A/N: Please note this is some tripe fluff. I'm still feeling a little silly for writing it, but I hope you enjoy if it is your cup of tea. It is rated M and there are most certainly some naughty bits! Please be aware before you read. I could never imagine writing something like this, but then there was a challenge, and I accepted, so...

Also, I have posted this on another site, so no worries that I have plagiarized someone else.

This work shouldn't be too long and it is actually kind of fun to write. *blushing*

Also, if you are following my other story, don't worry about this one - It will not be a distraction!

If you are under 18, please don't read! :) And, if you are 18+, don't judge too harshly for my vulgarity!

"Ohhh… Elizabeth… please…" There was a shudder among the rustle of covers.

The sound of a deep throat being cleared reverberated around the room. "Sir?"

Fitzwilliam Darcy crept from the mist of a faint dream and opened his eyes to the bleeding light of the morning and the amused face of his valet. How he wished he could go back to the place whence he just came.

"Good morning, Johnson. Have I overslept?" Fitzwilliam drew all his effort to restrain his mortification and urge the stiffening of his shoulders to relax into flaccid nonchalance. Sometimes the business of having a personal manservant was an awfully damnable and embarrassing thing. The sticky warmth over his stomach was case and point.

"No, sir. But, it is the usual time for you to be up. Shall I ready a bath?" Johnson was unfailingly flat in his delivery, but his eyes suggested he was fully aware his master could benefit from a dousing of cold water and most likely a wet washing cloth.

"By all means, yes. Please give me a moment of privacy." There was nothing for it. Fitzwilliam knew Johnson knew, after all, it was he who personally took care of laundering his nightclothes and bedding, and it was not the first time the morning played out this way since she came to Netherfield.

Fitzwilliam would just have to deal with the shame of messing himself and the bed sheets as he did when he was a downy lad coming into his own manhood – he would simply pretend it had not happened… except in his mind where his exasperation could reign free. Bloody hell, am I not too old for this?

Johnson exited toward the dressing room presumably to call for some water leaving Fitzwilliam to sink back into his pillow and cover his face with his hands.

The evening last whilst still in the drawing-room, he had concluded there was real danger in paying Elizabeth Bennet too much attention, and here he was dreaming about her, losing control of himself over her… for at least the hundredth time since he had truly looked into her face… a face with sparkling, expressive eyes, an adorable upturned nose, apple cheeks, and full, pouty cherry lips that she worried on occasion… she probably did not even realize her habit was nearly his undoing so many times.

Heaven above, what would it be like to kiss those lips?

Feel those lips on his neck, down his chest, over his stomach, taking in the full length of his – no, he must stop this madness.

Time to get out of bed and stop being such a cad. It was one thing to dream of her when he had no control over the places his mind took him during his slumber, but it was entirely another to willingly allow himself the pleasure while he was full conscious.

The last time he permitted his wakeful thoughts to slip into the imagined oblivion that was her mouth, he fisted his own pleasure and was practically caught out by Johnson. Feeling enormous guilt, he took himself to the nearest church to silently supplicate in a back pew for divine intervention and merciful control over his yielding mind.

How dare he bring her into the debauchery of his private thoughts?

She was a gentleman's daughter, maidenly and pure. And, mostly under good regulation, he was a gentleman.

They were equal in a few respects, and perhaps in the important one of experience, but he doubted very much they were equal in information. He was a university man after all, and no educated man left school without having gained a thorough knowledge of the fairer sex – despite how physically chaste he may remain – a mind could not go without some form of corruption when surrounded by hordes of young men in the prime of their natural virility.

Crude jokes abounded, confidences were shared and spread faster than gossip in a lady's sitting room, and most were eager to boast of their exploits. It seemed half were trying to top each other for honors in some unnamed quest for supremacy, and the other half were content to listen carefully and take note.

Fitzwilliam Darcy most certainly belonged to the latter grouping; he did not require some conquest to be sure of himself, but he did require himself to be a good student and thus learned things his father never deemed necessary to share.

He certainly learned of things no gentlewoman could claim knowledge of.

During his first year, an acquaintance crowed on and on about the raptures available for purchase from a dainty little piece of fluff who occupied a room in a house of lavish but sinful deeds. She apparently was quite accomplished in the skills which only required her mouth.

A young Fitzwilliam Darcy acted the part of an appalled gentleman who prided himself on never taking advantage of such services, but the lustful young buck who recently had come into his own from adolescence listened with rapt attention and was wholly jealous of his friend's bold new encounters.

