Summary: When your husband, Benedict, joins you in your relaxing bath, it soon becomes anything but...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Bathing, foreplay, vaginal sex, sex under water.
Word Count: 2.1k
Author's note: Anon request fill for bathtub sex with Benedict. Well, this is not exactly unexpected, given ep 8 lol. This is built upon a drabble I wrote a couple of years ago. Not betaed, I just wanted to get it posted before I changed my mind lol. Enjoy! <3
Closing your eyes with a contented sigh, you relax back against one end of the large copper bathtub. The water hot, the air swirling with delicate notes of jasmine—a sublime oasis of sensual calm.
Just the gentle sound of a ticking clock upon the nearby mantle has you slipping into a reverie, so much so that you do not even discern the door softly clicking open. Starling a little at a smooth baritone voice ringing out.
“Is there room for one more in that bathtub?”
Your eyes fly open to find one Benedict Bridgerton standing just beyond the other end, peeling off his riding coat with a smirk on his face. He is freshly returned from a bracing ride out over the fields on this fine, sunny morning.
“That depends,” you simper, pushing up to allow your nipples to peak over the top of the water line—an intentional tease. “Pray tell, how dirty did you get out there?”
“Absolutely filthy,” he rumbles, eyes glittering as his gaze slips down to your breasts, his boots clattering heavily onto the wooden floor as he yanks them off.
“Well then, we shall need to find a suitable method by which to scrub you clean indeed…” Your response is coquettish, cocking your head to the side as if in deep thought as you watch his waistcoat disappear.
“I have a proposal…” he offers, the words slightly muffled behind his shirt as he discards it over his head.
“I am all ears, Mr Bridgerton.”
Reflexively, you bite your lip as his sculpted torso is revealed. There is a slight sheen from his exertions, his skin glistens like polished marble in the gauzy sunlight filtering through the window voiles. When your eyes finally pan up to meet his, his brow is arched, teasingly, clearly enjoying your wanton perusal.
“Perhaps you may cleanse my body while it is wrapped around yours, Mrs Bridgerton?”
There's a crooked smile toying at his handsome face as he asserts such, while also roughly unbuttoning his trousers.
“What an intriguing prospect…” You quip as you twist your legs and push up onto your knees.
His inhale is ragged as your naked body is revealed, rivulets sluicing down over your flesh that his eyes greedily track, his chest heaving just a little more.
Then he leans forward, hands curling around either side of the bathtub as he looms large, and his breath dusts warm over your cheekbone. He smells woodsy with a musky undercurrent that is all him, his unbuttoned trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips.
“What a rotten shame there is no room in that most sizeable bathtub for me, too, then,” he murmurs.
“Such an awful shame,” you concur in a whisper, tilting to trace your mouth over his.
There is an amused huff, and then suddenly his lips claim yours. The kiss is instantly intense, a growl in the back of his throat as his fingers curl tightly on the rolltop, his signet ring tinking against it. You reach forward blindly as your tongue tangles, hands sliding covetously down the sculpted plane of his body, giving his last item of clothing the final tug of encouragement needed to fall to the floor.
He pulls back from the kiss and stands upright, gloriously naked, cock already standing proud, stepping fully out of the trousers, and allowing you to enjoy the view for a few moments before he climbs into the tub, sliding his legs either side of your knees, facing you.
Instantly, he hauls you forward, arms banding your waist and lips finding yours again hungrily. The jostled water laps your bottom as you settle over him, that cock an insistent hot press into your belly, your pebbled nipples sliding over the smooth slab of his pectorals. One of his hands slides down your back, mapping your contours until it reaches your buttock, squeezing your rounded flesh and pressing you down further over his body. Your pussy already slicker than the water you are submerged in.
“This is not getting you clean, husband…” You cluck pointedly, but your breathiness slightly undermines your argument. Not that you really care, something primally alluring about his salty, tangy essence when he is slightly less than clean.
“I am not stopping you, dear wife,” he challenges, lips skating over your cheekbone. “The sponge is right there….”
Your eyes track sideways to the small stool by the side of the tub, where there is indeed said item, alongside a bar of almond soap and a jug for washing hair. But then he sucks on your earlobe, both of his large hands now grasping your bottom, seeming to span the entirety of both cheeks, and all you can do is melt into his attentions.
“You do not play fair…”
Your protests falter as he sucks upon that sensitive spot on your neck, goosebumps breaking out down your arms, despite the warm water you both lie in. Your hands instead loop his neck, nuzzling until his lips meet yours again.
The kiss you share starts slow and sensual, but once again soon turns passionate, lips sliding hungrily over each other, breathing each other's air. A hot surge of want through your being as Benedict gently spanks your bum cheek under the water, smiling into your mouth.
“Perhaps instead, then, you may have a morning ride,” he coaxes, the double entendre clear from the bowing of his body, so his cock nudges you. “I promise to make it even more stimulating than mine was.”
Such an offer is impossible to resist, especially when he encourages you to sit upright, and he tilts toward to catch your nipple in his mouth, sucking insistently in a way that is a beeline right to your core. You grasp the tub for leverage as he swaps to your other breast, pressing yourself into his questing tongue and suction, as your other hand slips underwater. His teeth bite down as your fingers wrap around his cock, making you groan and shudder, suddenly desperate for him to be inside you. Shuffling so you line up your body.
You both groan loudly as you lower yourself onto him. It's the same glorious stretch it always is, cleaved open, your pussy clinging to his every contour as you slide to his root; that eyerolling sensation of utter fullness could simply never get old.
His wet hands slide up over your back, round your shoulders and cup your face, eyes locked on each other as you start to move, lips touching, just a slow rise and fall, luxuriating in how it feels to have him inside you while in this warm aromatic bath.
Droplets of water run down his toned forearms and drip onto your diaphragm as you ride him unhurriedly, indulgently, revelling in every passing contour of his cock.
One of his pinky fingers slides down your face to hook into the side of your mouth, and you suckle upon it, a trace bloom of tanned leather hide from where he gripped the horse's reins. It spurs you on. Staring him down as you start to speed up. The water now sloshes about the tub as you go harder, faster, chasing that wondrous sensation with increasing urgency.
The warmth of the water makes you feel flushed, even a little lightheaded from the exertion, slumping forward and clinging to him like a vine, him caging you as you ride and moan loudly, uncaring if the staff may hear. They are more than used to your amorous activities now, having walked in on more than one occasion to your passionate lovemaking in all rooms of the house, even outside in the grounds.
You feel your clit swelling with each nudge to his body as you rise and fall, a zip of pleasure that makes you ache for his fingers there to send you over the edge, your lips on the shell of his ear.
