Chapter Text
“You look so strange!”
Elizabeth reached up a hand to run her thumb just underneath Darcy’s mouth, where his lips had parted to shew the black lacquer on his teeth as he spoke.
He smiled, unconcerned at being interrupted. “You had heard of the practice, I suppose, but never seen it carried out?”
“Yes. But I was very pleased and excited when they brought me the left-over missy. I had spent many years hearing—well, reading—my aunt describe the practice, as one performed by all the most fashionable court ladies: and I always wanted to feel as elegant and mature as they. The last time my uncle and aunt visited, however, I was much too young.”
He, in turn, watched her mouth as she spoke, looking at her tenderly. Some thing that she had said, however, perplexed him:—
“The left-over missy?”
“Oh,” said Elizabeth, very innocently. “Did not I tell you? Just as your mindy was taken from my hands, my missy was taken from what was left in the pot, after it was applied to you. It is a good omen—meant to ensure me a place in your affections for all of my days. The shared missy is as your love, which binds your mouth, and mine.”
Scarcely had Elizabeth finished speaking, before Darcy’s lips were on her’s, his body moving in close to crowd her against the far wall of the travelling coach.
She had received his kisses before—had accepted them, met them, teazed him into giving them—but they had never been quite like this—quite so driving, so purposeful. She parted her lips on a gasp, and he pressed forward, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to run over the line of her stained teeth; her hands tightened where they had been grasping the fabric of his kurta; till, hardly knowing what she did, she flattened them, ran them down over his chest to his stomach.
Some thing between them caught and ignited. Darcy let out a low, broken groan, passing an arm about her waist and gathering her still closer to him—another hand then fell to her knee, coaxing her legs to drape over his thighs. He was leaning back against the forwards-facing seat, his long legs pressed against the floor at the base of the other, his hands now roving her waist and hips, his kisses growing frantic; she could taste his breath, could feel the slick pressure as his lips parted to caress her’s again and again; she moved her hands back up to clutch at his shoulders, allowing her stomach to press more fully against his side.
She felt, as much as heard, another pained sound escape him—he reached down to fumble with some thing at the leg of his sharwal—and Elizabeth trembled with a hot, electric awareness, half-convinced that he meant to—half-believing that she would let him—
But he seemed instead to be trying for calm: he forced his hands to still on the small of her back, and pressed his nose into the space beneath her ear, fighting to even his breath.
“You certainly shall, Elizabeth,” he said, a few moments later, “always have my affection”—laying another, chaster kiss on her jaw—“my love.”
“Yes,” replied she, as primly as she could then manage; “because of the missy.”
He laughed into her neck, shaking his head; and was then straightening up, pulling her in to tuck her head underneath his chin.
She tried to obey this suggestion: but it was not long before she grew impatient of restraint. Darcy’s unusual lack of a cravat displayed the long lines of his throat, its movement as he swallowed, the elegant curve of the hollow at its base: and she was compelled to lay a series of kisses and caresses on each of these very worthy places. He bore this treatment patiently for a minute or two, only leaning his head back and making the occasional pleased sigh; but when she opened her mouth experimentally to graze her teeth over his Adam’s apple, the gasp was rougher; and when she sucked at the skin just behind his jaw, she immediately found herself being pulled fully into his lap, and kissed with abandon once more.
Her new posture caused her to realise, after a moment of slow, heady confusion, the cause of his earlier maneuvering. She understood that men, in the ordinary course of things, dressed left or right—but Darcy had made ready—and was therefore rather more—vertical—than she supposed had been the case before. Every jolt in the road nudged the hard line of him against the curve of her stomach—and made him grunt into her mouth, grasp her hips with a desperate pressure, pull her more firmly against him. A quick, liquid seizing spread throughout her gut.
“How far are we from the townhouse?” she panted into his brow, when he had once again buried his lips in her neck.
He huffed out a laugh, and pulled back the edge of the curtain to look at the fields and roads then passing. “Perhaps half an hour.”
“A small eternity,” she complained.
“And then, I imagine,” he continued wryly, though sounding a bit out of breath, “you will be wanting to take a protracted tour about the public parlours, still-room, kitchens, and so on.”
“Indeed not.”
“No? Then perhaps a very leisurely luncheon—?”
She pulled back to regard his face, laughing. “What has come over you? If you teaze me any more, I shall begin to suspect that my company has been a bad influence.”
“I thank you. I was very capable of teazing, as you put it, before I met you.”
“If you had any proper affection for me, you would disclaim the idea of there ever having been any such time. You would tell me that it was all a sad, senseless blank.”
