by J L Pearl
“I want you,” he growled.
“I want to feel you inside me,” she answered, reaching down and taking him in her delicate hand. His entire body shook and he forced himself to breath, to slow his heart, to stay calm, lest it all end far too quickly.
She guided him with her hand, bringing his tip directly to the opening of her womanly garden. She felt warm and wet and inviting, and he needed no encouragement. Slowly, gently, not wanting to hurt her, he began to push, probing for entry.
“Oh!” she gasped.
“Elizabeth!” Passion overtook him and he plunged inside, unable to forestall any longer.
5
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He was inside of her.
Elizabeth held her breath. There was pressure, then pain, then a wave of intense pleasure spiking it all. Her face must have betrayed that moment of discomfort, because he stopped immediately, looking at her with worry in his eyes.
“My love!” he said, “should I stop? Does it hurt?”
Yes.
“No! No, don’t stop. Please!” It hurt. A little. But no. She didn’t want it to stop. She wanted it to never stop. To encourage him, she reached her hands down and found his backside, pulling him into her, letting him sink in as deeply as he dared. “Oooooh,” she cooed, riding the wave of pain and pleasure.
“My God, Elizabeth,” he gasped. “You feel incredible!”
His pleasure lit a fire in her heart and stoked the flames already raging in her loins. She wrapped her legs around him as he began to rock back and forth, his hard, throbbing member gliding in and out of her womanhood. “So you do, love,” she said.
As he made love to her, her attraction to him doubled. Her mind raced and whirled at the thought of how incredible it was, that she, Elizabeth Bennet, was cradling this man within her body. That he desired her. That he wanted nothing more in the whole world than to be so undone by her that he would cast aside all semblance of propriety—this very man, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, whom she had known to be the paragon of gentlemanly manner and aloof, aristocratic elegance—that he would so debase himself to this, rutting and thrusting and grunting in the field, all because of her. She lay in wonder.
“Lie down, Fitz,” she said, placing a hand on his strong upper arm. She felt his bicep flex and ripple beneath her touch. He was panting, a line of sweat glistening across his forehead. He was her bull, her strong stallion, and she had no doubt he could have gone on. But she wanted something new.
He nodded and let her guide him off of her and onto the grass, where she lay him on his back. Then she sat astride him, straddling his middle and sitting back on his manhood.
“Ahhh, my love!” he called in passion. She felt him twitch against her backside, and smiled. Then she reached down between her legs, took him in her hand, and guided him back into her womanhood. Slowly, so slowly, she sat down, taking immense pleasure in feeling every inch of him slip inside.
“Mr. Darcy,” she breathed.
He grinned, reaching up and toying with her breasts.
She rode him like the stallion that he was. This was no side-saddle; she was a full woman taking ownership of her mount. She bounced and glided, feeling her body collide against his every time she sank back down. He grunted and gasped in rhythm.
“Elizabeth,” he panted, his face growing very red. She felt him bulge to even larger inside her, if it was possible, and she squeezed with her own body, slamming her pelvis into him again and again.
“Ahhhh!” he called, sitting up and holding her close. Wave after wave of pleasure swept over her, coupled with pride, passion, and love. Sweet relief flooded her body, as if she had just sated a thirst she had always had but of which she had never been made aware. He shuddered against her, his body twitching and quivering, until, finally, he slumped back to the ground with a final gasp.
“Elizabeth!” he yelled into the sky. She fell off him and landed beside him in the grass. They lay side by side, gazing up into the summer blue, panting for air and slowly regaining some semblance of composure.
“Ha!” He laughed. “My love. How I love you!”
She turned and saw he was gazing at her. His eyes looked content, relieved, too, but still full of love and adoration. She was the object of his worship. Her heart sang.
“And I you, Fitzwilliam.”
He raised a hand to push a loose strand of hair from her face. “I am yours, and you are mine. Now and forever.”
“Now and forever,” she answered.
THE END.
The Second Temptation
of Mr. Darcy
Temptations Pt. 2
A Steamy Pride & Prejudice Variation
J.L. Pearl
Copyright 2019 J.L. Pearl, all rights reserved.
No portion of this work may be duplicated or distributed without the author’s permission.
Temptations is a trio of variation stories featuring characters from Jane Austen’s beloved novel Pride & Prejudice.
Each story is a very steamy romance and as such should be enjoyed responsibly by readers of a certain age.
Fears and clothing will be shed.
The usually stoic Mr. Darcy can no longer control his own passions. In vain he has struggled. Elizabeth Bennet must allow him to tell her how ardently he admires and loves her.
