"God forgive me," he whispered, turning the page.
I raced down the hill, trying to catch the scarf. Truthfully, I wanted to capture it so that Mr. Darcy would not be upset; he buys me such lovely things. But also, if I am being completely honest as I have sworn to be—within these pages—I just loved the freedom. There were no worries, no household accounts, no fears of if I am grand enough, smart enough, pretty enough, noble enough to be "Mrs. Darcy."
No worries about if I please my husband.
No missing my family.
I felt like a child again, just running for the sake of it. The pure pleasure of wind against your skin, of your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest. And then—I heard a woman scream.
Darcy read on, his heart in his throat. Thank God, no one was hurt, but—he froze as read the next section. It could not—it could not be.
She struggled mightily against him, but he was so much bigger than her. And, again to be perfectly frank, she struggled, but she perhaps did not try to escape. She screamed and shouted—but she did not seem afraid.
And then, he hit her. On her bare buttocks. All over her most intimate parts. Her skin turned a red that I could clearly see, even from afar and in the forest light.
Darcy read page after page, one hand gripping the journal, the other his thigh. His wife had seen a woman being spanked.
His wife had liked what she had seen.
His wife thought of him—of them—that way.
He glanced down at the last lines, his heart breaking.
And then Darcy's face was so cold. He was back to being his cold, proud self, like when we first me—but it was worse this time. Because now we have kissed, we have loved, he has been inside me, and still he can stare at me as if…I don't exist.
He just looked down at me, breathless on the floor, as if he—as if he detested me. Oh! I cannot help but weep as I write this. The person I love the most in this whole entire, confusing world—he cannot find happiness with me.
I am doing something wrong. There is something wrong here, between us.
And now, even worse, I have wild dreams, of Darcy's hands on me, hurting me but making me feel alive again—
The words cut off.
And Darcy stood.
He would find his wife, and end this madness.
Even if that meant giving in to another kind of madness, entirely.
Darcy
She had not left him.
Elizabeth lay on her side, under a blanket that Darcy had used since childhood. He kept it in the library, his favorite retreat. He had been delighted when he had learned how much Elizabeth loved books.
It was nothing to the tremulous excitement he felt at this moment.
He closed the heavy wooden door, quietly. So quietly. He moved closer to her and studied her languid body, relaxed in sleep. He had never told her how, every night, she would roll from her side of the bed onto his. Then onto him. She was a whirlwind as she dreamed, flinging arms and legs up, down, all around.
He would wake up with her frail hand on his cheek, her leg drifting over his middle. She would burrow into his side as she dreamed, sometimes whispering, sometimes moaning.
He sat gently on the edge of the couch. The firelight flickered over her skin, and her long, dark hair was loose. The edge of her chemise had, once again, come unraveled.
"Lizzy," he whispered, surprised at how gruff and full of need his voice was.
She shifted and sighed in her sleep, and one foot slipped out from under the blanket. Darcy looked down, at her delicate foot, the high arch. He put his hand on her ankle; he could encircle its width easily.
"Elizabeth. Wake up." He trailed his hand up, over her supple calf, to the gentle bend of her knee. He bent down and kissed her, gently, on her sweet, slightly parted lips.
Her brown eyes opened slowly, and then she gasped and sat up with a start.
"Mr. Darcy! You're home!" She couldn't hide the wide grin, or the sparkle in her eyes. Then she blushed, as if remembering all the fears and understandings she had listed in her journal.
"I've surprised you," he said, taking one of her hands and kissing the back of her palm.
"You did. I thought—" She stopped speaking as she opened his mouth, still kissing the back of her hand—but not chastely. He let his tongue taste her, the faint scent of her lilac soap, the incredible softness of her skin.
She cleared her throat. "I thought you would be gone for three days, at least."
Darcy smiled against her skin, then pulled her slightly closer. He could feel her watching him as he slowly pulled her arm across his body, tracing the length of her limb up to her shoulder. He pulled the heavy wave of her hair back, and put his lips to her ear.
"How could I stay away from my bride for that long?"
He saw her long lashes fall. "You've been away from me for days, even when you're here at Pemberley," she said, her voice bitter and sad at the same time.
It was like a dagger to his heart—but he deserved the wound.
But Elizabeth clapped her free hand over her mouth, then turned to look at him, her dark eyes wide. She slowly lowered her hand. "I didn't mean it, not like that."
"Elizabeth. You meant it. And you should have said it, exactly like that."
She wrinkled her brow. "I don't understand…?"
"I've been distant. And—foolish. I never should have stormed out of that parlor, away from that blasted chair—away from you. But." He took a deep breath, preparing to dive in: Once I say this, there's no going back.
"I've been a prideful fool. But you, my sweet wife—you've been a naughty girl. And it's time for your punishment."
Elizabeth
Elizabeth felt her mouth drop open.
And remain that way.
"My…punishment?"
Elizabeth stared at Darcy, shocked into stillness. He was so close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes, smell the soap he must have just used after riding hard all day.
She could also feel his manhood, pressing hard against her hip.
