A/N: so, i have no excuses. i hope it lives up the expectations. again, beta'd by PutItBriefly!
"Colonel!"
"Oi, big boy, what's up?"
He is slumping on a chair in his office, phone in hand, smirking at the screen. Darcy strides to him. "I need my phone."
"Hmmm."
"I'm going to be late tonight," Darcy says, impatience vibrating in his voice. "Colonel!"
His cousin holds up a finger, while the thumb of his other hand works awfully fast on the screen. "There, all done," he finally says, handing him the phone. "Here it is."
Darcy snatches it away. "You're welcome."
Poor Georgiana, he thinks, as his fingers fumble their way on the keyboard on the screen. She deserves more than dining alone, eating some Costco takeout alone while waiting for him. He types a quick text, promising to call her in few hours.
"Going home late, eh? Got yourself a date with your hot redhead?"
"It's not Charlie," Darcy replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It's work."
"I don't know, man, you're the boss here, just let your people do their job. You're way too much into it."
Darcy chooses to sit down, too, because he is going to be late anyway. And his head hurts. "It's because I am the boss I must be into it."
"I am not Georgiana. I know work distracts you like nothing else in this world. Out with it, son. Have you seen her recently?"
His temples throb. "Not your business, Colonel."
"Are you still heartbroken?"
"Cut it out."
"Aww. As much as I think you're cute, I also think you better get over her. It's been a year, right? Get your shit together and move on."
Darcy huffs. Everyone is so wise, these days, dispensing advice and telling others what to do. It is easy to get over, move on, forget. Why is living his life as best as he can warrants so many loud, unwanted advices?
"I think you should sleep with her. Or, sleep around. Or, start doing some yoga. Anything to take you out this grumpiness we all love."
"I am not grumpy."
"You are. Most of the time. You're grumpy now, look at that face, God, you could frighten kids away."
"My head hurts," he mumbles, massaging his forehead. "Leave me alone."
"Just be in good health for Friday after work, will you?"
Darcy narrows his eyes at him.
"Hey, you should thank me, I got you a date—"
"No, thanks."
"—with my brother. Guess who's back in town? We gonna show up, say hi, drink something and then you can spend the rest of your evening licking your wounds, wanking to your romantic fancies, or whatever you do on Friday night."
Some days later, he is having dinner with Georgiana, at a decent hour for once, when his phone rings.
It is an unknown number. He mumbles something, and just let it rings, even though the shrilly ringtone gets on his nerves.
Georgiana looks at him quizzically. "You're not getting it?"
"No," he mutters, eying his phone with severe eyes. "It's been some time now people just call me, say nothing or laugh at my face, then hung up. How rude is that?"
His sister seems worried, eying the loud phone on the table. "What if it's an emergency?"
"It's not, dear, trust me. Don't worry about it. How's school?"
The phone stops ringing only minutes later, after Georgiana explains all the reasons why she thinks she is going to fail her math test and why her Geography teacher's long, shiny hair is so interesting to her. "I texted Jane today," she then says, "I wouldn't wish to annoy her, but I'd like to see her very much."
Georgiana has taken a great liking into Jane Bennet. Since Charlie introduced the two girls, Jane has become a kind of heroine for Georgiana, with that all angelic goodness and kindness. Darcy shrugs. "If she's free, I am sure she'll be glad to see you—however, Charlie tells me she's always quite busy with work."
He knows Charlie and Jane are living in a little world of their own, heads over hills for each other. Charlie's been turning him down often these days, always finding excuses. My angel cooked me carbonara. Or, even worse, Jane picked up a whipped cream for tonight. Always grinning like an idiot, surely more than it is healthy, with cheeks red and gaze dreamy.
Darcy is very happy for them. It feels like after his meddling and its disastrous consequences, the universe returned to its balanced state, every wrong now righted.
He is happy, truly. But there is a wicked, pathetic voice in him whispering that it does not mean it is fair. Charlie got the girl, and he did not. It is as simple as it is stupid, but it is not less a brutal truth.
One year.
No, more than that.
Going mad with lust for her, then the terrible thought that he might actually be in love, then being in love. It happened so quickly, so intensely—first, it was only a pair of pretty eyes, then it was her, simply her, with her zeal for life and impertinence, her sharp tongue and sweet charm. The worst is, he was sure she saw him under the same light he saw her. But those pretty, sparkling eyes and those charming smiles hid the opposite of that. A lesson learned in the hardest of ways.
What he also has learned is that hope is a tricky thing. He heard its seductive whispers: when she smiled to him at Pemberley; the glowing happiness on her face when he set foot in Meryton again, Charlie on side, ready to sweep Jane off her feet and ride in the sunset.