During his four years up at Cambridge, Darcy took himself to that house where the mistress with the mouth resided, but he only ever made it as far as the first stone step.

He thought of his friend's account often, a talented lady on her knees. It was one of his favorite notions to consider when giving over to himself in pleasure as every other man is wont to do from time to time, and as much as he wanted to feel the sensation in truth along with all the other pleasures a woman could give, he forbade himself.

Not long after Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Darcy became master of Pemberley and all of its holdings.

Death of a beloved father, heaps of responsibility, and social climbing women did much to cool the arduous desires of the flesh. On the occasional flare of passion which called for release, he relied upon himself as usual and the occasional illustration or remembrance of some featherbrain's over-exposed charms.

He put it in his mind to forget his favorite fantasy, and all the others too, lest he end up spending his inheritance at a brothel or worse yet, prematurely taking an unsuitable wife who seemed spirited enough to satisfy the hidden desires thrusted deeply within.

And, now, one autumn, in a god-forsaken backwater county outside of London, all repressed yearnings of a most basic nature, were brought forth by one curly-headed impertinent slip of a woman… an innocent, genteel maiden, but lively in every way with vivacious wit flowing from a pretty pert mouth.

Yes, his long ago vivid imaginings of pleasure came back in force every time he gazed upon her face, and once in the same room with her, he could never look away.

He was no gentleman. He stared at her with an intensity of longing and hunger that surely did not go unnoticed. He was ever thankful her father was seldom in company lest he be called to account for his lascivious ways and do his duty. Yes, he was sure he was that evident.

But, while she suited his longings, she would not suit Pemberley's requirements as a mistress.

Mistress.

He had never had one. His pride and honor had never allowed it.

But, what would he give to make Elizabeth Bennet his mistress? Free to ride out every idea of pleasure he could conjure? She was one of the most intelligent women he had ever known; surely she could think of things he could not even imagine. What would he give?

Half of Pemberley? Absolutely not; he would give all of it.

He rolled over to bury his head further in the pillow to let his mind carry on in a more detailed direction when his night shirt dragged a rather unpleasant substance further over his stomach. The stickiness was not so warm now, and it was everywhere. If it had truly been as the vague memories of his dream, he wouldn't have to deal with such a mess as the dark-haired goddess in his dream would have gladly taken care of it in the same way she lapped the spread she preferred on her morning toast – Dear God.

He shot out of bed, went to the window, and threw it open. He needed something cold and he needed air, immediately.

In the distance, at the edge of the garden, a vision of innocent loveliness walked the path with her eyes mostly closed and face lifted to the sun. He stepped back beyond the curtain. He was a scoundrel of the first order.

Breakfast was a wretched affair. He should not have come. He should have directly gone for his horse.

Upon entering the room, she was there.

Standing at the sideboard, filling her plate, and sneaking a taste of the preserves.

She pulled her finger out of her mouth right as she noticed him and her tongue darted out to catch the rest before she looked away with a blush. Is that a smile on her face? How did she know my earlier thoughts? Witchcraft.

She was the devil in the flesh and there to tempt his seven and twenty years of hard-won celibacy.

He must sit. Breakfast would have to wait until she was out of his presence or until he felt like he could stand to fill his plate without making a spectacle of himself.

Elizabeth studied her breakfast while he studied her. When the footman had poured the tea and relegated himself back to the wall, she spoke.

"Good morning, Mr. Darcy." It was all politeness and no artifice.

"Good morning, Miss Bennet." His tone was clipped and opposite of her soft, feminine one. But, he was a man who was hanging on by the barest of threads.

She bristled. "Forgive me for disturbing your breakfast, sir. I did not think anyone else awake to join me so early."

"No, no, please proceed; by all means, do not let my presence affect your enjoyment of the meal." Wonderful, now he was an utter arse who not only was very disturbed, but he sounded as if he was full of contempt. He intended to put her at ease, but in his distress and to his own ears, his words flowed with derision.

She slowly placed her fork on the table and deliberately picked up a piece of her roll.

A roll which held a considerable slathering of jam.

"Mr. Darcy, please be assured, your presence does nothing whatsoever to affect me." With perfect grace, she slowly and deliberately popped the bite of roll into her mouth and chewed while holding his gaze until she was finished.

She then licked her lips and stood to exit not bothering for a footman to pull out her chair. "Excuse me." She was quite glorious in her vexation.

Teasing, mad woman!

At least with her gone from the room, he could fill his plate and attempt breakfast without further embarrassment.