“Touch me,” you rasp, a little breathless now, and you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it.
“Oh, not yet, darling,” he denies, his smirk obvious where his face is pressed into your cheek.
You lean back to stare into his eyes with a beseeching pout, hoping to implore him.
“Do not be so hasty…” he chides playfully, one hand slipping underwater to hold your hip, halt your motions, so you are sat upon him, clit throbbing against his ticklish pubic hair. “Rest, my love.”
He seems to enjoy how you whimper, the stretch of him inside you a mass you cannot ignore, the urge to circle your hips to drag his cock over all those spots inside almost impossible to resist. But you do as he suggests, sit impaled upon him as he detangles from you, leans back on the tub end and reaches casually for the sponge, soaping it up.
The drag of the slightly rough texture of it over your nipples makes you clench upon him, and he groans deeply, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before he continues soaping up the part of your body above water with almost torturously slow motions, dipping it into the water occasionally to cleanse your body of the soap.
He strays lower under the water, a devastating crooked smile as he swipes the sponge over your belly, brushing briefly over your clit in a way that makes you shudder anew.
“Your turn,” he hands you the sponge and nods down at his body.
You mirror his actions, cleaning his torso, enjoying the play of lithe muscle under skin as he breaths deeply, watching you. His cock is still rigid inside you. The scent of almond rising from his skin makes you want to pitch forward and bite down on his broad shoulder.
He sits up and kisses you as he gently lifts you off his cock, you whimpering over his tongue at its loss.
“Turn around,” he purrs, taking the sponge from you. Dutifully, you flip over using his thighs as leverage to do so. Then he is up and kneeling behind you, guiding your hands to the far end of the tub, curling your fingers over it.
You cry out as he roughly thrusts into you from behind, ploughing deep, then holds still once more. One hand moulded to the flare of your hip, the other dragging that sponge across your back. Washing your skin, running languorous swipes across your ribcage and spine, while all that you can think of is being fucked hard.
“Please….” You moan, hoping it will telegraph your need.
“Once you are clean…” He counters, and that sponge rounds your hip, a teasing swipe of its ticklish texture against your distended clit again.
Just as you want to protest, he starts to move. A slow, sensual drag that has you rolling with him in sync. The feeling is utterly divine, the water lapping your sides as he takes you from behind, his chin hooked over your shoulder. One of his hands cups your face, twisting so your lips meet hungrily. Your moans get louder as he speeds up, both of you needing a release now.
You cling to the bath edge, knees sliding on the oiled copper as his hands roam your body, reaching in front to seize your breasts, your nipples snagging between the swell of his knuckles, you calling out into his mouth.
The pace is faster now, the water turning choppy as his long, dextrous finers slide between your legs, catching against your engorged clit as you call his name. Just a few flicks and you are rocketed skywards, the rhythmic pull of his cock furrowing into you enough to fling you into the stars. Barely cognizant of the tide of water now swashing out of the tub as his movements become frenzied, approaching his peak, your pussy convulsing around him.
As ecstasy races through every cell of your body, his mouth hangs open on your cheekbone as he freezes. Dimly, you feel that familiar pulse deep inside the warmth of his seed blooming against your hilt as he shudders and moans your name, collapsing against your back, panting as you still float on a cloud of bliss.
“I am almost certain there is now more water outside this tub than in,” you giggle a few beats later as you rearrange, him pulling you down on top of him in a languid embrace. “Will it not cause damage?”
“Possibly,” Benedict chuckles blithely, kissing your temple, his fingers trailing soothing patterns on your lumbar spine. “I’ll towel it all up before Mrs Crabtree can chastise me,” he promises.
——
“Tis quite the darndest thing, Mr Bridgerton…”
A few days later, you return from a walk to find Mr Crabtree signalling to a large stain that has appeared on the ceiling of the dining room.
You wince slightly, feeling your cheeks flush dark as Benedict grins unrepentantly, both of your reactions unseen by the other man, who is still staring up at the patch, puzzled.
“Such a mystery indeed, Mr Crabtree,” he breezes, shooting you a wink.
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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett/Baek
Summary: Benedict comforts Sophie when her courses arrive…
Warnings: mentions of menstruation, non graphic references to period blood. Otherwise, just the fluffiest of fluff.
Word Count: 2k
Authors Note: This is a Benophie remix of my fic Comfort for @benophieweek (Day 10/10, word prompt: Cottage). There are a few edits to the story to make it more Sophie-coded. Enjoy! <3
Sophie stirs from her slumber to a dreaded dampness she knows far too well.
Oh dear heavens, no!
Overnight, her courses have arrived without warning. Or perhaps, with hindsight, there were some signs, but she had assigned blame for the symptoms elsewhere. She had put her tiredness down to the exhaustive whirlwind of overseeing the renovations to the dining room and the dull lower back pain due to lugging around heavy furniture, unable not to pitch in and assist the people Benedict had hired to do the work, much to his chagrin when he found out.
For a few moments, she stares frettingly at the ceiling, unsure what to do. She can tell that her nightgown and, likely, the bedsheets will carry evidence of this unwanted early arrival. Trust her body to be at least a day early when least needed.
Next to her, her new husband of just fourteen days, Benedict Bridgerton, is sleeping soundly. Sophie rolls her head to look briefly at his handsome face in repose on the adjacent pillow, then bites her lip in anxiety.
Oh god, he cannot see this!! He simply cannot! What am I to do?!?
____
Sophie had learned to feel shame around her courses at an early age from her awful stepmother. Indeed, she had even overheard Araminta lecturing her daughters never to mention or address the “monthly visitor” to their future husbands—it was a situation for them and their lady's maids to deal with silently. On the nights “visited”, she instructed them to sleep elsewhere rather than with their husband so he would not have to deal with “such unpleasantness”. It may have been logical advice for a regular wife of the Ton, but it turns out Benedict is no ordinary man, decidedly non-traditional.
Upon rearrival at My Cottage, as Mrs Bridgerton no less, Sophie had politely inquired which of the spare rooms would now be her bedchamber. At first, Benedict laughed, then frowned when he realised she was serious. It turned out he had not made plans for, or indeed, set up a room for her separate from his.
“We are husband and wife now. We shall sleep together,” he explained, drawing her into his arms and planting a tender kiss on her forehead.
“But… every night?” she stammered, still grappling with what exactly was expected of her as a wife.
“Yes, my darling,” he confirmed, still sounding vaguely bemused.
____
Since that day, they have shared a bed every night, which has been delightful for so many reasons. Indeed, Sophie has never slept better in her life than in the two weeks since her wedding, falling asleep securely in Benedict’s arms and awakening to his handsome, smiling face…
…Well, that is until now.