But he knows better, he must know better. He saw her grave face, her strained smiles, her gaze cast down when he was around. No more dinners at Charlie's, if he can help it.
When Darcy reflects about it—and he tends to avoid it, these days—his feelings and his own hopes matter little. She, her feelings, matters more.
"Hey," Georgiana calls him, pulling him from his straying thoughts. "You okay?"
"Sorry." When he sees her concerned face, he smiles. "I'm just awfully tired. I think the Colonel infested the office with his filthy germs."
"You're sick?"
"No, not yet anyway. If he keeps breathing on the screen of my phone, however, I will, too, get a nasty cold."
Georgiana laughs. "He promised me to always wash his hands after touching your phone! He knows how germaphobic you are!"
"Oh, c'mon now, I am not so extreme," he says dryly, but the corners of his lips twitch. "I don't care what he does with my phone, but I don't want to get sick for that stupid game of his."
"It's the most played game on the App Store! You should try it." With her head cocked, his sister gives him one of those gazes, so very affectionate, so very dear to him. "Try to relax more, Fitzwilliam. Play some silly games on your phone, you're allowed to take a break. You're working way too much."
Unlike the Colonel, Georgiana's worrying is not irritating. First, it causes no headaches. Second, it warms his heart. "I am sorry, but it's not forever, I promise. I am thinking to take a break soon and go away for Christmas and the New Year's. You choose the destination, I follow."
Her eyes light up and, he thinks, it's enough.
On Friday, the Colonel drags Darcy out his office. Protests fall on deaf ears, and dreadful fits of wheezes inspire little compassion.
Plus, It's a damn cold night.
"You always whine," the Colonel whines. "Damn, don't you ever get tired of it?"
Darcy pulls his scarf higher, chin and lips shielded from the unmerciful November chill. Since his first sneeze, Georgiana forces him to wear this damn thing, because he usually does not bother. Thank God it is a plain one. He knows the wardrobes in his house hide hideous Christmas scarves and obnoxious beanies. "First of all, I don't whine. Second, I don't get why your brother is so eager to see us tonight."
"At least there's someone who is not your hot redhead willing to hang out. Aren't you happy?"
In a way, the eldest Fitzwilliam is the black sheep of the family. Spoiled rotten, lazy, always about spending Papa's money here and there. "No, I'm not happy," he replies, willing his tone to be grave, lest he get accused of whining again. "He calls me Big D. Even your mother calls me Big D sometimes."
"I should starting to call you Big D. Not fair I am the only one who gets a stupid nickname."
"Don't you ever—"
"I bet your clients would throw all their money to someone with such an awesome name."
"Just shut up."
They keep walking and Darcy's mood does not improve. Even though Georgiana has started to be absent on Friday and Saturday nights as of late—all grown up, now she shyly asks him if she can sleep over at her friend's house, and his heart saddens a bit—he likes the quitude of his home. Much he appreciates his cousin's efforts to cheer him up—as if he needed it, really—the Colonel is exceptionally loud these days, and his brother is just terrible company in general.
Is he getting old?
Yes, indeed, he is already an old, cranky man—that is what the Colonel would say, so he does not ask. Wisely.
"Okay, Big D, I am off now."
Darcy stops, turning to him. "What? Off to where?"
"To grab my lovely brother—I am fairly sure he'd get lost without guidance. Too much time around the world, that lad. Just wait here a moment," he says, grinning like a maniac, already dashing away. "Remember, don't talk to strangers!"
Darcy gives a vexed huff which flutters in the air, then disappears.
The streets are getting crowded now. The flashing lights of Piccadilly Circus rise high, giving the dark sky a strange hue. He thinks that perhaps, he is old. It just does not hold any appeal. The world is out, loud and lively and bright, and he is weary and melancholic.
It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
The Colonel soon returns, finally, but with a strange face. His hands are not busy punching the air, swinging, being generally annoying. They are shoved in the pockets of his coat.
Great. There is a grimace ready to take on. "What is it now?"
"Well," he says, shrugging. "Looks like you're gonna to kill me."
"Why? Is your brother already in trouble?"
"Oh, no, bless his cocaine-addicted soul, he remains in Milan. No calls from the local authorities yet."
"What?"
"Very well, Big D, put on your big girl panties and just get on with it. I never, ever thought it would happen, but it did, so—off you go, big boy."
"What?—wait, where?"
"Okay," the Colonel says, after a big deep breath. "You see, it's Lizzy. Your Lizzy, remember? Right in front of Boots, freezing her ass off as she waits for you."
This time, Darcy has no words.
"It's a long story, but, well, looks like you have a date. What a coincidence!" The Colonel slaps his shoulder. "My, would you look at the time! I have to go now—enjoy your date!"
