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Touch Drunk

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Lizzie can't stop touching him. First, it was his tie, and she was as blatant as she could be, because she wanted him to see it, wanted him to know that she was doing this willingly, with all the lost time reaching through her fingertips, holding on to his tie, his hand, brushing against his arm.

She can't stop touching him. She wonders how long it will take for him to notice. They've both earned this, the right to be free with caresses, to have their fingers entangled, to just hold on and never let go.

Maybe he knows already, because he's the one reciprocating. He's the one who doesn't move away when she snuggles into him, seeking just a little warmth from him, the touch of his skin under her fingers. First it was his tie, the cloth fine-grained under the pads of her fingers. Or the cotton of his shirts, a little coarser, but oh, how the fabric feels under her hands, almost forbidden because it's just one layer away from his skin, and his heartbeat thumps there, where she can almost hear it if she concentrates.

She can't stop touching him. Even at the dinner table, with her entire family watching, she has to curve her hand around his wrist, smooth the hair that peeks out from the cuff of his sleeve, just for a few seconds, to smile at him and have him look at her, like he knows what she's up to, like this is a secret they have.

She can't stop touching him. She doesn't want to, because if she does, maybe it won't all be real. Maybe it'd cease to be, this miracle that he still loves her, that he came back.

He's going to notice, but she can't stop. She won't. William Darcy came back, but he'll have to leave again soon, and she's not going to stop touching him. Ever.