"Yes. Your punishment. I think you've been dreaming of it, needing it. " He moved her hair off her neck again. But this time, instead of letting it fall down her back, he wrapped it around his fist and shook it, just slightly pulling her head up and back, just barely hurting her. "For days. Perhaps longer. Perhaps all your life."
The pinpricks of pain on her scalp shot heat straight into her core. Elizabeth whimpered, not because of the pain, but because, my Lord, she was wet between her thighs. Immediately. Just from his hand in her hair.
And from the look in his eyes. He looked—angry. Wild. Possessed.
Elizabeth parted her lips, wetting them before speaking. He watched her tongue. "Why do you say—"
Before she could finish her sentence, Darcy growled and took her mouth. He kissed her, hard, heavy, possessive. Ravaging.
Then he pulled back suddenly, breathing hard. "The next time you lick your lips like that, know that I'll be putting my prick right here."
Elizabeth's eyes grew wide. She had heard that word before, but never from a gentleman. Lydia had mentioned it once or twice, before being firmly rebuked by Mary—Elizabeth shut her eyes.
She did not want to think of her sisters at this moment.
But as soon as she opened them and saw Darcy watching her, all she could think of was him. Her husband. Tall, handsome, with that severe, beautiful look etched into his face. His dark hair, his blue eyes, his hard body—
She shook her head slightly, to clear her thoughts, then remembered his hand in her hair. He held her firmly in place, and when she moved without his permission, it hurt. She stilled, marveling that she felt so calm while he did such outrageous things.
While he took control of her body.
Elizabeth swallowed. What would happen next?
Darcy watched her lips like a man possessed, and then he pressed his thumb firmly on her lower lip, opening her mouth. He held her eyes as he rested it there.
/>
And then, Heaven help her, Elizabeth could not stop herself: she closed her lips around the edge of his thumb.
And.
Sucked.
Darcy hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and the next thing she knew she was on her back on the couch, her husband between her legs. He lifted her skirts and watched her face as he rubbed his shaft at her opening. Elizabeth felt her face flame as he discovered her wetness.
Darcy groaned like a man in pain, but he smiled like a man who had found his ultimate pleasure. "I found your diary, wife."
Elizabeth gasped—first at his confession, then as he thrust inside her. Impaling her, grinding deep into her, so that she could not move, and was held down onto the cushions by her husband's circling hips and massive…she turned the word over and over in her mind…prick.
"You—said—the—wind—took—your—shawl." He punctuated each word with a swift, hard thrust of his hips. He grabbed her right knee, pulling it up against her chest. He held her there, bent and opened to him, and then pushed deeper, harder, faster inside of her.
Elizabeth screamed—in pleasure. Oh my Lord, she thought, I can't—I don't—what is he doing?
"Don’t stop," she panted as his movements became swifter, faster, more brutal.
And more wonderful.
"You didn't tell me you were using it as a kite." He stopped suddenly, seated inside her to the hilt, both of them gasping for breath. His banyan had opened and his naked chest was bared to her, hard and covered with a light sheen of sweat.
"You read my journal?" she asked, just now realizing what he had said. She had been distracted—
He distracted her again, slowly, purposefully rolling his hips, watching her face as he moved in ways he never had before.
"And I apologize for that. I respect your privacy and independence above almost anything."
Elizabeth groaned, closing her eyes as Darcy's hand found her center and began to rub—while he was still inside of her! Small tremors of pleasure moved through her, her legs shaking, her core clenching.
"Above—almost anything? What else do you—value more?" she gasped, her hands reaching for something, anything, to hold onto, as her pleasure built and built. She grabbed a pillow, her dressing down, his massive arms.
Darcy stopped touching her suddenly, pulling away, pulling out. He took one, then two steps back, stumbling for a moment almost as if drunk. So he was as affected as she.
His manhood was still hard, still wet from her, jutting straight up toward the ceiling. She could not tear her eyes from it, or understand why he was moving…away from her?
Darcy walked to the liquor stand, unashamed of his nudity, of his hard, obvious cock. He grinned at her as he poured a brandy and downed it all, his throat working for a moment.
Lord, she wanted to lick his throat, she realized. She wanted to lick his everything.
"Your happiness," he finally said, studying her from across the room. "I'll beg your forgiveness later, for violating your trust. But for now, I'm only concerned that you saw something that affected you, disturbed you, entranced you—that excited you, Elizabeth—and you felt you could not tell me."
He had read her confession, her detailed account of all her secret feelings. She had left it open, hadn't she? Because she thought he would not be back for days.
Was she angry?
Relieved?
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth choked out. "How could I? What they did? It was—shameful."
Within seconds he was on his knees, at her feet. He drew her forward, kissing her fiercely. She melted into him.
"It's not…shameful," he said, his voice low. "But I understand why you feel that way." His blue eyes took her in, open and trusting. "Because I have felt that way for years. I have—I have some experience with these things. From long ago. But they have haunted me. I—Elizabeth, I desire to do things you can't imagine. To you. For you. For the rest of our lives. But I was worried that it was shameful. That I would terrify you. That you would hate me—"
"I could never hate you," Elizabeth cried, taking his face in her hands.