In a blink of an eye, Darcy is alone again.
He looks around, dazed and confused and cold. People bump in him, telling him to pay attention, one even tells him to go to hell, but—he simply does not understand. How can he?
Across the street, the shiny white of the font Boots springs to his eyes, the round blue of the sign bright and electric.
She stands in front of the big glasses of the shop.
Her head is bent, a ridiculous yellow beanie hiding her hair, and she is fixated on looking at her boots, hands shoved in the pockets of her green parka. Like this, she is so small, dull even—a strange word to ascribe to her—with a giant scarf wrapped heavily around her neck. Her shoulders, usually squared and proud, are small.
The thought crosses his mind: just go away, leave her. It is like a flash, stark and lucid, brighter than the lights fogging the winter sky above. He does not want to impose on her, to make her feel uncomfortable, to force her to smile to him. It is enough to look at her like this, from far away. That, he decided months ago.
As crazy as it is, however, she is waiting. For him, of all people, if the Colonel is to be trusted.
In the end, he goes.
"Er," he flounders, heart stuttering along, as he walks towards her. "Elizabeth."
She jumps, as if she were a frightened kitty, eyes jerking up to him.
"Hello," he tries awkwardly. "Good evening."
"Darcy," Elizabeth says, her pretty eyes wide. "Hello."
"Elizabeth," he repeats. The name forces the daze to disappear from his mind. "It's nice to see you—it's been a while."
With a blank face, she simply says, "It's you."
"I am sorry," he starts, words tumbling from him as panic wickedly grows. It is painfully real. "I am sorry, the Colonel brought me here telling me we had to meet his brother, but then he told me it was you, actually, I was meeting, and ran away, leaving me here like some idiot."
"I am sorry." She squints at him. "What?"
"Whatever thing it's happening, it's all his fault. I am so sorry."
"So," she mumbles, "it's all his doing?"
"Yes." He pauses, shaking his head. "I would never impose on you so. I do not know whatever he contrived, but,"—here, he sneezes—"I know he's done something."
Damn Colonel. Damn his germs-infested fingers. He sneezes again and again.
Her eyes, of that dark hue which enchanted him, rise to him. "I think I can explain," she says at last. Lips faintly pink with cold turn into a small smile. "But—you're dying on me."
His whole face heats up and he apologizes. Here it is—the spell working its magic on him, commanding smiles, commanding his heart. "It's quite cold and it looks like I am free for the evening," he dares, feeling almost dizzy. Definitely not the Colonel's filthy germs. "Would you like something to drink? It's on me, of course."
"Oh—yes, that would be nice, thank you."
Sneezes and coughs keeps plaguing him, but he does not die on her. It would be a shame if he did.
They end up in that cute place in Soho Georgiana adores. It is warm and lovely, with her sitting in front of him, so casually, hair a bit in disarray after she takes her ridiculous beanie off.
Elizabeth is adorable, much like she has always been, except for some odd quality in her voice, and an edge in her smiles. Her cheeks flush awfully often, but, he thinks, he prefers this—whatever this is—to that tensed, grave encounter at Charlie's flat.
Actually, his health may even improve. It is all so delightful. Confusion is still there—how on earth did he end up with her?—but his nerves are not on the brink of crumbling.
But then, all of this comes to an end when she shoves in his hands a tiny, wrinkled piece of paper.
Cunnilingus by an expert: extremely attractive man in his late 20s, single, expert in the subject, offers his services FREELY to CLEAN ladies who value PERSONAL HYGIENE. Please call or text the following number and ask to talk to BIG D about his mouth, and we can make arrangements.
He squints at the small letters. Not once, not twice, but three times he has to read those damn small letters before his brain twitches.
The 'following number' is his telephone number.
A cup of tea is standing there, waiting to soothe his burning throat, but instead, he looks at her. "This thing is not mine. I don't think I would ever write something like this and put it on a newspaper."
"Yes," she replies. "I imagine so."
His cousin was right. He is going to kill him. Angry fingertips dig into the paper, as if it were the real culprit. "That dumbass, it was that dumbass, the Colonel, I know it, I am certain. I never—Good Lord, I never wrote this stupid thing, even if it's my telephone number on it."
"I know."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I know it was your number." Again, she blushes. Again, she is adorable. "Because I called, and you answered."
His heart quivers. Her voice, he would remember. "You called me?"
"We didn't talk! I called for—God, don't think I had in mind to answer that ad—I called because I found it on the local newspaper, and I thought to give some naughty kid a lesson, because really, what person sane in the head would write it, and then, it was your voice—"
"Oh! This is why I received so many strange calls." The pieces of the puzzle seem to come together. "People kept calling and hanging up on me. Some even giggled, then hung up. I shrugged them off as rude people with too much time on their hands."
