Page 45 of Mr. Darcy’s Fiery Passion

Color climbed her throat. "No," she said. "Not entirely. But I know that I am asking."

He looked at her for a long moment. He set his bandaged hands on the arms of her chair, one on either side of her. He leaned in and kissed her throat.

She let go of his wrist. Her fingers went into his hair instead.

He kissed his way down to the ribbon at her neck. It was tied again tonight, in a careless bow. He looked at it, and then up at her.

This time she pulled it loose herself.

He had dreamed of her breasts since last night. He had lain awake and remembered the taste of her skin and the sound she made. Now he took his time. He kissed the soft upper curve of one, and then the other, while she breathed fast above him.

When he took a nipple into his mouth, her fingers tightened in his hair. "Fitzwilliam."

"Shall I go on?"

"If you stop," she said unsteadily, "I shall hit you with a book."

He laughed against her skin. He had not known a man could laugh at such a moment, on his knees, with his whole body aching. He went on.

He kissed her through the nightgown, lower, over her ribs and the soft curve of her stomach. The lawn was thin enough that he could feel the heat of her through it. She shifted in the chair. Her bad foot slipped on the footstool, and she winced.

He stopped at once. "Your ankle."

"It is nothing."

He looked up at her.

"I am lying," she admitted. "But not very much."

He lifted the footstool closer with his forearm and settled her heel on it again. He looked at the bandage he had tied for her last night. The knot sat on her ankle bone, lumpy and absurd.

"That," said Elizabeth, "is the worst bandage in Hertfordshire."

"Then I must make amends for it." He bent and kissed the knot.

She laughed. Then he kissed the bare skin above it, and she stopped laughing. He kissed the inside of her calf, slowly, and the hollow behind her knee. Her nightgown lay across her knees. He could go no farther without moving it, and he could not move it.

He lifted his head and looked at her.

She understood him. He saw her understand: he could not lift it, and he would not ask. She held his eyes. Then she took the hem of her nightgown in both hands and drew it up, slowly, above her knees.

Her hands were shaking. So were his.

"Elizabeth," he said hoarsely. "If you wish me to stop..."

"I do not wish you to stop. I have told you so twice." Her voice wavered and then came steady. "Must I write it down for you?"

He bent his head and kissed the inside of her knee. Then higher. Her thigh was smooth and warm under his mouth, and it trembled. He kissed his way along it slowly, giving her time. Every few inches he paused. Every time, she let out a breath, and her knees eased a little farther apart.

At the top of her thigh he stopped once more.

"Yes," she whispered, before he could ask.

He put his mouth to her.

She made a sound he would remember until he died. Her hips jerked once and went still. He felt her hand fly to her own mouth. Above him, he heard her draw a long, shaking breath through her fingers.

He had no hands. He had nothing to give her but this. So he gave her this, and gave it slowly.