But when an impromptu marriage proposal begins to fail, the temptations of the flesh may be his only hope of reviving his chances with the woman of his dreams. Will he give in to temptation? And will it be enough to win Elizabeth's heart?
"The Second Temptation of Mr. Darcy" is a Pride & Prejudice variation story featuring characters from Jane Austen's beloved classic novel in very steamy situations, and should be enjoyed responsibly by readers of a certain age. This is the second of a three-part collection.
1
___
Mr. Darcy reached up to push the little curl of hair from his forehead. It annoyed him. Then he thought better of it and paused a moment to relax it again. Damn. He was not the sort of man to usually make a fuss over his appearance. True, he was fashionable enough, in his stoic, reserved way. But it was unlike him to worry himself over how a lady would receive him. He shook his head. Folly. He had nothing to worry about.
What woman would not want to marry him?
This was what he tried to tell himself to calm his beating heart as he strode up the lane toward the little house, from Rosings to the Collins’ parish, to present himself to one Miss Elizabeth Bennet. But, try as he might, he could not fully quell his nervous agitation. There was something about Elizabeth. Some dual magnetism and something else that completely flummoxed him, put ideas in his head he had never had, and took the silver lining from his tongue. He felt he always tripped on his words around her. He had trouble thinking clearly. She was, in every way, mystifying.
Even now he tried to imagine himself in her presence. He attempted to visualize her before him. This was not a simple exercise, because, strangely, the chief factory in his undeniable attraction to her had little to do with her immediate appearance, but rather stemmed from a deeper, nearly instinctual drive. Whenever he was with her he felt alive. Quickened. Heightened. And though gazing into her eyes always stopped his heart, when he reflected on them, it was chiefly this feeling, rather than their hue or form, that stood out in his mind.
He blinked, taking in his surroundings. The day had begun to grow long, but he had almost arrived. Before him, the lane crept up a gentle rise. Beyond that lay the gated garden that would lead to the door of the house where he would no doubt find her sitting. Or perhaps she would not be in! His heart skipped a beat with dread at the thought of missing her. What if something urgent had called her away and she had left the neighborhood of Rosings altogether that very afternoon, and he had missed his chance? He picked up the pace, bending a bit as he climbed the rise.
No. If she was not in the house he would find her nearby, doubtless on a walk to take the fine air. That would do just as well. Perhaps even better, for their privacy mi
ght be more assured if he chanced upon her some ways out from the house.
He shook his head and nearly laughed at himself. Calm, Fitzwilliam. Calm and composed. His mind was racing away from him as if he had a schoolboy crush!
The sound of voices stopped him in his tracks. The Collinses. And the clopping of hooves. It could only mean one thing, the thing he had of course known would likely happen eventually. They were leaving for dinner at Rosings. But he had hoped to reach them before they left, so as to speak with Elizabeth.
For a moment he hesitated. Should he meet them here, in the lane? Stop the carriage and ask to take a turn with her in the garden? No, that was ridiculous. His only recourse was to join them there if he wanted to see her this evening at all. He suddenly felt very foolish for having come on foot with such poor timing. Blast his headstrong heart! He would not be made to look foolish. Though it was entirely out of character, he decided at that moment to leave the path and hide himself in the trees until they had passed, so they would not know—so she would not know—he had come too late.
So it was that he watched the carriage pass from the relative cover of a strong oak, just peering enough around its edge to study the inhabitants of the car through its open window. His breath caught. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Collins, but they were unaccompanied. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.
For a dreadful moment, fear took him. She had left! His chance was gone!
It was replaced all in an instant with wild hope.
What if she were still inside the house? This would be the perfect opportunity to speak with her alone. He waited a few moments, listening as the carriage rumbled down the slope and disappeared around a wooded bend, then resumed his trek. If she was there, he would say his piece.
2
___
Elizabeth sat before the writing desk in the modest drawing room of the parsonage—less modest, of course, than the drawing room at Longbourn, or so the good parson had taken pains to assure her, blessing the right honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh many times in the telling—and re-read letters from her sister, Jane.
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. A moment later, none other than Mr. Darcy strolled into the drawing room, taking a position by the entrance. He looked uncharacteristically disheveled. For a man of such pristine personal fashion, he seemed decidedly out of sorts. His hair was tousled, his brow gleamed with sweat. Elizabeth frowned. Was he well?
“Are you well, Miss Bennet?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “I am feeling better, thank you.”
“I am pleased. Indeed, I came to see that you were. Or, that is, rather, in the hopes of seeing that you were. That you were well.”