Now, she has no earthly idea what to do.
She surmises it must still be early, dawn breaking, a grey, feeble light peeking around the top of the heavy velvet drape curtains over the windows. Barely enough to see shapes and rough outlines as her eyes adjust. Not wanting to awaken Benedict by igniting a candle, she gingerly pushes back the bedspread and slides out as quietly as possible. In the mirror across the room, Sophie catches sight of a scarlet bloom, visible even in this low light, so stark against her white cotton nightgown. Turning back around, her fears are fully realised when she sees a mirror imprint left upon the sheet where she slept.
Horrified, she flies into a flurry of movements, wanting to hide both her nightgown and the sheets she has sullied, albeit unintentionally. Slipping as silently as she is able to the linen supplies cupboard and gathering some terrycloths designed for bathing. One, she wraps around herself; another two, she decides to place upon the bed, hoping it will conceal the stain until her husband leaves the bedroom.
She cannot wait to bathe but knows that running a bath would surely awaken Benedict, the noise of water being poured into the echoey copper, even if across the hallway, being bound to rouse him.
Once back next to her side of the bed, Sophie pushes the covers towards the middle and starts to pull at the edge of the undersheet, hoping to slide a cloth under the stain and one atop to stop the evidence from spreading, her former life as a maid kicking in instinctively in her actions.
She glances furtively at her husband as she works, who unfortunately is turned onto his side facing towards her, as he often is when she awakens.
In all heavens, could you not turn the other way just for once, my love? She implores silently in her mind.
She moves as stealthily as possible, so very keen to be unnoticed. The most challenging part is trying to wedge a cloth underneath, the sheet pulled taut by her husband’s weight pinning down the other side. Just as she is fighting the fabric, both hands shoved far under the sullied sheet, she hears a sudden sharp intake of breath, and dread fills her stomach.
His eyes fly open, and he squints as he takes in the sight before him. Then, a frown passes over his features.
“What on earth are you doing, my love?” Benedict’s voice is deep and rough with sleep.
Sophie whips her hands out from under the sheet, belatedly realising she is also muttering a repeated “no no, no no” under her breath as she attempts to reach for the blanket and hide what has happened, but it is just out of reach, kneeling as she is beside the bed.
“Darling,” he sits up slightly, rubbing his eyes, obviously thrown off by her agitated state. “Please, whatever is the matter??” his tone rising in volume and concern.
Her eyeline falls reflexively upon what she is trying to conceal on the bedsheets, and his tracks hers. Unable to handle her embarrassment, she buries her head in her hands and slumps backwards onto her heels, certain this will be repulsive to him.
“I am so sorry, husband; I was not expecting this to happen today; please forgive me,” Sophie mutters defeatedly behind her palms, ashamed.
She is expecting a noise of derision or disgust. What she does not expect is a chuckle and then a large, warm hand brushing her shoulder.
“Please get up off the floor…” his ask is caring, no rebuke to be heard.
Her head slowly tilts up, and to her shock, he is leaning over onto her side of the bed, not far above the stain, and is observing her with mildly befuddled benevolence.
“But, I…” she trails off, even as he reaches for her hand.
“It is fine,” he cuts in, squeezing reassuringly with his fingers. “You are a woman. Such things happen. There is no need for shame,” his eyes are soft with understanding. “I do have sisters, you know,” he adds with a sanguine laugh, a shorthand to explain his knowledge of her predicament.
Sophie’s mouth falls open a fraction, completely taken aback by his affable, almost nonchalant reaction; it is very different from what she has been expecting. While she flounders in surprise, Benedict rolls away and gets out of bed, padding around to her side, crouching next to her and drawing her into his arms.
“You… you are not repulsed?” She stutters as she recovers, her brow creasing.
“Of course not, my love. It is perfectly natural, and there is nothing about you or your body that repulses me,” he assures, kissing her cheek. “In fact, it is very much the opposite,” his tone sincere and soothing.
Lost in his hazy eyes and gentle smile, Sophie accepts his doting kisses, which make her feel warm from head to toe. It is then he looks down and spies the bathing cloth she has swaddled herself in from the waist down.
“I assume your nightgown is in a similar state? And that you would like to get clean?” he guesses empathetically as she nods demurely. “Then I shall summon the staff to run you a bath,” he hums, delicately brushing the stray strands of hair that had fallen askew in her scrambling efforts.
“I can do that,” she protests gently, still not used to the idea she has people to perform such simple tasks for her.
“You are perfectly capable, indeed,” he concurs, kissing her jaw delicately. “But I am sure you are in some discomfort. Please allow me, our staff, or indeed anyone in the world to look after you for once, my love. It is more than you deserve…”
Sophie is floored by his reaction and his loving concern. His face breaks into that crooked smile that makes butterflies flutter under her ribs.
“Darling, we have promised ourselves to each other for life. I expect to see this many more times,” he explains calmly as he rings a bell to summon his staff and provides instructions for a warm bath to be drawn and the bedding to be changed.
“You do not wish for me to sleep elsewhere when I am so afflicted?” she checks as soon as they are alone again.
He chuckles as he did before. “Whatever for? You are my wife. I want you beside me all the time. It matters not to me if you have your courses. I still wish to fall asleep with you in my arms.” His sweet sincerity makes her heart skip a beat as he nuzzles her temple. “Although it has been a few short days since our wedding, I have rather gotten used to you being beside me. I cannot sleep soundly without you, my love. Nor would I want to try. We shall share our bed every night,” he adds solemnly.
“But, what if one of us is sick?” she inquires as he helps her to stand up from the floor, pulling her into his arms.
“‘Tis no bother. We shall surely both contract the same, seeing as we reside under the same roof; at least we can suffer in company,” Benedict jests warmly into her ear as his hands rub her lumbar spine in a pattern that soothes the dull ache she feels there.
“What if you must travel for your art?”
“I would be heartbroken if you did not come with me,” he volleys back with a playful pout that she can’t help but giggle at.
“What if one day we have a child, and they will not rest without their mother?”
Her question is almost timid, knowing there is a bloom on her cheeks at the very thought. He cups her jaw gently and tilts her face to look up into his. His mien is so devoted that the very air is stolen from her lungs.
“Then they shall simply sleep between us, my love. It will be my child, too. You will not be alone. Not anymore. Not for another day unless you wish it. Not when you have your monthly courses and not in raising our children. Of that, I promise,” his cadence is lilting and ardent.
“Thank you, Benedict,” Sophie breathes shakily, scarcely able to believe this fairytale is coming true, that she genuinely has, for the first time in her life, someone who has her back, her hand and her heart all at once. It makes her feel so profoundly moved and grateful she cannot stop her emotions, heightened at this time of the month, from bubbling over.