Elizabeth's face lights up with amusement. "How many did you receive?"
"Not many. Six or seven, I think. No one truly spoke."
"So are you sure your cousin is behind this?"
"Well, yes indeed. For the last few weeks, he has been using my telephone because he could not play some stupid game on his. I always found fiddling around him with my phone, doing this or that. My trust is obviously misplaced."
He finally reaches for tea. Now that the mystery seems to be unveiling, he feels better. Still, some pieces of the puzzle are missing. "Where have you found the ad?"
"On the local newspaper of Meryton."
Damn Colonel. "Ah."
"You know," she says, a smile blooming on her pretty face, tone vibrant. Oh, she is like that summer day in Pemberley, lively and bright and sparkly. "The Colonel is not a great prankster mastermind. The Meryton local is really a small, and the only ones who bother to read are the folks living in the area. If he published it on a bigger one—or, God forbid, some obscure place on the internet—he might have more success."
"You are mistaken, I believe. His choice was actually deliberate, and definitely harming."
"Oh?"
"He delights in taunting me, that idiot. Do you remember—?" He clears his throat. That, he dislikes remembering, and it must be even less pleasant for her. "My crush on you," he mumbles finally, a sour taste rising in his mouth. A crush, as if it were some trifling matter between schoolers. "Do you remember? I told him about that, and it was a great, great mistake, because I will never hear the end of it. Not until my last breath."
The smile slips. "I am sorry."
"I'll talk to him," he says firmly, more to himself than to her. The Colonel has gone too far, breaching his privacy like that. "It's unacceptable."
What the fuck did his cousin have in that empty brain of his? A prank at his expense, involving her, all for a good laugh? How—? What is missing in that puzzle? "I don't understand," he rumbles, some minutes later. "I don't understand how this came to be."
"The Colonel."
"No, no, that." He gestures at the gulf between them. It is small. This is what he cannot understand. "What I mean, is that I don't understand how you came to be here to meet the guy who wrote about—who offered his services. You didn't talk on the phone, you said."
"Look at the texts in your phone—you got it?"
He obeys, and it does not help. "There's nothing."
"Try WhatsApp."
"I never use it." His thumb presses on the bright green icon on the screen. WhatsApp shows a handful of conversations, so it is not hard to spot what he is seeking. The name Libbie—Lizzy—glows on the screen. "Oh. Libbie? With a cat wearing sunglasses as profile picture?"
"Yeah."
His frowns. "You own a bidet?"
"Yeah."
"Ending up in a plastic bag?" The bubbles of the text tell an awfully strange tale. More oddities emerge: Pussy Eater Express, book an appointment this Friday, harmless Pussy Eater. His finger glides on the screen. A laugh escapes from him. "Murdering pussy?"
But he is met with silence. On the other end of the table, she is looking down.
"Elizabeth?" he says, the sight oddly unsettling. "Elizabeth."
"Sorry," she murmurs, looking at him. "I am sorry. Woolgathering. Something like that."
He puts his phone away. "Why on earth texting the number, after finding out it was me?"
Her face scrunches up in something akin to indignation. "Because it was absurd, I couldn't believe it was you, of all people, offering to eat random people's pussies."
Well, she is not wrong. Amusement tickles his lips. Are they really discussion oral sex as if they were talking of the weather? Have they ever talked of the weather? "Understandable."
"Not that I don't think you don't eat pussy in your spare time, because, well, if you do, then, it's a great thing, but the issue to me was the ad, and the wording and capslock, and—well shit, there's nothing evil even that, I guess, as long as no one gets hurt or scarred for life."
At the end of this pretty speech, she is so lovely, and the air around them feels lighter, like the sunshine that summer day in Pemberley. He wants to laugh with her. Warm flutters tickle his heart. "So you come here with the idea I might show up and offer such services to you?"
"No, not you to me, not services, but not you—or maybe yes, you, but I didn't know what to think, I was only bloody curious."
"Indeed. So, you had no hopes to be supplied with Big D's services?"
"No," she groans. "No, not really."
"Ah." He sips his tea, which is now tepid, and his regrets surface. Why hasn't he dared to be like this, light and open, in the past, with her? "All the better. No disappointment. However, I am free for the evening. If you were suffering from disappointment, I could be of help."
The answer to his question comes at once: because she shrinks, eyes downwards and silent. Dull, like in front of Boots when she waited for him. Like when they met again at Charlie's. Because she does not want to laugh with him. Simple as that.
In his chest, his heart twists.
Has she not made that clear long ago?
"Elizabeth," he bids softly. "I would never impose on you. Forgive me, I was joking. It's not my forte, you know."
