement to her, his voice very deep as he did it, catching in his throat now and again. “Very good, Elizabeth.” And, “Oh, yes, just keep doing exactly as you are doing, that’s perfect.” And, “You can’t know how much I approve entirely of this.”
And it was like with the pillow between her legs, only more intense, and more lovely, a shared experience with him, giving over her pleasure to him, being vulnerable and safe here, his finger against the pulse of her undoing. She climbed up a high wall of pleasure, finding footholds here and there, teetering now again, and then eventually…