A large, warm thumb blots the tears that gather at the corner of her eyes without comment; he just accepts her state, bussing a kiss onto her forehead.
“I love you, Sophie,” he breathes, warm air gusting over her skin.
“I love you too, Benedict,” her reply muffled into his neck as she moulds into his strong embrace, remaining there until a lady’s maid taps quietly on the door to convey that her bath is ready.
And true to his word, over the years, Sophie is never a night without her husband. Through many monthly courses, through sickness and health, through four children and even grandchildren. It is always his face she sees just before her eyes droop closed and the moment they flutter open again. Her safe space. Her comfort.
Summary: Benedict gives Sophie an art lesson with a different kind of canvas...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, body painting, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, edging, vaginal sex.
Word Count: 4,7k
Author's Note: Benophie remix of an old fic as a request fill for @purplewingz1631. I hope you enjoy! <3
Sophie finds him in his art studio, barefoot and dressed only in black trousers and a white shirt, his braces hanging loosely around his hips, looking handsomely casual as he paints by candlelight, twilight settling in.
It's then that Sophie spies his subject, the lovely arrangement of flowers she received from his family for her birthday last week. Just a few minutes ago, she had wondered where the bouquet had disappeared to as she wandered through their home. They had previously held pride of place in the hallway.
“Stealing my birthday presents, husband?” Sophie jests airily, leaning on the doorframe with crossed arms.
Benedict twists around and shoots Sophie an apologetic smile. “Only the artistically meritorious ones, my love,” he responds, amusement laced into his tone. “Join me?” he suggests, waving his brush towards the empty easel beside him.
“I'm not certain I have anything close to the requisite skills,” Sophie hedges.
She has only ever attended his painting sessions as his subject or simply as a companion, mostly reading quietly nearby as he works. On some occasions, becoming something entirely other—when he has her pose naked. Her blood runs a little warm just at the mere memory.
“Art does not always need to be about skill. Enjoyment of the process is just as important, perhaps more so. Besides, I can teach you,” Benedict smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling beguilingly.
He never fails to convince Sophie with that look.
“Alright,” Sophie sighs fondly, straightening up and uncrossing her arms, “but you are not allowed to ridicule my attempt,” Sophie argues, waggling a finger as she walks over.
He laughs and leans in to drop a kiss on her cheek as she draws up next to him.
“I would never!” He promises in an amused tone. “Everything you need is right there,” he nods to the supplies, “You have watched me paint enough to know how to set up.”
His confidence in her ability seemed a little unwarranted, but she decides to give it a try.
___
“I cannot do this,” Sophie bemoans about ten minutes later, looking forlornly between the canvas and the spray of flowers, disappointed in her less-than-accurate rendering. All she has managed in her assessment is some oversized stems and a vague version of the vase, which looks uneven.
“Nonsense,” Benedict dismisses, “You are doing wonderfully for your first time, my love.”
Sophie twists around with a knitted brow to look at him.
“Benedict, please… your flattery is obsequious. This is… not good,” Sophie sighs, scratching her chin with the wooden end of her brush.
“Perhaps I can assist your efforts?” he offers, putting down his brush into a jar of water and placing his palette aside.
“Please…” Sophie requests gratefully.
A smile ghosts her lips as her husband rounds behind her, pushing her closer to the canvas. One of his hands lands upon the hip under her palette, the other curling around hers where it holds her brush. His fingers are warm and soft.
“Now then,” his voice is rich and rumbles right next to her ear, “the first thing is to start with the colour there is the most of, and then you can start to add in light and shade.”
Sophie attempts to listen as he sonorously explains the method involved and guides her selection from the palette, puppeting her hand to make brushstrokes over the canvas. But she is half-listening and half-participating at best. The moment Benedict stood close behind, her traitorous body decided this was not an art lesson at all. No, it’s something quite different. Readying itself for him with quite remarkable speed and absolutely no effort on his part. Quite astonishing, really
“Are you quite alright?” He checks as Sophie fidgets slightly.
“All is well,” she reassures far too quickly.
His breath tickles the wisps of hair around her ears as he leans in closer, until he surrounds her with his long arms and body heat. He smells of his woodsy soap, and she has to tamp down the urge to twist her nose into his strong neck and inhale deeply.
For a few minutes, he guides her hand, and Sophie relaxes into the motion, enjoying the sensation of being so utterly engulfed by him much more than the act.
“Now, you continue,” he encourages, removing his hand from hers.
Sophie stutters, realising she was not taking on board what he was saying, distracted by the striking mental image of him painting a glistening line across her collarbone, a bright golden streak over her bare flesh. She makes a hesitant dab on the canvas, but there is a disapproving noise against her temple.
“That is not what I told you to do, now, is it?” he teases lowly.
“Please guide me for a little longer, Benedict,” she beseeches in a breathy whisper.
“Were you listening to a word I said, my love?”
His query is not in a disapproving tone. Not remotely. It’s a liting rumble, his head turning so the tip of his nose nuzzles her earlobe. Sophie suspects she may be foiled.
“People pay good money for me to teach them how to paint,” Benedict's breath is hot on her jaw, both his hands now on her hips, fingers circling over the diaphanous layers of her thin, silk gown. “And yet here is my wife, not even listening to her expert teacher….”
“I am… I…” Sophie begins haltingly, knowing it's a pointless lie. So she tries a different tack. “I should hope you do not treat your other students in this manner?”
Emphasising her point by rocking back onto her heels so the press of their bodies is greater.
“Indeed, I do not,” he murmurs, and she inhales sharply as his teeth graze the shell of her ear.
“So perhaps this is somewhat unfair to me,” Sophie posits, pouting, knowing his eyes are watching her expression side on.
Benedict chuckles richly.
“Perhaps…” he acknowledges as he gently slides the paintbrush out from between her fingers. “There may be another method by which I can teach you all about the pleasures of painting, my love.”
Words of query die on her tongue as warm lips land on her neck, that weak spot which makes her utterly pliant incavaoel of speech.
“It requires a different canvas,” he whispers, his lips catching on her skin.
For a fleeting moment, Sophie considers if he could read where her thoughts had skated only minutes earlier; the vivid tableau of golden paint on her flesh flashing before her.
There is a faint ting as he drops her brush into a glass jar of water, then he eases the palette from where it is hooked around her thumb. Sophie stands still, eagerly awaiting what he will do next.
Her heart rate spikes as deft fingers begin to undo the buttons between her shoulder blades.
