First Night

Author: Nehal
Summary: This is a little snippet of how I imagine the first night to 
be.  It is the product of a late night debate over whether or not 
Darcy was a virgin.  

---- 

Languid, as a lazy waterfall, her tresses rolled from neck to 
shoulder, kissing, caressing, touching skin he yearned to claim but 
could not.   Plump lips glistened, almost unholy in their subtle 
shade of the most natural pink.  Bright eyes twinkled as the darkest, 
deepest of stars, as milky fair hands slowly unbuttoned the front of 
an equally milky dress.  

For once he wanted to damn appearances and shove chivalry up his Aunt 
Catherine's-

Briefly, in a moment of twisted, dark, hopeless agony, he wished he 
were as unscrupulous as Wickham.  As soon as that thought entered his 
mind, however, he suppressed it, and clenching his jaw, he forced 
himself to turn his back on the woman who meant more to him than life 
itself.

Laughter as alluring as siren song, captivated, hypnotised and forced 
him the way of Adam-

He turned, to find her sitting on his bed wearing nothing save for an 
ivory chemise that left little, if anything, to the imagination.  
Gulping, he decided that now was as good a time as any for port, and 
loosening the god-awful cravat that Phillips had insisted he wore; he 
sidled to a desk by the window where the decanter sat, all the while 
unable to take his eyes off of her, even as he gulped down almost a 
quarter of the bottle.

Perhaps marriage had not been such an intelligent idea.  He was more 
than able to worship afar, to place her upon a filigree pedestal and 
stare.  She like Aphrodite deserved to be doted upon in the deepest 
ways known to men.  Marriage, unfortunately, was no worship.  It 
required possession, desire, touching, debasement-

It required slipping from his carefully constructed façade of 
control, and the thought terrified him.  She would not survive his 
desire if he unleashed it full force tonight, he was sure of it.  So, 
he contrived to be the perfect gentleman, and as he poured his second 
liberal helping of port, his hands shook with the effort.  

"I am beginning to think," She spoke eventually, her tone as light 
and airy as the smile against her unholy lips.  "Dearest husband that 
perhaps you are as inexperienced as-"

He cut her words off with a glare.  Her smile, however, remained.  
She was unrepentant, and unable to help himself, he approached her 
wanton form, hands trembling as they reached out to caress a wayward 
auburn curl from her brow.  

"I have had much to occupy the past twelve years of my life: my 
education, the estate, Georgiana." He whispered as coral lips 
fluttered as butterfly wings against the inside of his wrist.  
Somewhere inside his chest, he felt his heart leap.  "Women were 
never a priority," Clenching his jaw; he felt his nostrils flare as 
soft arms wound themselves about his waist.  Her eyes remained 
focussed on his, as though daring him to continue.  He could not.

"Perhaps," She spoke after a long all consuming pause.  "It would be 
best if we improvised.  I trust you are familiar with the basic—
elements—of the act?"

A kiss against his chest- fleeting touches against the skin of his 
back- before soft milky satin fingers began the arduous task of 
unbuttoning his shirt.  Unable to do anything decisive or coherent, 
he let her; and eventually, with the exposure of each bare inch of 
skin, all his mechanisms of control failed him.  Unable to turn, or 
speak or even lift his hands to push her away, he was caught in a 
siren song of soft touches and hot, wet kisses.  It was plainly 
obvious that his wife was far more experienced with the bedroom arts 
than she ought to have been, but he had not the wits to question her-

It was a frighteningly exhilarating experience that he at once 
abhorred yet wanted more of at the same time, and as he watched her 
nimble fingers play new and bewildering sonatas against his most 
intimate of parts he finally understood every poem he had ever read 
about love-

Love was not worship-

A lover was no goddess-

Love was sacrifice.  Hot, boiling, dirty and yet so beautiful it 
blinded each of the senses until its beauty was emblazoned upon the 
deepest recesses of the soul-

The realisation brought tears to his eyes; and as she pulled him into 
her soft ambrosia-pale embrace he felt a red-hot tear burn smoothly 
across his cheek-

---
fin