Page 76 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

She drew the end through and loosened the folds, and unwound the linen from his throat in one long length. She let it fall on the hearthrug.

"You have been practicing," he said, very low.

"On Papa. He says I have ruined four neckcloths and his temper."

He laughed. Then he stopped laughing, because she had put her mouth to his bare throat.

She pushed his coat off his shoulders, and he shrugged it onto the chair. She undid his waistcoat. She had buttoned it twice in the library at Netherfield. The second time, the door was open and Jane was coming along the passage. Now she unbuttoned it slowly, from the top, and nobody was in the passage at all.

He stood and let her. His hands hung at his sides. She could see what it cost him.

"You may touch me," said Elizabeth.

"I know. I am deciding where to begin."

"You have been deciding for a month."

"For a month and a half." His hands came up at last, to the back of her gown. "I mean to be very thorough."

He kissed her once, slowly, and drew back. "Not here," he said. "I promised you a bed."

He held out his hand. She took it, and they went up the stairs. She walked beside him on her own feet, all the way to the top. He let her.

His bedroom was warm, with a fire built high and the bed turned down. Somebody had set her brushes out on the dressing table. Mrs. Hobbs, she thought. Or Parrish. Then Darcy shut the door, and she stopped thinking about either of them.

He turned her round by the shoulders and set about it.

He drew out every pin Jane had set that morning, one at a time. He found the tapes beneath and untied them. He loosened the laces of her stays with quick, sure pulls, and she felt them give. In November he could not have managed a single one. Each time his fingers brushed her skin, he paused there. Then he went on.

Her gown slid down to the carpet. Her stays followed it. She stood before the fire in her shift and stockings, and his eyes went over all of her.

"Fitzwilliam. Say something."

"I am trying to remember how." He drew her shift off over her head. He did it slowly, and the firelight moved on her bare skin.

She had meant to cover herself, for modesty's sake. She found she wanted him to look.

He put his healed hands on her waist. They were warm and a little rough. He moved them up over her ribs, learning the shape of her, and cupped her breasts. His thumbs moved over her nipples until she swayed. "I have wanted to do this with my own hands," he said, "since the evening you cut my meat."

"That was the eighth of November."

"I know when it was."

She pulled his shirt free of his breeches and over his head. The old burn on his ribs was a pink, shiny patch now. She put her palm flat over it. She took his right hand and turned it over, and kissed the scar in the middle of the palm.

He made a sound low in his throat. He picked her up again, and she laughed. He carried her the few steps to the bed and laid her down on the cool sheets.

He took his time. He kissed her mouth, and her throat, and each breast in turn. His hands went everywhere his mouth did. They learned the curve of her hip and the inside of her knee. They found the ankle he had wrapped with a walnut knot, and he kissed that too.

"The worst bandage in Hertfordshire," she said unsteadily.

"I have improved since." His hand moved up the inside of her thigh, slowly, and found the heart of her.

She was slick and aching already. He touched her with great care, until she arched and gripped his shoulders. He drew back each time she came near, and watched her face, and began again.

"Fitzwilliam," she gasped. "Please."

"Not yet. I have waited six weeks. You can wait six minutes."