It takes some seconds before her eyes rise again. When they do, they are glinting. "Oh, too bad you were joking."
Darcy starts. "Sorry?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "Well, it's true I had no hopes to be supplied by certain services, but I am not one to refuse orgasms when offered. Orgasms are delightful, don't you think?"
He squints at her, dumbly, as he thinks that she is not serious, she cannot be. What is she saying? Much as he tries, reading her has never been his best skill. "Well."
Smiling, she asks, "Do you agree with me?"
"I do."
"I didn't come here expecting some action, you know."
"No."
"No indeed. But, if you were of mind to offer me some services of such kind," she stares at him, flames in her eyes, "I am game."
Oh, good God.
It is enough, a voice in his heart whisper, it must be enough. Only human, he thinks, he's only human, because when she looks so cheeky, so teasing and blinding, he is weak, weaker than he's ever been.
"Well, Darcy?" she asks, arching an eyebrow. "Are you offering?"
"Yes," he replies, the word burning in his throat. "Yes, I am offering."
His bloody mind is blank.
Elizabeth knows that he had a role in her young sister's affair. That does not help. Her voice, wary and halting, sounds too much like gratitude. A sorry thing, that is. It's too much akin to a will bound by a debt, something that is not freely given, something due. He does not like that at all.
And, Lord, how can she be the one apologizing for awful behaviour?
It's a good thing the bus finally reaches their stop, at the bottom of Gracechurch Street. On the third floor of a large building, there is her apartment—it is warm, not very large from what he can see, and smells of coffee and of some fruity perfume.
Once inside, he looks around, standing awkward and unsettled, as she flutters about, throwing her parka here, her scarf there, then maneuvering in the dimness with something.
Thousands of tiny dots light up everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, hanging from every corner.
"I think the lights on or lights off thing is terribly awkward, so..." her words fade as she walks back to him. She clasps his hand. In her eyes, those silly lights paint a starry sky. "Hello."
With careful fingers, slowly, he cups her cheek, before sliding his hand upwards. He pulls that yellow thing off her head. Her hair is shorter than he remembers, and it is feathery light on his hand as he sweeps them away from her neck. There, he presses his lips. In her ear, he then whispers, "Hello."
She laughs and moves closer, pushing her cheek against his. It's soft and faintly cold. "C'mon."
And then, she is guiding him to her small couch, all blushes and smiles, her quiet laugh smoothing, incredibly, any tension away.
She sinks on the couch before him, and holds both of his hands tightly. "Still offering?"
More than ever, he thinks, but words seem to fail him, so a nod is the only reply he has.
"Well, then," she says, and he can see a grin, bright and cheeky. She slumps down, teasing and lovely and beautiful, with stars in her gaze. "By all means."
Her tight jeans wrinkle when her legs move wide apart.
It is an awkward business, he has to admit. His long legs curl in an uncomfortable angle as he lowers on the floor, all crumpled and crammed in between the foot the sofa and the small coffee table. But, he is between her open legs. That small detail makes all the other complaints go ignored.
There is only his heart, loud and straining in his throat, and her hips, real and soft under his fingers. They fit so well between his index finger and thumb.
Then, he moves in the middle, and finds the button of her jeans. Underneath, there is smooth, warm skin and grey panties, with tiny, happy bunnies smiling up at him.
She is more than cooperative, and the jeans soon end up in a sorry pile on the floor. Her ridiculous panties should soon follow, but he takes his time to savour the opportunity: his open palms slide and glide on smooth skin, all the way from her pink knees upwards, on her thighs, until they stop on the slope between her hips and waist.
His thumbs slip underneath the elastic band of her panties, where her skin seems to burn.
His eyes seek hers. "Still game?"
Elizabeth gives a faintly breathless chuckle.
If the small roll of her hips would have failed to send a loud message, what follows does not: it is her fingers hooking in her panties, shoving her panties down her lovely legs, and moving until they are out of the way.
Elizabeth slumps back in the couch, looking satisfied. "Still game."
Indeed.
He thought Elizabeth eager, before, but now, now, he realizes his mistake. Oh, how Darcy wishes to be in the right mind for this—to be a romantic partner, sensible enough to worship every bare inch of her legs before moving to to do deed.
But, she is not eager. She is wet, she is impatient.
And so, he bends his head between her legs, leaving soft kisses on her sex—gently, delicately, slowly.
She deserves nothing less. Devotion. Satisfaction. Pleasure. No teasing and no games. His mouth opens, and he drags his tongue on he slick flesh, taking a good taste of her.
Her fingers tangle in his hair, and her hips quiver.
Under his cheek, the skin of her thigh feels is soft and warm. In his mouth, there is still the taste of her pleasure.
