His chest rises in that slow, smoldering way I’ve been thinking about since the night we met. The intake of breath that’s supposed to precede a pounce. “Goddamn, Bennet.”

The words scrape along my body, plucking a plea from amid the baiting little comments already on standby: “Please?”

Darcy’s eyes meet mine, and at long last, the man pounces.

CHAPTER

23

“Morning.” Darcy gives me a sleepy smile. He lies on his stomach, arms curled around his pillow like he spent what little time we slept hugging it. The bedsheet is tantalizingly low on his back, exposing the top of his rear.

I’ve been awake for a few minutes, languidly perusing the form I’ve gotten to know so well. It’s been a lovely way to ease into consciousness; there’s a particularly endearing freckle just above his left butt cheek I keep returning to. I’m considering naming it.

“I might have to duck out before housekeeping shows.” I point at the window. Darcy peers over his shoulder, still hugging the pillow. The large pane of glass bears the incriminating stamp of my backside: two oblong prints for my shoulders and either side of my spine and a second pair of smaller spots where my butt was. There are multiple handprints, too; Darcy switched his grip while I was otherwise secured to the window.

Round two was . . . ambitious.

“I might need a picture of that.”

I hold up my phone. “Way ahead of you.”

He chuckles, scooting up to kiss my shoulder. Sadly, the sheet travels with him. “How are you?”

I prop myself up against the tufted velvet headboard, leaving the phone on the pillow beside me. “A little saddle-sore, but I’ll manage.” He grins, and I tap his nose. “Don’t get cocky,” I warn, but really, he can be as smug as he’d like.

He pushes away his pillow and scoots closer, kissing the notch in my collarbone before resting his head on my bare shoulder. I run my fingers through his thick hair. Definitely grays in there. Yum. He drapes an arm across me, snuffling a little like a dog might while getting comfortable. We’re cuddling. It’s so . . . quaint, considering everything else we’ve done in this room.

His hold shifts, the hand at my ribs edging inward, following the swell of my right breast, and he lets out a sympathetic noise as he cups around the nipple. The bruising has darkened to an ugly purple; I noticed it in the bathroom earlier.

I giggle. “Mr. Darcy, you’ve purpled my nurple.”

He half-smiles. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to forgive myself for this,” he says, grazing the tender area with his fingertips.

My breath comes in tighter at his touch, my nipple pebbling. “You’re well on your way to earning my forgiveness, if that helps.”