“It was,” said he, with a sort of smile; but with sufficient earnestness that she decided he had earned another kiss: and so there was no more conversation until they had attained their London home.
Their arrival took them both rather by surprise. Darcy was obliged to call to the coachman to circle the block before he was able comfortably to hand Elizabeth down from the carriage.
Mrs. Darcy found the housekeeper and butler being formally presented to her, though she hardly knew how she greeted them. Mr. Darcy was then saying that they were very tired from their journey, and would retire to rest before dinner, which should be brought to their sitting-room; but that they would need no attendance until then. He kept, Elizabeth noted, a remarkably straight face—though the tips of his ears went a bit red. What, if any thing, the worthy old servants thought of this communication, was not apparent from their faces, as they made their obeisances and retreated.
Darcy led Elizabeth up the stairs and to the suite of rooms which were to function as their bed-chambers and sitting-rooms: but they did not take even an abbreviated tour about them; no sooner had they entered the mistress’s room, than Elizabeth was pushing Darcy to sit upon the neat little chintz sopha in the corner, and seating herself beside him, that he may kiss her again.
He did—sweetly, and lightly, at first—but the consciousness that they were, at last, entirely alone, lit through them both—and they were soon cleaving together with urgent hunger. Darcy, no longer afraid of creating tell-tale wrinkles in the fine silk of her choli, ran his thumbs across the bare skin below it, in silent question: she hummed and arched herself into his hands; and he filled his palms with her breasts. They were unexpectedly soft and pliant, beneath the gold ribbon and reflective stones which spangled them—and the moan he let out into her mouth as he pressed and tested them was the synonym of her’s.
Elizabeth would later marvel, after the long hours of suspense in the carriage, and the weeks of waiting before that, that it all happened so quickly. His hands were at one moment coaxing waves of delicious sensation from her breasts—and the next, they were everywhere—spanning her waist, kneading the flesh of her bottom, pulling her to straddle him right there, on that silly little sopha; she was pulling up the fabric of his kurta, eager to touch the skin of his stomach and his chest with nothing between them, to try its texture and its temperature—he was working to insinuate his hands beneath the voluminous folds of her ghagra, and to push it back to reveal her thighs—she, in her exploration, touched his member where it strained towards her, perhaps without, at first, quite meaning to—but his desperate whine compelled her to stroke it again—again.
He pushed at his sharwal, and then he was bare—she was laid against him—and the sensation of it made her buck her hips before she knew what she did. The tip of his cock caught against the slick well of her opening, as she rocked forward again—it felt at once indescribably good, and insufficient—and she, excited beyond forethought, prudence, or patience, forced herself down onto him, seating the thick head inside herself in one abrupt motion.
Darcy gasped. His head fell back onto the sopha-cushion, his eyelids fluttering, his hands gripping her hips spasmodically. “Elizabeth—Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Love you, I love you—”
She nodded her head at him, nonsensically, through rough, panting moans, as she worked herself onto him again and again, straining to fit as much of him as she could. She felt, already, that her crisis was very near—and lowered a hand between their bodies, to thrum her fingers along the top of her slit. He followed the motion with his eyes, his gaze burning. What did he see, she wondered?—her nipples taut as her breasts strained against their silk; that hand, that he admired, plying against herself; his rod stiffly upright as she fought to lodge it within her body; her flesh where it surrounded his; every thing glowing in the broad daylight that leaked around the pale pink curtains.
The sound of his breath—the weight of his gaze—the white-hot sear of sensation at her apex, which coiled itself inward, growing hotter and hotter still—she was crying out and tightening, in sharp, convulsing spasms, around the unyielding flesh of his cock, by the time it was halfway inside her.
“Ah! Elizabeth. Oh, dear God. Please, I need to—I’m going to—”
“Yes,” she hissed, drawing her slick fingers away from her cunt and making a fist in the hair just above the nape of his neck. “Put it inside me.”
She might have been excused for believing that Darcy was experiencing horrible pain. He let out a long cry as his handsome face contorted, his brows pulling together, his teeth bared: and used his grip at her haunches to pull her still closer to him, flexing the muscles of his thighs and hips to shove himself further up into her. He made the motion once—twice—intruding another scant inch—and then fell against the back-rest, completely still but for his rapid breaths, and a faint tremor in his legs.
She brought her arms, as soon as she could command them, more fully around him, and leaned forward to rest against his body; he welcomed the motion by encircling her with his arms, and kissing the top of her head, just at the parting of her dark hair.