He has made her come apart.
Darcy may go mad. That is, if he has not already.
Elizabeth appears first dazed, the glow of pleasure still lingering on her. Oh, what an excellent picture she makes: entirely crimson, breathless, sated. He studies every change on her face as the cloud of lust shakes off, and she comes back with a smile, her eyes gleaming in the dimness as they seek him. "How good you look."
Darcy laughs, bewildered. He?—when she is the one looking like some goddess? "You look good."
"Well, I also feel quite good."
Damn his pride, that bloody thing, that soars at her soft, content sigh. "I am glad."
He already is mad. Stark raving mad.
It is not enough. Yes, they chat about Charlie—as if it were a mundane thing, chatting like this, he all crumpled up between her bare thighs, and she, flushed and half naked—in a postcard apartment with tiny lights hanging from the ceiling. It is pleasant, oh so pleasant. And nowhere enough for him.
Will she now stand, smile, thank him and shoo him away?
A laugh pulls him from his panic. "Make yourself comfortable, then."
Dear God, it is wrong. Even his heart twists in protest in his chest. Not only this is a matter of physical tension—and he is tensed, he is godawfully tensed—but there is something else. He thinks it is just her, like this, wild and grinning and bright, that he longs for. Darcy wills a smile. "I am quite comfortable here."
Again, that delighted, lovely laugh of hers—it is that, he thinks in panic. It is intoxicating.
"Are you, now?"
His knees ache and his back is stiff, but if he were given a choice, he would never move from that spot. Yes, he would spend all his days bent between her legs and see her pleasure, if he could. "Yes," he croaks out finally, turning his head to scatter desperate kisses her skin. "Yes, you are soft." His tongue dares to catch a wet spot. "And sweet."
The slight movement of her legs, now under his palms, coaxes him to her again.
This time, he cannot find it in himself to act with gentleness and tenderness. Desperation drives him forth to seek more and more, as if his sanity depended on her pleasure alone, and dove in her warmth with his aching back bent, fingers bruising and greedy on her skin.
That works too on her. Her voice breaks and his name ripples from her as her back arches.
His name, God have mercy, it's his name on her lips as pleasure takes over her mind.
Darcy tears away from her, his heart hammering in his throat. "Elizabeth."
She looks at him.
"Elizabeth," he says again, his voice a choked and pathetic sound to his own ears. "May I kiss you?"
Surprise spreads on her face for a single moment, as if she were not quite understanding the question. But it is truly a heartbeat, and soon, her arms spreads to welcome him, and she is laughing, a delighted, warm sound to his ears, and then, she is clinging his body, and yes, yes, she is kissing him.
After that first kiss, it all blends into a soft haze.
Darcy becomes lost in her arms and lips and Elizabeth seems lost in her orgasms.
Elizabeth is happy to let his fingers do the job, and he is thankful, because moving away from her mouth may prove to be difficult. It is becoming quite and addiction, to him. He swallows her moans and tastes her sighs, and breaths her in, until her body is sated and quiet and still and her mouth curls into a serene smile.
Yet, she does not squirm away. No, she pulls him with her on the couch, and holds onto him tightly and kisses him again and again. He simply cannot resist when she sighs against, and her hand clasps his to not-so-subtly guide him back to her skin. This time, he is happy to return to her with his mouth again, forgetting kisses in favour of her delicate, slick flesh.
When the haze of lust is gone, he thinks maybe he should have resisted.
Later, Darcy finds himself with a warm Elizabeth curled at his side, under a heavy blanket. His mind, free from the enchantment of her kisses and the warmth of her arms, snaps to clarity. Oddly, reality crashes in when Elizabeth's belly grumbles angrily.
He should go and leave her, but out of nowhere, she is jumping about nervously, ranting about food and the lack of, offering to get a kebab or whatever as reward for his service, because he has been so kind. His stomach churns in sheer disgust.
What a fool he has been. Why has ever agreed to this madness in the first place?
"I'm sorry," he says at length, looking away from her, so vibrant and ruffled. The lights on the ceiling now seem to be too bright. "Thank you for your kind offer, but I should go. I've been imposing on you too much, I fear, and I am hardly presentable now."
"No!" she insists. "Not imposing, that's not true! And, you're so handsome, you're perfectly presentable—"
Is she serious now? "No." He begrudgingly gestures at his lap. "I am not."
"Well then, that's an issue that can be solved without much trouble."
She is too damn close now. There is a hand crawling dangerously close, aiming for his tight. "For God's sake!" When he notes the disappointment tainting her lovely face, he gives a long sigh. "I am only human, Elizabeth. It's difficult," he admits, hiding behind his palms. "I don't understand what's going on, what's got into me that led me here."
