Truth about Mr. Darcy

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She came to him late one night as he sat reading in the quiet solitude of Netherfield’s library, the delicate scent of lavender preceding her lovely form. He closed his eyes as he leaned his head back and inhaled her heady fragrance, a feeling of intoxication washing over his senses.

Without pause, she settled herself upon his lap and slid her arms across his chest to his shoulders, her slender fingers wandering to the edge of his cravat to tease the skin of his neck. He swallowed hard, struggling to regain the stoic composure she always managed to rob him of whenever she was near. Tonight, with her dark hair falling past her shoulders in silken curls, she was nothing short of breathtaking.

He looked upon her in wonder as the hint of a smile played seductively upon her rosy lips. She pressed her soft body firmly against his, her curves rendering him utterly powerless, her eyes sparkling with an invitation. Every fiber of his being ached to touch her, to tell her of his ardent—almost painful—desire for her, to finally claim her as his own after so many weeks of fantasies and sleepless nights.

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