“You have such beautiful skin, my love…”
Benedict's lips are warm on the top of her shoulder as her dress relents and falls in a pool around her feet.
“I want to paint you.”
Sophie’s breath hitches as he runs a knuckle down the notches of her spine; glad she did not bother with a chemise or undergarments after her earlier bath. Her eyes flutter closed as he kisses her skin again and plucks open the laces of her stays. When the material slackens, he pulls the structured fabric away from her body and tosses it aside, his hands instantly cupping her breasts and pulling her back into him. Her moan is wanton as his fingers snag her nipples, pebbling in his touch; now utterly naked.
“Lay down, darling wife,” he murmurs, the tone laden.
He gestures to the oversized emerald-green chaise, conveniently covered in a heavy canvas drop cloth, almost as if he planned for this.
She holds his hand delicately as he assists her into a reclined position.
“Will you not be getting naked too, husband?” Sophie coos, watching him return to gather his palette and brush.
“It would certainly make clean-up easier,” Benedict concedes and rips off his shirt, tossing it aside.
He walks back to Sophie, a slight swagger in his gait, knowing he has her undivided attention as her eyes covetously drink in his toned torso, glowing in the candlelight.
“Gold…” escapes her lips unbidden and stops him in his tracks as he towers above her.
“Gold, what?” His query is warm but puzzled as he places the art supplies on the floor next to the chaise.
“When I dream of you painting me, my body,” Sophie confesses raspily, “it’s always gold.”
He leans over, his face etched with desire. “You dream of me doing this?”
“Yes,” Sophie murmurs, “a cool, wet brush swirling over my heated skin….” closing her eyes and biting her lip, lost in the reverie of it.
“Tell me more,” he implores, his breath hot on her cheek, the chaise squeaking a touch as he sits beside her. “Keep your eyes closed if it helps,” he adds, fiddling with his art supplies.
“You start at my neck….” Sophie sighs, inhaling sharply when a wet ticklish brush lands right on the left side of her neck, then holds still.
“And then?” he prompts gently.
“Then… You do a swooping line over my chin to my other ear,” Sophie exhales, gasping as he does exactly as she describes, the smell of fresh paint filling her nostrils, the feel of it wet and heavy.
“What is next?” Benedict’s voice is dark and sweet now, goading her into more detail.
“You paint a line down the side of my neck, over here…” Sophie gestures at her collarbone, “...then lower,” she ends in a whisper, almost reluctant to admit how erotic her fantasies can be.
Nothing, however, can prepare her for those errant thoughts becoming a reality—the drag of cold buttery substance, each bristle a damp tickle as he smears a line to the swell of her breast, her eyes flying open to see his gaze heavy and intense on the task at hand.
Her nipple pebbles almost painfully, even though he does not stray close to it, encircling her breast with a golden loop, his pupils dilating, leaning close so she can feel his exhales dusting over her skin.
“Does that feel good?” Benedict practically purrs.
Sophie nods, feeling the wetness blotting across her neck at her movement. Without asking what happens next in her dream, he takes the initiative and traces a line around her other breast, the brush dipping into the valley of her breastbone before continuing. When Sophie tilts her head to see his handiwork, the metallic hue glistens brightly in the candlelight.
“May I use other colours on you too, my love?” his question is almost reverential in tone.
“I am yours, Benedict,” Sophie sighs honestly, “do with me as you wish.”
Those words light an artistic and sensual fire in his being.
He pushes up to kiss her, plundering her mouth with a possessive kiss. When he pulls away, Sophie feels dazed, desperate for more, watching him reach for another clean brush on the floor by his feet and select a new shade from the palette.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
Sophie does as he asks, gasping as a broader brush runs across her skin, starting at her neck and sweeping down, shadowing the path of the other line already drying on her skin, before curiosity gets the better of her.
“What colour?”
“What is your favourite on me?” Benedict prompts softly, his strokes lingering on the sensitive skin under her breast, making her thoughts fuzzy, distracted—Sophie knows it's intentional.
“You look good in so many colours, husband,” she offers truthfully. “I do love your light gold cravat…” knowing he has already employed such.
“You are stalling, my love,” he points out congenially, teasingly flicking the ends of his brush in the spot closest to her underarm.
“Blue? You always look so handsome in every shade of blue, from navy to sky…” Sophie guesses.
“Oh, then that shall have to be next,” he lilts, giving away that she was incorrect.
Sophie mentally flicks through some of her favourite of his outfits, squirming slightly at the delightful images conjured, his brush still a distracting tease over her flesh.
Then there is a lightbulb moment.
“Burgundy red!” she exclaims, recalling the waistcoat he wore just last week, the one that made her lose the power of speech, temporarily tongue-tied.
“Well done, darling,” Benedict compliments.
Sophie opens her eyes to see that he has interwoven the harmonious shades into an exquisite arching design, truly using her skin as a canvas.
“Now lay still; there is much work still to do,” he instructs softly.
Sophie settles into the chaise, her belly fluttering as Benedict's brush slips lower, daubing her diaphragm in intricate loops, trying to keep her breath shallow for a still surface. He swaps brushes again, back to gold, holding the other in his knuckle, the rich red-loaded tip contrasting with his pale skin.
When he sinks below her ribs onto her belly, Sophie bites her lip, the light touch tickling her to the point of giggling. She tries her best not to move, but when he glides over a sensitive patch, it bubbles out of her on reflex.
His gaze pings up to her face, a lopsided grin claiming his features. “Does that tickle?” he taunts gently. She can only giggle more in reply as he teases even lighter over that weak spot.
“Stop it,” Sophie whispers, knowing how much he enjoys the tease.
“Never,” he responds lightly, lowering his face.
She jolts and cries out as he lightly bites her bare nipple,
“I veritably exist to tease you; you are so beautiful like this,” he whispers, pausing in his artistry, pressing Sophie into the chaise with his body weight.
“Look at you,” Sophie giggles as he pulls away again, seeing smears of pain across his chest.
“That is nothing. I expect both of our bodies will be a riot of colours by the time I am done with you, dear wife.” His tone is simultaneously light with mirth and dark with promise.
“Perhaps you should speed up,” Sophie answers playfully; it may dry before you have the opportunity.”
He laughs, teething her other nipple before refreshing the paint line. “Not a chance.”
Just as her stomach clenches at the idea he will move lower, he grabs her right arm and concentrates his efforts there, as if to elongate the burn of anticipation.
It's less ticklish… until he swipes the crook of her elbow over her veins, making her giggle again and meeting his hazy eyes with an intense stare. Wordlessly, he kisses her hand before switching to her left arm, creating a mirror image of the pattern on her right freehand. It's striking. Adrently wishing there were a portrait of her looking like this, covered in his design.