"You took pity on me," she says, so, so gently. "You may not like gratitude, but I'm going to offer it anyway, because you're such a good, kind guy." Her hand touches his chest, and she may even feel his mad heart drummingthere. She then leans closer, lips brushing his jaw. "Let me…"
He lets her—God, it is oh so wrong, but he lets her, because he is only human, weak in flesh and heart, much he has tried to convince himself otherwise.
In a matter of seconds, her hand is wrapped around him, her touch warm and gentle and just perfect.
Her mouth presses to his ear, whispering, "Tell me what you like."
With an agonised groan, he turns to her and his head falls helplessly on the slope of her shoulder. "You're perfect," he mutters. "You're perfect, Elizabeth."
With that, he crushes his mouth against her in a sort of desperate, greedy kiss, because that what he is, that is how feels, desperate and hungry and greedy for her.
He falls on the couch, bringing her with him, seeking to be closer, always closer. "It's no gratitude I want," he admits, wild and lost. "Everything I did—it was for you, only for you. I can't bear to see you unhappy. Oh, Elizabeth."
And she, she so kindly reaches for him again, her caresses purposeful and determined. Honestly, it will not last, but he does not care. His arms haul her to him again, and his mouth madly seeks her. Like that, wrapped in the perfection that are her touch and kiss, he is soon quivering under the sheer strength of his pleasure, shuddering and holding her to him like a madman, until all he can do is wildly gasping against her skin.
The intensity of his release leaves him boneless and limp and lost, eyes and chest heavy. Robbed of breath. Of sanity.
Darcy opens his eyes.
"Well, look at you," Elizabeth says and grins, stroking his hair. "Now, it wasn't so bad, was it?"
"No, definitely not," he has to admit, but there is that melancholy, again. It is so strong, so deeply etched in his bones, that the hazy bliss is crushed under its wave. Oh, what a royal fool he is. "The bad thing, Elizabeth, is that I still love you. I am only human, I can only bear so much. It was wonderful, but so very bad for me."
There it is.
He has spent months sternly commanding himself to resignation. Months gone in ignoring heartache and crushing hopes, and yet, he has gladly walked in her apartment, kneeling between her legs, with the conviction that it was enough. If she was eager for a sexual relationship with him, so was he.
Except, no, he is not.
This will never, ever be enough. He freely admits he is a selfish man. He desires her body, he wants to please her, but without her heart—wants her, all of her, no chops and bits.
His knuckles brush some errant tears from her cheek. "I am sorry," he says, hoarsely, "I can't change how I feel. I'm afraid I can't promise you more of this, not if I wish to keep my heart intact."
Elizabeth bursts out into loud sobs and hiccups and flings herself to him, her arms winding forcefully around his neck. Hot, burning tears fall, keep falling.
Darcy feels helpless. "Elizabeth—"
"For God's sake!" she mutters, voice muffled, and he thinks she might strange him. "Do you think I'm so horny and desperate to—to do stuff like this only for the sake of it?"
"Well, there's certainly nothing wrong—"
"Shut up!" she cries, and moves from him. "I don't, you know! There's a reason why I brought you here, and let you do stuff—and it's—it's you, you."
Oh, his poor heart. It twists and hammers, and clutches at the hope, but it is impossible, hope is a bloody, tricky thing—
But she is laughing and crying, half naked, ruffled and dirty and happy, and it is all so perfect, because she says, "It's because I love you, of course."
"Oh."
"Yes!" she cries, sniffling. "Oh!"
She kisses him again and again, but there is too much laughter going on. In the end, Darcy cannot help it, and he, too, laughs.
The new day brings a finger tapping on his nose.
He opens his eyes to a very disheveled, but grinning, Elizabeth. "Time to wake up, Snow White."
"Elizabeth?"
"No," she sings and leans down to kiss the top of his nose. "It's Prince Charming."
He hums, face pressing into an impossibly soft pillow. "What time is it?"
"Time to call that dumbass cousin of yours. Can I use your phone?"
When he assents with a whiny murmur, she springs from the bed, leaving him to the temptation of sleep. His legs and back ache, but it is tolerable when he lays on his stomach.
Actually, it is tolerable in general, because his mind reminds why his muscles ache in the first place.
Good God, she has tired him out.
It is some minutes before she returns, and he is not entirely awake, but can clearly hear: "It's not Big D, you asshole, it's Lizzy."
She waltzes back in the tiny bedroom—where the hell does she find the energy for that?—gloriously naked save for a blanket on her shoulders. "Don't worry, I took good care of him."
By the time she jumps back in bed, the drowsiness is gone. He spies on her, as the bright, light of the day makes her skin glimmer and her hair glossy. Oh, that cheeky smile.
