Page 67 of Inventing Mr Darcy

With his help, I shuck the tunic sweater I’m wearing, relieved to see that the bra underneath is one of my cuter ones, pale blue with little daisies scattered over it. (Chances that I’m wearing the matching panties? Almost nil.) He watches his fingers trace along my collar bone, around the lacy edges of each cup, down my arms, raising goosebumps along the way.

“Cold?” he asks, though there’s a fire crackling away in the fireplace.

“Not at all,” I assure him. “It’s just, when you look at me like that …”

“Like I want to memorize every single inch of you?” His lips curve in a smile that’s positively wicked. The bra goes a few minutes later, and he brushes his thumbs over my nipples. “Lie back,” he urges, sending his shirt to join my clothes, and for a moment, I’m bewildered at the suggestion.

But the ottoman is there, the velvet soft against my bare skin, my hair fanned out behind me, a wave of burnished gold against green, shimmering in the firelight. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, as he slides his hands down my body, catching the waistband of my leggings and easing them over my legs. Then he drops to his knees in the space between ottoman and couch, his shoulders spreading my legs. “I want to taste you. Please?”

I’m sure I’m in the minority of women, but I generally prefer giving head to getting it. (Not that I have a lot of experience with either one, to be honest.) When I’m on the receiving end, I usually feel too vulnerable to relax and enjoy it. I find it more intimate than sex.

But when he presses his lips to the inside of my knee, the only answer I can give is a greedy moan that catches in my throat. Every open-mouthed kiss against my inner thighs, the deep breath he draws as he nuzzles the crease where my legs join my body; all of it makes me shudder with desire. And that’s before he spreads me open and strokes my clit with his tongue. My fingers tangle in his dark hair as if of their own volition. If I could spare a coherent thought, I might anticipate more of those delightful figure eights—er, infinity symbols. But this time, he’s too hungry to tease me. His growl of pleasure vibrates against my most sensitive flesh. And oh, my God.

It turns out multiple orgasms also aren’t limited to the pages of fiction.

I’m still nothing more than a puddle of endorphins when he stands. “I need to be inside you. Let me get a—”

Weakly, I snag his hand before he takes a step. “I’m on the pill. And I don’t want anything between us,” I say. When he hesitates, I add, “I trust you. I love you.”

It’s the first time I’ve said it to his face, without a thousand miles and a pair of screens between us. And it’s absolutely as wonderful as I imagined it could be, seeing the way his eyes flare with delight and amazement and watching the tension ebb from his shoulders as the words seem to soak into him.

“Elle.” He groans my name as he shucks off his pants and kneels between my legs. Once, twice, he slicks his cock through my wetness before joining us on a single, smooth stroke. “I love you too.”

The pace he sets is measured but demanding, every thrust so deep, I swear it brushes against my soul. I grab the backs of my thighs to hold myself open to him, letting him sink deeper still, then clench my inner muscles around his hardness.

“You’re going to make me come,” he cautions.

“Is that a promise?” My need for him is alarming in its intensity, burning away every rational thought, every worry for the future. “Do it. Please. Now.”

Somehow, he wedges a hand between us and presses his thumb against my clit. “Together,” he insists, the word just shy of a growl.

The explosion that follows rattles us to our very foundation. He collapses atop me, pressing me into the soft, dark velvet, as the universe settles back into place around us, its shape forever altered by that burst of energy, that powerful, passionate flare.

The next morning, when it’s time to go, we don’t say goodbye. We don’t promise to call, or text. We hold one another for the space of three deep breaths before he kisses my forehead.

As I walk home, I reflect on what I thought I knew a few months ago, what I know now, what I may never understand about everything that happened in between.

Narratives—the stories we tell ourselves, about our pasts, about our futures—have power.

It’s a very English major-y thing to think, something of an article of faith among my people. Now I’ve lived it; I know it to be true.

I’m not sure what’s going to happen next.

But this is not where our story ends.

My stubborn faith in the plot doesn’t mean I don’t throw myself on the couch for a good cry. Nevertheless, and in spite of a nearly sleepless night, I don’t stay down for long. I’m restless. It’s like I’m waiting for something, but I have no idea what. I check my phone, which I haven’t looked at since leaving class yesterday afternoon.

It’s not unusual for me to have (and ignore) a significant number of notifications. Like, a number that most people (definitely Fisher) would find alarming. But hey—there’s a lot of junk out there: endless emails from the college about things that don’t really pertain to me, spam texts, social media demanding attention it doesn’t deserve.

But when I open my phone this morning, what greets me is altogether different, both qualitatively and quantitively. It seems as if every single app has a little red number beside it.

I click on texts first, because that number is smallest: just three unread messages, one from Cassie, one from my mother, and one from an unknown number. Cassie’s reads

omg have you seen this???

followed by a truncated link I can’t immediately identify. Instead of clicking it, I swipe over to the message from my mom.

Aunt Phyllis says you’re in the paper!