Pride and Prejudice (The Wild and Wanton Edition)

by Annabella Bloom

  “I have longed for you.” He trailed his mouth over her cheek. His hand, mindless of any other command, skimmed up her side to cup a breast. So soft and yielding it was, molding against his palm, protected only by her dress. “You cannot begin to understand the distress I feel.”

  “Ah,” she answered, tipping her head back as she crumpled his shirt in her fists. “I think I may have some idea. I ache all over — my flesh, my mouth, deep inside. No man has ever made me feel like this. The world is spinning away and I feel as if nothing else matters but us and this moment.”

  Elizabeth could not think enough to stop her words. She trusted him, wanted to tell him everything. She thought of those private moments when she had touched herself to the memory of his eyes. This felt so much better. His larger body engulfed hers and she felt the contrasting differences between them — in the size and heat of his chest, the solid build of his muscles, and most poignantly in the mysteriously large pressure against her stomach. His hands slid over her chest and shoulders, along her neck, into her hair, down her back, until he had explored every curve within his reach.

  “I am at your command,” he said. “I am helpless against you. Tell me, lady, what would you have of me?”

  “Everything,” she answered, before she could form a better thought. Then, pulling away so she could look at his handsome face, she saw the strange straining of his expression. He looked to be in great pain. The same feeling echoed inside her stomach.

  Elizabeth moved her hands under his jacket, pushing the thicker material off his shoulders. It slid behind them to the ground. She kept her eyes on his, carefully studying him for any clue as to his changing thoughts. His grip on her loosened and she reached to unbutton his shirt as far as it would go. Then, tugging it from his breeches, she pulled the looser material free. Tanned flesh met her fingers, only slightly lighter than his face and hands. Lifting the shirt and undershirt, she looked at his waist, seeing for the first time the narrow trail of hair leading downward, sprinkled over the strength of his stomach.

  With shaking fingers, she touched him there, just below his navel. His entire body jerked, but he did not pull away. Growing bolder, she ran her hand up his chest endeavoring to memorize such undiscovered terrain. There was an addiction to the texture of his skin that forced her hand to rub up and down along the center of his chest. When his clothes impeded her travels, he pulled the bottom hem to lift them over his head.

  Elizabeth explored every inch of exposed flesh and after her fingers had conquered there, they drew to his waistband. Darcy stood very still, letting her touch him, letting her learn what his body had to reveal. Curiosity became great as she looked between them to the bulge between his thighs. Did she dare touch? Look? After staring for a long moment, undecided, she was hampered from any lower exploration by his hands on her arms.

  “Take off your dress,” he urged her. Elizabeth shivered, glancing around though she knew they were quite alone. He continued, “I will not dishonor you to your family by getting it dirty. No one will ever know what we do here, but us.”

  Modesty caused her to turn her back to him. He chuckled, but did not move from his place as she did as he bid her. First, her gown was loosened and pulled over her head, stripping until she stood in her chemise. Cool air tickled her flesh. He appeared behind her, jerking her back to his chest. His hands moved freely now, over her stomach and chest, both of which were scantly protected by the thin material of her underclothes. He paid special notice to her nipples, rubbing them in small circles as his hips mimicked the gesture along her buttocks. She reached behind her, taking hold of his outer thighs.

  Then, he groaned, letting his hand trail by small degrees down the front of her body. She knew where he would touch her next and waited for that first contact with the nervous anticipation of a woman unused to such situations. Elizabeth pressed her legs tightly together, worried about the dampness between them. It was a weak defense, but one he felt. His journey stopped and he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

  Breathing hard, he held her back from him when she would lean forwards. The harsh rasp capturing his words was like nothing she had ever heard from him. “We do nothing that you do not want.”

  The ache in her female sex nearly caused her to scream. It was unbearable that she had stopped him with her nervousness, for now his hand was far away from that needy place. “I want — I want you. I do not know what I am doing, but if you will deign to show me, I will be a willing student.” Then, as if to prove her sincerity, she took his hand and drew it down to its former place. “I do not know if there is an acceptable end to such torment, but I cannot walk back like this.”

  The desire had never been so pronounced when she explored her own body. She concentrated on leaving her thighs open and he obligingly slipped his hand between them. She lost her footing, but he held her up. The thick press of his finger was nothing like the strumming of hers. He knew just where to rub, first soft, then harder, finding the bud of nerves buried within her folds, until she found herself rocking against him in feverish need.