As she is lost in her reverie of that thought, Benedict slips lower on the chaise, and she gasps as he restarts the line at her middle and swirls down all over her belly. He employs a heavier stroke to avoid tickling as much as possible, alternating between the two, holding both brushes with ease in his long, artistic fingers. Sophie has to bite back a moan when one swoop goes lower, skating along the top of her pubic hair.
“Open your legs,” Benedict's voice is low and decadent as he implores her to do what she has fantasised about so many times.
Feeling a burning low in her gut, Sophie draws her knees up a few inches and parts her legs a fraction, keeping her feet together. Benedict tuts a little, a mischievous smile as he captures her ankle and plants it at the edge of the chaise, out wide, making her flush hot. She then meekly moves her other foot to match the stance, now lewdly spread before him. His gaze is heavy on her core,
“Please do not move,” his voice ragged.
Sophie pants lightly as he resumes, leaning in so close she can feel his breath on her inner thighs.
He paints a golden line from her belly down over her hip and up her thigh. It's the longest continuous stroke he has made, ending with a flourish at her kneecap. Then he swaps the brushes and traces along the same path in the dark red.
“What of the navy blue husband?” Sophie murmurs, trying to keep her voice even, even though she feels a slight tremble in her body; the exquisite contrast of cool liquid paint and the warm flush of arousal.
“All in good time. You should not rush an artist at work, darling,” he replies playfully.
“What if your canvas is in need?” Sophie inquires quietly.
“Where does my darling canvas have a need, hmm?” Benedict asks duskily, acting obtuse even as his breath puffs close to the place Sophie wants him the most.
He runs a line achingly slow down her inner thigh, looping under into the crease where her buttock meets her leg, the odd feeling making goose bumps break out across her surrounding skin, the tilt of his face right above where Sophie burns so hot.
“Here, perhaps?” he whispers,
Sphie cries out as his warm, wet mouth opens wide on her folds.
One of her hands shoots down to grasp his hair as he unfurls his tongue, swiping deep, lapping the overflowing well of moisture there. She stares down the plane of her body, watching the colours on her inner thigh streak across his clavicle and shoulder as he drinks from her body, pulling her pearl between his lips and sucking so hard she sees stars. Benedict's eyes hold a fiery intensity as he holds and swipes under her clitoral hood. His tongue dabs the most sensitive spot, the one that makes her leg want to kick out and go rigid from the intense sensation. Just as she starts to squirm and moan, he pulls back.
Sophie pouts in disbelief as he calmly returns to painting.
“How can you tease me so?!” she laments, chest heaving, hand falling from its grip on his chestnut locks.
Benedict laughs gently but continues with his art, her concentration barely registering it, her heartbeat throbbing in her abandoned, swollen clit.
“Please, Benedict,” Sophie appeals, absentmindedly watching him switch to the other shade.
But his brow merely knits in concentration, glancing at her other leg to ensure, as with her arms, the pattern is an exact mirror. It's undoubtedly stunning, but somehow her interest in it has waned, all of her thoughts of needing his mouth back where it was.
He seems to take pity, moving so his face is a fraction closer to where Sophie wants him. After one long, indulgent swipe through her soaked folds that has Sophie gasping loudly, Benedict stops, rears up and quickly climbs over her body, his lips landing on her, damp and tangy with her desire. Sophie whimpers against his musky tongue as he kisses her deeply.
“Soon,” is his whispered promise, her voice and body trembling with unsated need, denial making her prickle hot all over. “Your skin is too arresting a sight, flushed like this. I need to paint more upon this gorgeous canvas.”
Sophie pouts and, careful not to disturb his artwork, slides her fingers between her legs, eager for stimulation.
Benedict tuts and removes her fingers.
“Do not be so hasty, dear wife,” he chastises softly with a crooked smile, encircling her wrist, then daubing large beads on her fingertips. “There we go, as requested, navy blue,” he smirks, grabbing her other hand and repeating the action.
Sophie stares at him, dumbfounded, realising she cannot touch herself now without a mess.
That lopsided, handsome smile is still there as she watches him crawl slowly between her legs. And dives in face-first. Sophie's loud stuttering moan echoes up the walls. She desperately wants to grip his hair, but with her fingers now dripping with navy, she refrains. When he loops his arms around her hips, she instead grabs his wrists as they frame her thighs. Slathering streaks of dark blue on his pale forearms as he lashes her with his tongue, calling his name.
He is ravenous, using his whole face to arouse her senses, the stubble of his chin chafing her labia as he once again teases her, suckling her clit into his mouth, circling his tongue in firm strokes, undulating and spearing it just where she needs, as if intuiting what she needs at any moment, The tip of his nose is burrowed into her patch of hair, inhaling her scent as if he cannot get enough of her taste and smell, his primal behaviour just making her more wanton for him.
Benedict moans, muffled encouragements into her, the cadence vibrating up into her pubic bone. Sophie stares transfixed at him, decadent, delicious, filthy, a debauched and erotic tableau, the skin pulling taunt over his high cheekbones as he consumes her.
Just as her pussy starts to flutter, he pulls up and teases her, pursing his lips and blowing a slow puff of air over her overheated pearl. It's not enough and too much all at once, such a different sensation from his lathing tongue. He chuckles as Sophie groans in frustration and grasps his wrists tightly, fingernails digging blue crescents into his flesh, hoping to incite him back into action.
Instead, he shakes off her grip and swiftly stands up. Roughly, he tugs at the buttons on his trousers, smirking down at Sophie as she turns breathless again with desire, painted fingers on either side of her head as he drops the fabric. As ever, he is without underwear, and even though his straining cock is a familiar sight, every time, it steals her breath and makes her pulse deep inside.
He prowls over her supine body, almost cat-like, admiring his handiwork.
“You are my masterpiece…”
The awed but somehow still achingly seductive tone he employs makes her hips rise towards him, a reflex, her body seeking his. Uncaring of the mess it will leave, Sophie runs her navy fingertips from his chest to his pelvis, curling a little to scrape her nails into the paint trails. It looks like animal claws—as if she is marking him, possessive.
His response is a light growl, hoisting her legs into the crook of his elbow and with a flash of something primal in his eyes, he surges into her weeping body with one swift thrust.
It makes Sophie call his name. So loudly that she knows the Crabtress may hear all the way in the staff quarters. But she cannot care—not even if they were to come running to check on her welfare. Part of her would almost be proud to be found like this, naked and decorated, pinned under her husband as he begins to fuck into her so thoroughly, the whole chaise squeaking and shuddering across the tiled floor. His body curled over her, his large hand above her head, gripping the raised chaise end for leverage.
