Page 53 of Shipwrecked with Mr Darcy

“Stay here,” she said. “Stay on this beach, in this afternoon, with me. Do not go to England. Do not go to your solicitor. Stay.”

“I am here.”

“Prove it.”

She kissed him slowly. Her mouth was salt-warm, and the deep kiss scattered the remains of his last list into the wind.

His hand moved to her hip, tracing the curve of her waist. The sand was warm beneath her skin. She pressed closer, sliding her knee over his hip. She felt his immediate response, and her mouth curved into a smile against his.

“That is not a legal plan,” she said.

“That is not a legal plan.”

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, her knees sinking into the warm sand. Her hair fell around her face. The peculiar intimacy of her gaze undid the last of his formal defences without her ever needing to raise her voice.

She took him in hand, and his breath caught. Her grip was completely assured now, quite without the uncertainty of their first night. Her thumb traced the length of him with a slow deliberateness that undid him.

She sank onto him in a slow, controlled descent. Her hands braced on his chest, and her eyes held his. The warmth of her and the tight grip of her body around him made her take a sharp breath. The whole weight of the afternoon collapsed into the single point where their bodies joined.

She moved, rolling her hips in an unhurried, deliberate rhythm. His hands gripped her waist, following her lead and surrendering wholly to her pace.

“Stay here,” she said again, her voice lower and rougher. “Stay.”

“I am here. I am here, Elizabeth.”

He found her sensitive peak with his thumb. He applied the steady, circling pressure she responded to, and her rhythm immediately faltered. Her breath broke, and her hands pressed harder on his chest. Her head fell back, exposing the long line of her throat to the sun. The fierce, private expression on her face was the most honest thing he had ever seen.

She came with a low, shuddering cry that carried across the empty beach. Her body clenched around him in tight waves, pulling him immediately after her. His hips drove up from the sand as he gripped her waist. The release was sharp and sudden. He pressed his face to the inside of her wrist, muffling his own ragged groan against her skin.

They remained intertwined on the warm sand as the sun dropped lower. Their breathing slowed in tandem. She folded heavily onto his chest, wholly spent. His hand rested in her hair, and her breath was warm on his neck.

England could wait.

That night, by the fire, she leaned against his chest. He held her close, and he did not make lists.

He thought, instead, about the particular weight of her against him, and the salt smell of her hair. He listened to the sound of her breathing as it slowed towards sleep. The reality of this woman, in this place, would never come again, which made it the only night that mattered.

The lists would return. The planning was constitutional, bred into him by twenty years of unyielding responsibility. One afternoon on a beach was not going to cure a lifetime of managing his world. But the afternoon had introduced a pause, and that quiet space belonged wholly to her.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said, almost asleep.

“Yes.”

“If you are composing a letter to your solicitor in your head, I will know, and the consequences will be severe.”

“I am not composing a letter.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“The particular way your hair smells after swimming.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed, a soft, sleepy sound against his chest. “That is an acceptable thought.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome. Good night.”

“Good night.”