  Suddenly, he stopped, swept her feet off the ground and gently laid her on the grass. As her body sprawled along the earth, he reached for his waistband, making quick work of the breeches. Elizabeth leaned on her elbows to see the length of his manhood only to discover tight, naked flesh towering above a nest of hair. It was not as she imagined a man might look and she stared at it overlong. Then, reaching out curious fingers, she touched him. He groaned, letting his head roll back as he looked to the alcove of trees. Tiny dots of sunlight made it through the limbs, dancing on his flesh in a chaotic waltz.

  “You are so warm,” she observed, fascinated by the firm texture. She touched him more fully, wrapping her fingers around his shaft. “Almost hot. How do you manage to hide this under your clothing?”

  His laugh was pained. “It is not always like this. Normally it is at rest. I should not be able to get a great many things done if I walked about in such a fevered state.” Darcy took his hand over hers, closing her fingers more fully and showed her how to touch him, running her hand up and down the full length. Then, returning to his place between her thighs, he stroked her sex until she was again writhing against his hand. Moisture had soaked the thin barrier of material, but she no longer worried about it for he did not seem to mind the reaction.

  “Will you kiss me again?” she asked, looking up at him through a shade of lashes.

  It was too much. He was only a mortal man passed beyond his limits. Mindlessly, he pulled at the material guarding her sex from his eyes. The material ripped and she gave a small jump of surprise as she looked down at what he had done.

  “I will buy you a thousand more if you wish it,” he assured her. Before she could answer, he delved a finger along the naked petals of her sex, parting the wet folds. The softness of her engulfed his fingers and he could not resist pressing it inside the tight canal of her sex. Oh, how it gripped him, wondrously tight and gloriously wet. Darcy wiggled his finger, stretching her tight sheath. Seeing the dusky hint of a nipple straining against her chemise, he leaned down to take it into his mouth, wetting the material as he sucked.

  “Oh,” she gasped. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes opened wide, and her hand had stopped moving on his shaft.

  Her disheveled body proved the most erotic sight he had ever seen in his life. Knowing what was to come might cause her discomfort, he begged his body to go slow, to fight the primitive instincts coursing in his blood. He moved over her, putting his legs between hers. He bent a knee, forcing her legs wider apart. The torn entrance at the apex of her thighs beckoned him. She did not try to stop him as he guided his arousal forward. The tip pressed into the wet opening and already he knew untold pleasures awaited him. Leaning down, he whispered against her throat, “I have no wish to hurt you, but this might cause you some pain. Hold on to me.”

  She obeyed without hesitation or question, and the trust she had in him amazed him. She grabbed his a
rms. Darcy captured her lips, and thrust half way in. Elizabeth moaned softly. Her nails dug into his flesh but the small sting actually felt nice. Oh, glorious moment, as he laid claim to her body! The tight, wet, heat of her sex clung to him. He pushed deeper, wanting the full length of him buried within her. As the sensitive flesh of his balls met her buttocks, he groaned.

  “You were made for me in every way,” he said, hardly considering the admission. Darcy pushed up so he could look at her beneath him. A stunned expression became shaded with inquisitiveness as she looked down. He tested her, pulling out slowly, and then pressing back in. She made a weak noise. He did it again. “Tell me when the pain lessens and you feel the pleasure build.”

  Despite his baser instincts, he took her slow — in, out, in, out. By degrees she began to respond, trying to move her hips to test the feel of it. Darcy took hold of her hip and showed her how to rock against him. She ran her hand down his arms, the nails scratching lighter than before. Not once did she cry out in protest. Instead, small noises arose from the back of her throat.

  An idea struck him and he artfully moved onto his back, rolling with her so she was then seated above him. The position shoved him deeper until she pulled up. Taking her hips, he lifted and released, teaching her the rhythm until she found her own control. She pressed her hands into his chest.

  Elizabeth gasped, as pleasure overtook the dull pain. When he helped her to move, she was sure there was nothing more satisfying in the whole of Britain than the sensations building low in her stomach. The small dots of light danced around them; whimsical yet striking, as a mythical scene taken right from ancient Grecian marble, come to flesh and blood life. She had never in her life imagined herself in such a position, Darcy sprawled beneath her. They were surrounded by the countryside, serenaded by the call of birds, and caressed by the fresh air.

  Darcy was perfection and she could not close her eyes, as she wanted to take in every moment. Her knees pressed into the ground. His hands moved over her sides, her breasts, her backside, tangling in her underclothes and finding peaks of flesh where he could. Tension built, a rapturous sensation that overtook all the others before releasing a wave of relief throughout her entire being. Soon after, Darcy stiffened, his face frozen in what looked like agony.