Elizabeth waited. She had never seem him so obviously flustered. He took a seat beside the door, but, apparently unable to remain in it, soon stood again and began to nervously pace the floor. She watched apprehensively. Minutes thus passed in the awkward silence, until, finally, Mr. Darcy started toward her, saying, “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hung open.
Was he serious?
Fitzwilliam Darcy, the man who, ten thousand pounds and glorious family connections aside, had derided her as “tolerable” upon their first meeting, and who had denied her sister any chance of happiness by swaying Mr. Bingley to quit his suit of her—this man wished to profess admiration and love? For her?
He spoke for a few moments about how he knew it was ridiculous; how he knew the disparity between their families should have dissuaded him from the match, for there was no match, in truth, but he said he could not master himself. He said he had to have her.
Elizabeth colored. When he had finally done, and it was obvious he was waiting for her to accept a proposal of marriage of all things, she cleared her throat. “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Now Mr. Darcy colored. But when he spoke, his voice was quiet, and, if not quite calm, it was controlled. “You have never desired my good opinion.”
“No.”
He tilted his head. “Never? Not once?”
She opened and closed her mouth, unsure of what to say. What did he hope to hear? No, not once.
He smiled sadly. “That’s a funny thing, Elizabeth. I have desired little else these few months. Little other than your own good opinion.”
She remained silent, coloring again. His sudden change in tone stilled the room. There was humility in his voice. As if he had been chastised.
“I see now,” he said after a pause. “I have been… proud, haven’t I? I have assumed.”
“That may well be the case, Mr. Darcy.” Even as she said these words she felt a pang of guilt for them, so palpable was the sentiment of his penitence. And for a moment she remembered him as she had first seen him. Tall, incredibly handsome, the epitome of gentlemanly bearing, am utterly attractive man. She shook her head. It was not enough. No. She would not be wooed by the memory of someone who had never proven the worth of his character. After all, there was Jane. And Mr. Darcy’s own cold, off-putting behavior condemned him. Any remnant of guilt fell away and she was filled again with shock at his proposal.
“But I must ask why,” she said, “with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favorable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
What happened next shocked Elizabeth to her core.
There, on the drawing room floor, Fitzwilliam Darcy went down on his knees.
3
___
“You are right, Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said. “You are right. I have been so foolish. God, I—” He stopped, casting his gaze about the room, ashamed. She spoke nothing but the truth. He had come meaning to offer love, affection, adoration, but he had offered insult instead. “I am sorry. I am so dreadfully sorry. It was ill-spoken. The heart of it, I promise you, was not in the delivery, but in the intent. I love you, Elizabeth.” He gazed at her imploringly, hoping something in his eyes might communicate far better than his words.
She seemed for a moment to relent again.
It was an odd warfare. Clearly she had built up some resentments against him, and, by his own reckoning as he heard her explanations, he had given her reasons. Now it was his task, by words and glances of love and self-immolation, to tear down each resentment like a barrier wall before he could lay claim to the prize at the end of the siege. But Elizabeth was in control. It was her heart to be given or kept as she saw fit; he could not force it from her. It was her forgiveness, her acceptance, her grace, her love. He relied entirely upon his hope of her good nature.
But of that he had no doubt. She was fairly an angel from heaven.
He had only to weather the storm of words, he reasoned, and apologize.
“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you,” she said. “No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to t
he censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”
His attachment to Bingley—his most devoted friend—was the problem? But surely anyone could have seen that Jane Bennet was clearly not as interested in the man as he had been in her. It was an unequal match of the heart. This was an entirely different matter than whatever nonsense Darcy’s pride might result in; this was about their mutual happiness. How could he explain this?
“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.
He frowned. Was her only concern Jane’s material happiness? He supposed he could understand her displeasure at his ruining the match if her concern was Jane’s fortune, which would have been considerable with Bingley. But that seemed too base for Elizabeth, especially after the censure he had just endured.
“I do not deny it,” he said slowly, “but Elizabeth, help me to understand. Why should I not have done it? Do you believe she would have grown to love him?”
“Grown to love him!” Elizabeth’s eyebrows reached her brow in exasperation. “She has never, in all the years I have known her—which is all my years on earth—been so enraptured, so undeniably happy, as when she believed he loved her. She undeniably, unequivocally loved him—loves him still, I fear, though it brings her nothing but pain! And this is why you interfered? You believed she did not?”
Mr. Darcy grew flustered. As a rule he prided himself on reading people, ascertaining character, and reacting appropriately. But now he saw that this, too, was a flaw in his own. He had been wrong. He was wrong. When he finally spoke again, he admitted as such. This, too, seemed to peel back another layer of resentment, though it wounded him to admit his own shortcomings to himself. This was very much a battle of attrition.