"We'll correct that."He folded her stockings with the same precision he brought to everything, setting them aside before his hands returned to her bare ankles.His palms slid up, barely skimming her skin, stopping just shy of where she desperately wanted them.
Elizabeth's hands twisted in the bedding.He knelt between her legs like a supplicant, but his control was absolute—touching everywhere except where she burned for him, his breath warm against her inner thigh.
"Pink silk from France," he continued, fingers tracing the inside of her thighs, stopped just before satisfaction."Fur throws from Russia.Whatever you desire to make yourself comfortable here."His hands gripped her thighs as his eyes met hers, dark with intent."Though I confess, I'm rather eager for your scent to saturate everything."
The words sent liquid heat pooling between her legs.
"I can't wait," he murmured, voice dropping to that commanding register that made her insides clench, "for your slick to soak into my sheets.For this entire room to smell of you, claimed and satisfied.For anyone who enters to know exactly what happens in this bed."
Elizabeth whimpered, thighs trembling under his hands.
"Do you want to soak my sheets, dear Elizabeth?"
"Yes."Too late to snatch back the word—she bit down on her lip, certain she'd overstepped.But satisfaction had already settled into Darcy's features, his lids growing heavy as he watched her, never breaking that contact even as he leaned in, challenging her even as he coaxed her thighs apart.Then the world contracted sharply: only the wet slide of his tongue remained, the purposeful press of his mouth that had her fingers seeking purchase in his hair, clutching him there while he devoted himself to her pleasure with lips and teeth and ruinous skill.
"I thought about this," he said against her flesh, the vibration making her cry out."Every night after you left Netherfield.How you tasted.The sounds you made."His tongue circled, teased, withdrew."I pleasured myself to the memory, but it was never enough."
Elizabeth's breath came in sharp gasps.This wasn't the silent, controlled Darcy who'd touched her with such careful restraint.This man spoke his desires aloud, crude and raw, while his mouth worked between her thighs.
"I wanted to follow you to Longbourn," he continued, fingers joining his mouth, stretching her slowly."Break down your door.Mark you in your childhood bed so thoroughly that you'd never wash my scent away."
A thread of fear wound through her arousal as she fell back.Not of him—never of him—but of this intensity he'd kept leashed all those nights.All that careful distance, that ice-cold propriety, had been armor against this consuming need.
She understood now why he'd maintained such rigid control at Netherfield.This wasn't mere desire—this was possession, obsession, the kind of wanting that consumed kingdoms.His mouth worked between her thighs with the dedication of a man at prayer, but his worship held nothing holy.This was profane, raw, the truth of what alphas did to omegas when propriety crumbled.
“Fitzwilliam,” she keened, but he only gripped her thighs harder, spreading her wider for his assault.The wet sounds of his mouth against her flesh filled the room, obscene and perfect.She should be mortified—proper young ladies didn't writhe on their marriage beds while their husbands spoke filth against their most intimate places.
But Elizabeth had never been proper, and Darcy—Darcy had been proper for far too long.
"Mine," he growled against her, and she felt the rumble of it through her bones."Every sound, every tremor, every drop of sweetness—mine."His tongue circled that bundle of nerves that had her seeing white."Say it."
"Yours," she sobbed, beyond shame, beyond thought."Always yours."
Darcy's hands gripped her hips, flipping her onto her stomach with a strength that stole her breath.The bedding bunched beneath her, silk skirts tangled around her waist while his weight pressed her into the mattress.She heard fabric tear—his or hers, she couldn't tell—then he was inside her in one brutal thrust that had her crying out into the counterpane.
All semblance of the gentleman vanished.The careful, measured Darcy who'd held himself apart at Netherfield disappeared entirely, replaced by something primal that made her blood sing.His rhythm was relentless, each thrust driving the breath from her lungs while his fingers dug into her hips—marks she'd wear beneath her gowns like secret badges of possession.She attempted to push up on her elbows, seeking some small measure of control, but his palm found the space between her shoulders, pressing down.The message was clear: surrender.And God help her, she did, letting him take what he'd denied himself all those torturous nights while she burned up in his bed.This wasn't the tender claiming of a wedding night—this was retribution for every moment of restraint, every careful distance he'd maintained while she'd begged for his touch.The silk beneath her grew damp with tears she hadn't realized she was crying, though whether from pleasure or the overwhelming intensity of finally, finally having him completely, she couldn't say.
"Mine," he snarled, pulling out only to slam back in."This perfect little cunt, these sweet thighs—" His fingernails sank into the soft flesh of her rear, marking her where no one but him would ever see.Elizabeth keened at the sharp pain that blazed into pleasure.
The thought flickered through her mind that this was what he'd fought against at Netherfield—this consuming need that turned refined gentlemen into creatures of pure want.Each thrust drove her higher into the mattress, her toes not even touching the carpet anymore, silk and lace bunching beneath her while he took his pleasure—no, their pleasure, for her body sang its response to his possession.She understood now why he'd maintained such rigid distance.This hunger could devour them both.Woulddevour them both.And she welcomed the consumption with every fiber of her being.
She felt it beginning—that telltale swelling at his base, his knot starting to form, catching at her entrance with each thrust.Her body clenched desperately, trying to keep him, to lock them together as nature intended.
"Yes," she sobbed into the counterpane, feeling him thicken inside her."Yes, please, I need—"
"Not yet," he growled, though his voice broke on the words.He thrust once more, twice, then spilled inside her with a broken groan—but just as his knot swelled fully, he wrenched himself out with a curse.
"No—" Elizabeth's protest died on a whine as she felt his seed drip from her, her body clenching around nothing while his knot pulsed visibly in his fist, thick and pronounced and wasted outside where it belonged.He groaned, working himself through the rest of it, painting her thighs with what remained while she trembled beneath him.
The sheets grew damp with her slick and his spend, her body's desperate attempt to keep what he'd given her even as it mourned what he'd denied.
"Beautiful," came his ragged whisper as his fingers found his release where it marked her—between her legs, along her trembling thighs—and pressed it deep inside her once more.
"You didn't—" Elizabeth's protest broke on a whine.The ache in her chest she thought marriage, this life, had rid her of had blazed back to life.
"Greedy omega."His laugh was dark, breathless."Though I would gladly keep you knotted all day and night, it is only the beginning of our wedding night."
A knock at the door.Elizabeth froze, acutely aware of their position—her face pressed to the bed, skirts around her waist, Darcy's fingers still buried inside her.