  She endeavored to catch her breath, overwhelmed with sensations. There was the pleasure in her body, but it was nothing compared to the love in her heart. Elizabeth never expected such a rush of feeling. Was this how everyone felt when they were in love? She leaned down against his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. His body supported hers, cushioning her from the ground with solid muscle.

  “I know honor dictates that I should feel contrition for seducing you before our wedding,” said Darcy, “but I find I do not have the energy nor the desire to apologize for something I have wanted for so long a time.”

  “I should be offended if you did,” answered Elizabeth. He pushed the hair from her face, letting his fingers trail down the nape of her neck. “It is unfathomable to me that I once turned down your proposal. I feel as if we have been meant for this moment.”

  Elizabeth settled next to him, enjoying the pleasure of being in his arms. The newness of it filled her with wonder, and she could hardly concentrate as her mind grasped the different sensations and impressions. Much time passed before they were compelled to gather their clothes and right their appearances for the walk back to the house.

  It was resolved that Mr. Bennet’s consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother’s. She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her sense. Elizabeth could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation.

  As the house came into view, they did not speak and kept a respectable distance. Elizabeth worried that her father would deny Mr. Darcy her hand, thus ruining forever her greatest joy. She could not think of what would happen to her reputation if such a thing were to occur. Though she could admit, she did feel a sort of understanding towards Lydia she had never known before.

  Darcy smiled at her and there was a softness in his gaze. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but instead looked to the house where Kitty could be seen at the door watching for them. Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to be free to take his hand, if only for the security of his touch after such a shared moment. He let her walk ahead of him towards the door and any such moment for contact was lost as Kitty began to demand accounts of their walk, for she had been quite bored in the house with only the lovebirds and her mother to entertain.

  In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, Elizabeth saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him. Her agitation was extreme, growing more so as he left the room. It was hard to concentrate after knowing what they did, knowing she could not tell a soul — especially not Jane, for her dear sister would never look at her the same. When he moved, Elizabeth found she had a new appreciation for his body, a curious urge to look at it as if seeing it for the first time, and she was sure the warmth she felt inside her body while doing so would surely translate itself upon her face.

  Bingley smiled at her from across the room. The look sobered her thoughts from the impure and she turned her attention back to Kitty, pretending to listen to the senseless story she told of new gloves and a cut of lace. As Kitty rambled, Elizabeth did not listen. She had come to realize she did not fear her father’s opposition, but did regret that he was going to be made unhappy. That it should be through her means — that she, his favorite child, would distress him by her choice, would fill him with fears and regrets in disposing of her — was a wretched reflection. She sat in misery, unable to concentrate. There was so much to think about, and she would not be free to fully recollect on the unexpected turn that day’s walk had brought till the house was quiet with sleep and she had time to think without fear of revealing the results of her stolen pleasure with Mr. Darcy.

  She almost jumped up when Mr. Darcy appeared again, but, looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty. Pretending to admire her work, he said in a whisper, “Go to your father, he wants you in the library.” She was gone directly.

  Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. “Lizzy, what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?”

  Now was not the time to think of their walk or the fact she had not changed from her torn undergarments, so she pushed it out of her mind, instead concentrating on how to best explain what it was she really felt. How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more reasonable, her expressions more moderate. It would have spared her from explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give. But they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion as to best how to speak, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy. “I promise you, I am very pleased with the match.”

  “Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?”

  “Have you any other objection than your belief of my indifference?”

  “None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man,” her father answered, studying her in his quiet manner, “but this would be nothing if you really liked him.”

  “I do, I do like him,” she replied, with tears forming in her eyes. “I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is, then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms.”

  “Lizzy,” said her father, “I have
given him my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse anything, which he condescended to ask. I now give it to you, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband, unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about.”

  Elizabeth was still more affected by the open admittance of her father on the state of his own marriage and wanting to save her from the same ridiculous fate. She was earnest and solemn in her reply. At length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father’s incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.

  “Well, my dear, it appears you are quite certain,” said he, when she ceased speaking, “I have no more to say.”

  “But you might when I tell you the rest,” she said, and then told him what Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia.

  He heard her with astonishment.

  “This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did everything? He made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow’s debts, and got him his commission? Had it been your uncle’s doing, I must and would have paid him in time. I shall offer to pay Mr. Darcy tomorrow.”

  “No,” Elizabeth denied. “You must not. He did it as a gift to me, for his love. In fact, he did not wish for me to know what he had done. It was only Lydia’s impudence in accidently telling me that I learned of it at all.”