Sophie is lost in the carnality of how Benedict is taking her, her walls clinging to his plunging cock, She bands her arms around him, smearing long finger trails down the contours of his back until she reaches his buttocks and squeezes them covetously, encouraging him to drive deeper, go harder, almost make it hurt.
The glorious, intricate pattern of his art still tacky on her skin, causing her flesh to cling to his and smudge together—blue, gold and burgundy blotches and smears that look so vibrant on his pale skin.
“Are you close again, my love?” His question is a touch breathless as he thrusts so vigorously.
Sophie hisses her confirmation, eyes rolling as she grasps his cheeks again and spreads her legs wider, always greedy for him, for more. For him to push so far into her body, it will feel like he’s always there, even when he’s not, like some internal tattoo of him carved into her being.
“More Benedict… please,” her words tingling and urgent craving release so badly her mind feels akin to madness, an itch in her brain that needs to be scratched.
But Benedict slows, and Sophie wants to scream in frustration, his movements shallow, delicate, not the onslaught she needs to take her over the precipice he has dangled her over, what feels like countless times.
“I love to see you like this,” his voice husky, breath puffing hot on her face, “when you are so unbridled with need, darling. I cannot resist taking you so close and denying you: the wild look, your untamed desire.”
Sophie releases her grip on his behind and grabs his jaw, uncaring that it plasters his face with blue fingermarks.
“It's always for you, just you, Benedict, my love, my life,” she affirms, hoping that is what he needs to hear to finally take her over the edge from this heightened state of near delirium.
His responding grin is breathtaking, and he begins to plough into Sophie in earnest, his gaze never leaving hers, burning to witness the moment she breaks for him. The chaise protests loudly, the wooden feet scraping hard on the floor under his unforgiving pace. Sophie bites her lip and pleads with her eyes, wanting his expert touch to push her over.
“Your fingers, please,” Sophie implores breathily, and suddenly three are pressed between her lips, traces of the tang of sweat and the flavour that is all him.
Sophie greedily wraps her tongue around his invading digits and slathers them in her saliva, drooling around him as his thrusts jolt her entire body. Benedict snarls as she runs an edge of teeth over his cuticles, goading him, loving to see him just as lost in the potency of the moment. Then, with a look that always makes Sophie breathless, he slides the fingers out of her mouth and snakes them between their bodies, finding her engorged clit with ease.
Sophie screams his name, and a few harsh flicks are all she needs to tip over, clenching so hard around his cock that his hips stutter and he roars into her ear as she fractures around him. Waves of pleasure ripple and fan out to every cell inher body, an almost violent delight, all her muscles spasming, her limbs shaking uncontrollably after so long denied.
Distantly, as if through cotton wool, Sophie hear Benedict cursing and growling her name, teeth pressing into the cord of her neck as he curls around her with one final jerk and a loud, guttural groan, he stills, his body stiff, a vein pulsing heavily in his neck and forehead as he empties into her, warmth blooming deep inside her as he spills.
Shortly after, he collapses onto his forearms, bracketing her body, mindful not to squash her under his weight as he pants, heaving breaths, his chest bumping hers with each ragged inhale.
Sophie doesn't say words; she just trails the remaining blue paint on her fingers across the skin of his shoulders, connecting the collage of freckles there into a slanted star-like shape. Below a certain point, her bodies resemble a rainbow; the detail he built so carefully now merely a smudge of lively streaks.
“Did you enjoy your painting lesson, my love?” Benedict's tone is whimsical as his breathing returns to normal.
Sophie giggles and plants a kiss on his smiling lips. “You know I did, Mr Bridgerton; you are a wonderful teacher,” Sophie winks; his responding laugh makes her whole body jiggle under him.
“Now to get clean,” he hums drolly, his grin lopsided and winsome. “I believe we may need to share a bath.”
“Or swim in the lake,” Sophie posits jokingly, rolling her head to look out of the window, down across the unlit grass to the water beyond, shimmering in the moonlight.
When Sophie tilts her head back, Benedict's look is priceless. His eyebrows shoot up, and that grin grows wider.
“I love how you think, my darling wife…”
Sophie squeals as he scoops her into his arms bridal style, and before she knows it, he has elbowed open the French doors and is carrying her to the water’s edge in a purposeful stride, both utterly naked and blissfully happy.
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Author’s Note: Benophie remix. Whilst my muse is being stubborn around new content, I am enjoying this opportunity to revisit and renew fics for this pair. Enjoy <3
It’s midnight, and a birthday has just begun.
Sophie pads through their country home to Benedict’s art studio. He is perched on a stool, busy sketching. He often works late into the night when the muse takes him. She pauses in the open doorway to watch him work. Admiring his skills as he feathers his charcoal across the page. Admiring him, the movements of his artistic hands, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing toned forearms, his braces hanging loose around his hips.
“Happy birthday, my love,” she calls softly, quietly closing the door behind her.
“Thank you, my lo…” his answer dies on his lips as he turns and sees her.
Sophie’s skin feels aglow as she basks in his attention, sauntering towards him. His eyes track her every movement. Her gown is totally sheer, the colour of her flesh, its only adornment being tiny starbursts of silver sequins that glitter in the candlelight. She feels beautiful in it, like a walking, shimmering fireworks display. With a few layers of chemises underneath, this would be a stunning ball gown; without them, it’s a scandalous sight. Everything is visible through the translucent tulle layers. And she wears absolutely nothing else, except a dab or two of perfume.
Benedict still hasn’t said anything, but he is breathing slightly laboured as she draws up in front of him, his eyes raking up and down her body. His hand is still suspended in midair, charcoal in hand. She plucks it from between his fingers and places it down on his easel.
“I am the luckiest man in the world,” he exhales quietly, finally finding his voice.
Warmth blooms in Sophie’s chest, and she smiles fondly at his compliment, stepping between his slightly bent knees; one of his feet looped onto the stool, the other kicked out towards the easel. She sets aside the little glass vial she had come in holding.
“Wh…” he begins, but she hushes him with a delicate finger to his lips.
“Shh, you don’t need to speak tonight, my love,” she murmurs, running her hands into his hair, “just feel.”
Benedict’s eyes soften and give silent acceptance, and his body relaxes a notch. Even though he finds solace in his art, he has had a long few days of travelling; she wants to soothe him and bring him peace. It is her very favourite indulgence when he lets her take care of him in the way he always has her, even when at first she could scarcely believe him.