Elizabeth slumps against the headboard. "You can imagine what's happened—I murdered him, dumped his body in a trash can and stole his phone. That, or slept with him and stole his phone anyway."
Darcy is positive that his face is stupidly red.
"What the fuck was that, Colonel?" she asks in a sweet tone, and long, bare legs kick the sheets. "Trying to catfish poor horny girls in Meryton? For your cousin? Really?"
Darcy rises on his elbows, nudging her gently, and firmly tries to ignore the red, cute marks on her thighs, chest, neck—oh, Lord, he literally ate her after the Kebab.
With a sly grin, Elizabeth moves the phone from her ear. Her thumb presses on the screen and the Colonel's annoying, smug voice raises from the speaker:
"Look, you don't even know how grumpy and insufferable your lover boy's been these months. Someone had to take the situation in hand and do something."
"Well," Elizabeth says, "Taking situation in hand and mouth helped with the grumpiness, I think."
Darcy groans. "Elizabeth!"
The Colonel barks out a laughter. "Damn, well done! See, no need to get angry at me, everyone's got their happy ending. You should thank me."
"There's time for that later, first you must tell me what the hell was going in that empty head of yours when you wrote the ad and sent it to the Meryton Local."
"I only was doing my cousin a great service."
"So, did you hope I'd be the one to contact you? Did you know it was me?"
"Hell no! I did hope you'd fall for that, but—the chances were very low, weren't they? I found out who Libbie was when I actually saw you yesterday. My only hope was to throw a horny girl to Darcy and hope for the best."
"And you look for her in my town."
"And you answered my ad so…"
"So," Elizabeth says laughingly, "you did it, I guess."
"I was already planning on signing him up on Tinder next—saved me some pain in the ass! Now, out with it, Lizzy. Gimme the details. Did he cry afterwards?"
"Bye, Colonel."
"Hey—"
"Have a nice day!"
And with that, Elizabeth hangs up and puts his phone away. Darcy lets out a vexed sigh. "Was it necessary?"
She turns to him with the morning sunshine in her smile. "Yes! And I told Charlotte too!"
"Oh, God."
She slips back on the pillow, facing him. Like this, her hair is messy and wild, falling on a scrunched up face. "I'm allowed to gloat, okay? I spent months pining for you, I earned that!"
"I pined for more than one year."
"This is not a competition!" she huffs. A leg tangles between his, and a arm sneaks around him. She shifts closer, always closer, and seeks his eyes, her own shadowed. "But, if it were, I suppose you'd win. I am so sorry, Darcy, I was—"
"It's okay," he says, brushing his nose against hers. "I'm very, very happy with things as they're now."
She seems to et the subject drop, and instead presses her mouth to his in a lazy, slow kiss. "Are you tired?"
He hums against her mouth.
"Oh, no, no, that's bad!" She beams like the sunshine, lips pink as spring. "What will be of you when it's time to explore all my kinks?"
"I'll die as a happy man, I suppose."
But, for all the talk, Elizabeth is perfectly happy to cuddle. While sex has been so, so good, this—this is wonderful. Skin to skin, like this, he can hear, he feel her every breath. He can just kiss her and taste her sighs. He can murmur words in her ear and touch her blushes.
She stretches against his side. Lazy fingers trace paths on his chest. "Now, important talk. Should I leave you saved as Pussy Eater Express in my phone?"
"No."
"Dick Express?"
"I feel like a replacement for your vibrator."
"And aren't you happy?"
"I hope I am better than it."
"Well, you're more adorable. And hotter." There is that lovely slyness in her eyes, but her cheeks are painfully crimson. "You know, I think Pussy Eater Express is fitting for you."
"And Fitzwilliam isn't?"
"Well, yeah, it's pretentious as hell so yeah, but—will you come to eat me out when I call? Will thou promise to be bound to eating only my pussy for the rest of your life?"
Darcy laughs. "I will."
"No more ads on local newspapers?"
"Oh, bloody hell," says on a sigh, burying his whole face in her hair. "No."
"Good."
[13:08] Colonel Dumbass wrote: So, you're welcome
[13:09] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Not that you or your girlfriend thanked me
[13:17] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Really? Bloody ingrates
[13: 37] Colonel Dumbass wrote: No answer? You at it again?
[13: 43] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Are you still grumpy?
[13:45] Colonel Dumbass wrote: If not even getting in Lizzy's knickers can do the trick, nothing can, I swear
[14:07] You wrote: Shut up.
[14:07] You wrote: But thank you.
[14:11] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Damn right.
[14:16] You wrote: Never do that again though. I will not kill you. Lizzy will.
end.