Page 50 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

She freed him from his trousers, finding him quite ready for her. It was a fact she appreciated with grim practicality; she was in no mood for courtship. She stroked him, and his hips arched immediately against her hand. The sound he made was low, rough, and wholly hers.

She positioned herself over him, guiding him with her hand as she lowered her hips. She sank onto him slowly. The cautious pace was a physical necessity rather than a choice; the angle was new, and her body required a moment to accommodate what her mind fiercely demanded.

He filled her completely. She remained still for a moment, adjusting to the great fullness, her hands resting flat on his bare chest and her weight on her knees. The deep stillness held its own kind of sharp anticipation.

She began to move, slowly at first, finding a rolling rhythm that drew a rough, uncontrolled sound from her own throat. His hands moved from her thighs to her hips. He matched her rhythm, offering steady support while letting her set the pace.

She increased the pace, and his hands gripped her hips harder. She rode him with a fierce determination that was equal parts passion and anger. The two feelings fused into relentless movement as her body sought the angle that would finally blot out the terrible events of the day.

He sat up, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his chest against hers. His mouth found her neck. The sudden shift in position drove him deeper, pulling a sharp gasp from her lungs without warning. His mouth caught the sound as they kissed deeply. They moved together with a fast, fracturing rhythm, and her complete loss of control was precisely what she sought.

“There,” she said against his mouth. “Yes. There.”

He held the angle, his hands locking her hips in place while he thrust upward. The relentless friction concentrated and built into a breathless, relentless tension. She surrendered to it wholly. She was finished with holding things in, and this shattering release was the only thing she required.

She came with her face pressed tightly against his neck, her fingers digging fiercely into his shoulders. The rough sound she made was muffled against his skin. The release shook through her in intense waves, her body clenching around him as she ground her hips against his. The long, thorough waves left her trembling, breathing hard, and still wanting.

“More,” she said.

He laid her down gently, keeping his hand behind her head to protect it from the stone floor. The tenderness was a sharp counterpoint to their previous urgency. He moved over her and settled between her thighs. He drove into her with long, deep strokes that immediately began building a second, sharper tension on top of the first.

He pressed his forehead to hers. His eyes remained open, watching her in the dark, catching the faint red of the dying fire.

He reached between them, his thumb finding her sensitive peak. The precise pressure, combined with his deep rhythm, overwhelmed her. She let go. The second release was sharper than the first—a bright, concentrated burst of pleasure that arched her back off the pallet. Her legs tightened instinctively around his waist as she cried out into the dark.

He followed her immediately. His rhythm broke as he drove himself deep into her, spilling his seed with his mouth pressed hard against her shoulder. His hands fisted in the sailcloth beneath her. His release was silent, save for the ragged, uncontrolled sound of his breathing—the most unguarded sound she had ever heard from him.

Afterward, they lay quietly in the dark. His body was heavy and warm beside hers. His hand rested on her stomach, rising and falling slowly with her breath.

“I am sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“For using you to stop thinking.”

His hand traced a slow circle on her stomach. “You did not use me. You chose me. There is a great difference.”

“The difference is accurate. You were in pain, and you wanted closeness. You chose me for that closeness, and I am certainly not injured by being chosen.”

She rolled towards him, pressing her face against his chest. Her hand rested on his side, her fingers lightly tracing the smooth, raised line of his scar in the dark.

“I am frightened,” she said quietly against his chest.

“I know.”

“I am not frightened of the island, or of dying. I am frightened of being forgotten. I cannot bear the thought of my family grieving me for years, believing I am dead, while I am alive and quite unable to tell them.”

His arms tightened securely around her, and she pressed closer. The fire was out. The stars were visible through the gap in the roof. They were old, distant, and indifferent. The indifference was a strange comfort; it meant that their isolation was not a targeted cruelty, but merely a circumstance.

“We will find a way,” he said.

“You do not know that.”

“No, but I believe it. That belief is not built on blind hope; it is built on you. You will find a way, because finding ways to survive is exactly what you do. You have not stopped finding solutions since we washed ashore. The island is better for your efforts, and I am better for them. Your work is not finished.”

She was quiet. His words settled into her like rain settling into the cistern—slowly absorbed, and stored for later when her own supply of courage ran short.

“That is the nicest thing you have ever said to me,” she said.