They stared at one another for a long time. Finally he smiled. The old Darcy, the sweet Darcy—her best friend. Her husband.
And now, her lover.
"When I read your words, when I realized you are curious—that you might want the same thing—"
"I'm a bit upset, and surprised,” she murmured. "I can't believe your read my private thoughts. But also—I want to—know more. I want you to—teach me."
Darcy smiled, a slow, wicked grin that made tendrils of desire begin to burn deep within her.
"You want someone to take control?" he growled. "How wonderful: you have married the perfect man, then. And Lizzy, you can be furious at me, darling. You have the right. I vow to never violate your trust again. And by that, I mean either by reading your writing, or by doing what I have been doing now for months: not being honest with you. Not sharing myself, my true desires, with you."
Elizabeth felt something break open in her chest. It was like she had been bound by invisible bonds for weeks now, and they suddenly fell away. She could breathe. She was free.
"Likewise, William. I will never hide my feelings from you again."
He nodded, caressing her cheek. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.
Then his lips touched the shell of her ear, and he whispered, "But tonight, you're going to be punished for not trusting me. For losing your scarf. And from what I read, my sweet—your punishment will also be your reward."
Elizabeth opened her eyes and found his dark blue stare, inches from her, smoldering almost as hot as the fire behind him.
"What do you mean?" she whispered.
"I mean I'm going to spank your sweet backside now. And tomorrow. And whenever you need it." When he said need, he teased her nipples through her shirt, making her jump. Making her wet.
And then, from his pocket, he pulled a long, blue line of—it was the shawl. The piece of silk that had started it all.
Or, maybe, this had started a long time ago. Maybe Elizabeth had always wanted it, but not known what, exactly, she was seeking.
She had a feeling she was about to find out.
"Do you want that, Lizzy? Do you want me to touch you like that? Do you want me to punish you when you've been bad?" He kissed her once, deep and perfect, before his hands began to tease her thighs apart. "Do you want me to tie you up, spank you, make you beg? Do you want me to find a thousand ways to make your sweet quim clench and quiver around my cock?"
Elizabeth could not breathe, could not believe what he was saying.
"Tell me now if you don't, Elizabeth, and I'll never bother you again about it. We'll go back to the way things were. We'll have a happy, lovely life together."
He stared at her, waiting for an answer. She realized he was holding his breath. The strange, raw discovery: she wanted him to take control of her body. She wanted him to push her limits. And yet, by giving herself to him—she had such power over his happiness too, didn't she?
"Well, my love? If your feelings are still what they were when you were in the woods—when you wrote in your book—tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.''
Elizabeth stared at him. She pressed her lips closed, and waited for him to breathe again.
Then he did. And then he smiled, a new wicked, private smile that she fell in love with immediately.
"Then it's time for your punishment, Mrs. Darcy."
Elizabeth
Darcy took the blue silk and folded it carefully.
"Do you trust me?" he asked, holding it up between them like a rope.
Elizabeth nodded. She could not speak.
"Close your eyes," he said.
Then he surprised her by gently, oh-so-gently placing the silk against her face. He blindfolded her, making quick work of a knot behind her head.
Elizabeth filed away the nerve-wracking informati
on that her husband could expertly tie knots, and quickly, too.
Now the world was dark. The shawl was soft against her cheeks. With her eyesight taken from her, her body seemed to come alive. Just like at night, when your candle went out and suddenly all your senses strained to keep you from falling while you walked across the room, now Elizabeth's other senses honed in on everything around her.
"Stand," Darcy said. Rather, it was her husband's voice—but something had changed about it. If his normal voice was Darcy's, or William's, this voice was something deeper. Different. Darker.
This voice belonged to her own, private Mr. Darcy, she decided. He was as proud and perfect as the man she'd first met—
"I said stand," Mr. Darcy commanded, and then two hands took shoulders and lifted her up onto her bare feet.
Suddenly he was there, directly in front of her, his body pressed tight against hers from her neck to her knees. His manhood throbbed between them, as if it could, by itself, rip through her nightclothes to reach her heated flesh.
Then she gasped as Mr. Darcy's large hands moved around her and grabbed each side of her buttocks, pulling her roughly toward him. She put her arms on his chest to steady herself. Goodness, she could feel the muscles, the coiled power of his body.
She spread her fingers, taking in his heated flesh. She ran her fingertips over his nipples, across to his arms. He growled—in approval?—and squeezed her again, grinding his cock against her stomach.
And then he was gone, her hands still reaching out in front of her.
She heard him take one step. Two. Three, until he was next to her. Then he brushed against her as he sat behind her, on the old couch. It creaked lightly beneath his weight.
"Turn," Mr. Darcy ordered, moving her hips.
She knew she was facing him now, standing between his spread legs. One hand touching her calf, traveling up slowly. He took his time, teasing her, making her shiver. Then she jumped as his hot mouth met her breast, sucking against her directly through the fabric. The wet chemise material caused extra friction, and Elizabeth moaned, low and needy.
Mr. Darcy's Secret Desires: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 5
