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Will slowly blinks himself awake. Finds her smiling at him. Waiting. Her hair is frizzy, curling a bit at the edges.
“Hi,” Lizzie says softly, smiling shyly.
He grins. “Hi.”
Slowly, he reaches for her. Waits for her subtle nod of permission before making contact. Uses the pads of his finger tips to brush along her cheek, her neck, her sides. Her legs. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch.
“Can I kiss you?” he rasps, already completely overwhelmed by everything about her.
“Please,” she replies, but it gets lost as his mouth meets hers.
It’s an important thing to note, Will thinks, that last night had been their first official date.
If, of course, you don’t count the coffee meetings and lunch dates and excuses to stay late over takeout in his office under the guise of discussing this project or that business matter. Will does count those. Will counts those very seriously, but he’s not sure that she does, so he doesn’t bring it up.
It hadn’t gone exactly as he’d planned – their date. This is another thing he feels the need to note. Instead of the romantic evening he had organized and arranged, they got a bar, Gigi and Fitz, and copious amounts of alcohol. He doesn’t remember much outside of the twenty minutes he spent pouting in the corner of the booth until Lizzie called him on it, dragging him out of his mood and demanding him to try and have fun. There was dancing, he thinks. Laughter. That smile of hers that threatens to undo him every time.
Regrettably, a decent portion of the night is a blur, and he blames this entirely on Fitz and the Four Horseman challenge that Will definitely, definitely should have refused.
Will does, however, remember with certain clarity the taxi ride home when she’d kissed him the way he had only ever dreamed of her kissing him before – hard, bruising. He remembers the taxi driver clearing his throat awkwardly just as Will’s hands had started inching their way up Lizzie’s skirt and between her legs. He remembers laughing and apologizing and being too drunk to feel ashamed of wanting her so much. He remembers telling her how much he wanted her, and her saying much of the same.
And he had, obviously, taken her home with him. She had asked, and who was he to refuse?
Will had kissed her on the porch as he searched for the keys, and again just inside when he clicked the lock into place behind them. They’d stumbled up the stairs, fumbled their way down the long hallway to his room. They fell onto the bed together, a tangled mess of limbs and sighs. And, unexpectedly fell asleep quickly thereafter, not wanting to move too fast or go too far as the result of too much alcohol.
Her hands tangle in his hair, pulling and tugging until he knows it’s standing every which way but right. Will knows this about her now – that she likes to mess him up, prefers him with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened or bowtie undone. He should find it infuriating. He doesn’t, and instead smiles against her mouth, reaches up to catch her hands, fingers tangling and squeezing before letting go. His touch drifts between her thighs. She’s wet already, the cotton of her underwear damp to the touch and Will groans low in his throat, kisses her harder.
When they pull away, he’s all but gasping for breath, but Lizzie continues chasing him, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, very seriously, and Will might have laughed if he weren’t too busy trying to hold it together.
Instead, he’s moving without thought, helping her rid himself of his shirt, his jeans, and when he pulls back to look at her there is a fullness in his chest that almost hurts. He stares. Makes a memory. Smiles something happy and dopey all at once.
“You are so pretty, Lizzie Bennet,” he tells her.
Lizzie doesn't answer, just shyly looks away before leaning forward to slick her mouth over his again.
They move until he's covering her. When he settles against her, something catches in his throat, a moan tangled around the syllables of her name. They’re embarrassing, the noises he starts to make when her hips rock against his, and he pulls his mouth away from hers, buries it in the crook of her neck. He breathes, and keeps breathing as she moves her hips against his and he’s not even inside her, but the feel of her pressed up against him, all skin and heat makes him dizzy. He presses his eyes closed, sinks his teeth into the skin of her shoulder, just as she rocks against him again. She moans, loud and desperate, and he does it again, his tongue darting out to smooth the slight indentations left in their wake.
He makes his way down her body, pushing up his shirt as he goes, skimming her side, fingers tracing the perfect curves of her breasts. Will treats removing her underwear like the gift that it is, sliding the cotton down her legs slowly. She pulls at his shoulders, tugs until she can kiss him again. When his mouth meets hers again, their kiss is slow but every bit as brutal as the ones that came before it. He teases her with his fingers, slips one, then two inside her.
Will wants to take his time, make this last. But Lizzie starts jerking her hips against his hand, starts whimpering his name – Will not Darcy and that in and of itself is the beginning of the end for him.
He is so caught up in her that he doesn’t know what’s happening until it’s over, until he’s flat on his back and she’s above him, collecting the hem of the shirt and pulling it over her head.
Lizzie tosses it to the side, and his attention wanes just a little, his hands leaving the warmth between her legs to reach up and cup her breasts.
Somehow, he manages to mumble, “I wanted to do that.” There is a flash of smile before she reaches for him, catching his jaw just as her head starts to dip towards his for another kiss.
Breaking apart again, her hands are steady as they push at the waistband of his underwear, shoving them down, and moving her body out of the way until he is able to kick them off with his feet. Will’s hands shake, just slightly, as they reach for her, and she notices and grins. Pulls her mouth away from his to lean back, to reach for her purse. He doesn’t realize what she’s doing until he sees the foil packet in her hands.
When she catches him staring, her neck flushes red.
“You came prepared.”
Her back straightens defensively. There is a joke, an accusation to be made, he’s sure, and he almost prepares himself for whatever tirade he didn’t mean to inspire because while they’re better at certain things now, she still hasn’t perfected the art of deciphering when he’s being accusatory and merely observing. He’s relieved when she grins shyly instead.
“I’m modern,” she remarks, and kisses him again with her knees pressed against his sides as her fingers slide on the condom slowly.
She guides him to her center, into her, and the moment he's inside of her he feels like he can't breathe. Everything is white noise and the easing of tension. As they breathe and adjust together, Will reaches for her, cupping her cheeks tenderly.
Wrapping his arms around her, he rolls them until he is settling on top of her. He wants to be in control. Wants to take this slow. Wants to remember every single part of this.
But when their hips start to move it is anything but graceful. It’s quick, needy, desperate. Together they move and keep moving. When Lizzie starts to come, she arches into him, whispers his name, the Will strangled and choked. It does him in entirely.
It would be easy, he knows, to say the words.
They’ve been stuck, caught at the back of his throat for months – even when he didn’t have a right, even when he was sure she could never, would never feel the same.
Will almost allows them to slip after, when his vision is still blurred around the edges and she’s trying to steady her breathing.
But then she kisses him, slow and lazy, and he forgets.
It’s probably for the best, he thinks, and waits until she’s ready.
Later, it is Lizzie who wakes first. She presses her index finger over and over against his shoulder until he is awake.
“I’m hungry now,” is all she says just before she kisses him.