Room 69

What if Mr. Darcy stayed in Longbourn?


“Is there a five-star hotel around here?” Darcy asked.

The teenaged receptionist with spiky pink hair, and mouth and nose piercings, folded her arms and said, “There’s one about a mile away. But with the SlagFest on, in Meryton, I doubt they have a free room.”

SlagFest? What the hell is that? He wondered. “I see. Well, could you ring the hotel and check for me anyway?”

She shook her head. “Too late. It’s one in the morning. Now, old man, do you want a room or not? If not, I’m going back to sleep.”

Gritting his teeth, Darcy nodded. He’d had a shitty day. The plane had been delayed, his luggage was lost in transit, and then his hired car broke down, nearly three miles from his friend Charles Bingley’s new country estate of Netherfield.

Despite the late hour, he had rung Charles to ask him to pick him up, but Charles wasn’t answering the phone. Next, he tried the car rental company, but they couldn’t help him either, due to a large number of emergencies in Meryton. But they gave him directions for walking to Hotel Longbourn, which was much closer.

Darcy was not used to staying in three-stars hotels. Longbourn itself was quite homey, with old country charm and a warm fireplace. But the service he had received from the receptionist left a lot to be desired. And his room, when he reached it, was small and smelled of paint.

He turned down the bed sheet, walked into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. A shower was what he needed. Then he would crawl into bed and seek the sweet oblivion of sleep. Tomorrow was bound to be better, wasn’t it?

So decided, he stepped into the shower stall. After the relaxing shower, he tried to switch off the taps – or attempted to. The hot water tap was off, though reluctantly. But when he turned the cold water tap, it wouldn’t move. Using both hands, he tried again, more forcefully – and the tap flew off the pipe altogether.

He gaped as water flew everywhere inside the bathroom, spewing wildly from where the tap had broken off. Icy cold water sent shivers down his body. His clothes, which he had draped over the towel rod, were now drenched, as was the lone towel.

Realising that it was useless to try to stop the water, he strode out to the bedroom and rang the reception.

“Yes?” the receptionist answered groggily after the seventh ring.

Something in him snapped, and he burst angrily, “I’ve never been in such a crappy hotel in my entire life!”

“Sorry, sir. What can I…?”

“The bloody water tap just flew off the pipe,” he shouted. “Water is shooting everywhere, and my Armani suit – the only outfit I have with me until my blasted luggage is found – is ruined!”

“Oh my. Did Lydia put you in Room 69?”

Then the line was dead.

Darcy fumed. How dare she cut me off? He was about to ring again when he heard someone knocking on the door.

Stepping over the growing pool of water oozing through the bathroom door, he crossed the room and pulled the door to the hotel corridor open. He was prepared to bite the head off the teenage receptionist – but it wasn’t her. Instead, he found himself gazing into the most amazing pair of green eyes he had ever seen.

When he saw that she was looking at him with her mouth slightly agape, he remembered that he was buck naked, with water dripping down his chest and thighs.

A shade of red spread from her face to her neck and down her lovely cleavage. She wore a loose green V-necked T-shirt and denim shorts, and she looked like a pocket Venus, with her voluptuous curves. He swallowed hard and felt a surge of arousal coming on.

She instantly noticed that, as well. Her eyes grew larger still, and she licked her lips nervously.

Darcy retreated just long enough to grab the bed sheet and cover his raging little man.

“I…I’m sorry,” the woman said in a shaky voice. “Lydia shouldn’t have put you in here. This room is still under renovation. You say the shower…?”

Darcy looked toward the soaked bathroom, which was rapidly taking on the appearance of a small lake. When he turned back, he caught her staring at his butt. Hastily, he pressed himself to the wall and nodded. “If you can just shift me to another room…?”

“I’m sorry, we’re completely full. But I can fix the tap,” she said, and ventured toward the bathroom.

He wrapped the bed sheet around his lower body and followed her as she ducked into the water-coated bathroom and, ignoring the shower stall, approached the sink vanity. Opened the doors of the cabinet, she got down on all fours and stuck her head under it.

He watched her in fascinated admiration as her bottom shifted forward and backward, right to left, and then left to right. What is she doing under there? He wondered. There isn’t any water leaking through, down there.

“Damn! It’s too tight for me to screw,” she said, and backed out far enough to turn and look at him.

He gasped as he saw that her T-shirt, thoroughly wet from the bathroom spray, was stuck to her body, and that she didn’t seem to be wearing a bra. Her nipples stood forth, hard and proud, putting on a wet T-shirt show for him.

“Can you help me switch off this main?” she asked, and her flushed cheeks indicated that she knew exactly what he was gazing at with such rapt attention.

Darcy looked at the soggy carpet, then at her tempting body. He wanted to refuse because by helping her, his only protection, the bed sheet, would become wet, as well.

“Are you coming or not?” she asked impatiently.

Any moment now! he thought despairingly. I haven’t gotten laid for far too many months. He nearly spoke the words out loud. Instead, drawing a deep breath, he walked into the bathroom, crouched down beside her, and reached under the vanity to place his hand over hers on the stubborn main.

They both felt a jolt of electricity zip through their bodies as they turned the stubborn knob together. Finally, grudgingly, it began to move, and soon the water stopped spewing from the shower pipe.

The room was suddenly silent, except for their heavy breathing.

Darcy cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I yelled at you on the phone,” he apologised, and gave her a shy smile. “I’m William Darcy. I had a massively bad day, and that burst water pipe was the last straw.”

“Elizabeth Bennet. Don’t mention it. It’s our fault.” And she returned his smile.

When they stood up, their wet garments did little to conceal the heightened state of their bodies. They stole shy, hungry glances at each other.

“You’re…all wet,” he stammered, and tried to secure the bed sheet more modestly in place over his lower body, but the weight of the water kept dragging it down.

“You can…use my room for the rest of the night. I’ll stay in the reception room,” she added quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand.

“Thank you,” he said, and followed her meekly, half naked, still dripping, to her room.

The next morning, Mrs. Bennet followed the trail of water damage on the carpet. When she burst into her second daughter’s room, she found Elizabeth snuggled tightly against a handsome, nude stranger.

Her screams could be heard as far as Netherfield.

Despite Elizabeth’s insistence that nothing untoward had happened during the night, Mrs. Bennet was ecstatic about the event as soon as she learned that Mr. Darcy was worth billions.

When Darcy and Elizabeth got married, six months later, Mrs. Bennet took Lydia on a round-the-world holiday, as her reward for putting Mr. Darcy in Room 69.