His soulful eyes watch her expressions as her fingertips trail across his cheekbones, curling inwards to brush the back of her fingers down his jawline to his chin, mapping the structure of his face. There are libraries' worth of literature extolling female beauty, yet, despite her voracious reading habit, Sophie has found precious few pieces that capture the truth of male beauty, such as his. Her thumb traces gently over his lips, and she ghosts a smile as he busses a kiss gently against her digit.
She moves her hands to outline the shell of his ears, passing his earlobes between her fingers, sweeping down to cup his neck, pressingly on the tension points corded there. He exhales deeply, leaning into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed. Tonight is all about making him feel special, not just because it’s his birthday, but because he spends so much of his time catering to the needs of others, most of all hers, and he deserves to be spoiled, for her to show just how much his endless love truly means to her.
Splaying her fingers upwards around the back of his head, she enjoys running them into his thick hair. Benedict hums contentedly as she massages lightly. Then his breath hitches as she scrapes her nails lightly across his scalp, the skin around his open shirt collar erupting into goosebumps—the responsiveness so enchanting.
Sophie leans forward and quickly kisses his lips, just a brief touch. Benedict’s eyes fly open, and he chases her lips as she pulls away. He pleads with the most mournful expression, so she relents and presses her lips to his again. His hands curl around her shoulders, their sizeable warmth at once both centring and sending her soaring. He kisses back slowly, opening his lips slightly, his tongue requesting permission to hers. Hands still in his hair, she pulls closer, deepening the kiss. His arms now slide around her back to hold her close. It’s luscious and languid. Shared breaths and gentle flirtation.
As their lips part, she reaches down and tugs Benedict’s shirt up. He assists her efforts, removing his arms from around her and pulling the garment up and over his head. She catalogues the sculpted plains of his arms, chest, and stomach. All while he watches her face with a crooked smile, he knows all the telltale signs of her desire; when her tongue wants to run over every inch.
But his brow knits slightly in puzzlement as instead Sophie circles him, coming to a halt behind him. She kisses the back of his neck, running her nose up into his hair, where his natural scent is most potent. On instinct, it draws her closer; her hands curl around his biceps as she presses her upper body against him. The rasp of her tulle dress against his shoulder blades hitches his breath and hers, the friction causing her nipples to pebble heavily. Knowing he can feel it—a little tease of what else will come later.
He is listening intently as she reaches for the small glass vial she came in with, opens it, and pours a little oil into her palm. Usually, by now, he would be asking what she is doing, using the velvety tone that makes her body sing. Tonight he is quiet, but one look into his eyes would say everything his lips are not.
Notes of orange and bergamot swirl into the air as she massages the oil into her hands, warming it. His inhale is a sign he recognises the scent from the hours of pleasure in her bedroom. Usually, it is he massaging her body into a blissful state before slipping his fingers inside her, making her come over and over. More derailing thoughts she needs to put aside.
She begins by running the flanks of her hands firmly down either side of his spine, all the way from his neck to his waist. His moan is one of relief, not desire, but her body reacts regardless; the sudden want to be filled by him is visceral. Her lips tingle at the thought of kissing him again, but she resists the urge, focusing on bringing him serenity.
The tension easing under her fingers as Sophie works on the knots around his neck is a mutual reward. His breath is deep and even; he shifts to place both feet flat on the floor. She spends many minutes mapping the stress points in his back and kneading the flesh until it relents into a relaxed state. His hums and sighs act as the guide for her progress. She circles back to his front when it seems he is entirely free from any strain.
“Does that feel better, my love?” She knows the answer, but asking gives her a moment to indulge her heart, appreciating the blissful look on his face as he nods contentedly.
He pulls her in for another kiss and gently bites her lower lip. The room grows a few degrees warmer, a spark notching up her spine, radiating out across her skin. She runs her hands heavily up his thighs, admiring the latent power underneath the material, him watching her movements. Her hands reach his hips and pause, waiting for Benedict's hooded gaze to meet hers. Then she starts unbuttoning; she knows he’s not wearing anything underneath today; he often doesn’t when they are at home. It’s gratifying to watch his pupils dilate as she twists her mouth into a playful pout with each button relenting.
As Sophie reaches the last button, she grins, grabbing his hand instead, and pulling him bodily across the room towards the emerald green chaise in the centre of the room. The one she has posed on countless times for him. He trails behind her with a carefree laugh, holding up his trousers with his free hand.
“No need for modesty, Mr Bridgerton,” she teases as she pulls him to a stop next to the chaise. He raises an eyebrow and lifts his hand, his britches falling to a heap on the floor. Her gaze descends to his cock, standing proud. So familiar to her now, but every time as tantalising and thrilling as the first time he showed her his body.
“Why do you ever wear clothes?” Sophie thinks wistfully, her cheeks flush as his lopsided smile tells her those thoughts were voiced aloud.
“If my lady wishes, I never will again in this house”, he whispers seductively. “But only if you only ever wear this dress….” His fingers trace the neckline of her gown with featherlight touches. “Or nothing at all.” His lips find the spot just below her earlobe that makes her shiver.
“This evening is supposed to be about me seducing you, birthday boy,” she admonishes affectionately, pulling her neck away reluctantly, “not the other way around.”
“By all means, Mrs Bridgerton, please continue,” Benedict deploying that voice he knows makes her knees weak.
“Lie down,” she whispers.
He settles back on the chaise, one arm tucked behind his head, with an easy smile, an innate confidence in his nudity. Sophie wishes she had his skills to capture this moment on a canvas. She instead takes her time surveying the sight before her, shameless, almost in her ogling. Ladies are perhaps not supposed to be quite so lascivious, but she can’t help it when it comes to her husband. He is gorgeous to her. And, based on how heads turn when he walks into a room, she is not alone in that sentiment. Not for the first time, she considers herself very lucky he returned her affections, even if it took a while to admit such to herself, let alone him.
“Penny, for your thoughts, my love,” Benedict’s arm reaches for her, his fingers gently circling her wrist.
“I was just thinking I am the luckiest woman in the world,” she replies truthfully, echoing his sentiment when she walked in earlier, leaning down to kiss the hand that holds her wrist.
His smile turns almost shy, and he averts his eyes, long eyelashes fluttering as a slight blush colours his cheeks. It makes Sophie’s heart melt, and her pussy clench simultaneously. How he can do that astounds her. She wants to wrap him in the tightest, sweetest hug, but also fuck him so hard her teeth rattle. Such a beautiful contradiction.
“I had all these plans,” she sighs, “but I find myself impatient for you, my love.”
“Tell me about them,” Benedict requests, looking back up at her, his lips tugging into a playful, beautiful crooked grin.
“I planned to tease you for ages, kiss every inch of your skin from your ankles to your hair,” Sophie answers, her gaze tracking covetously up his body again, fingers itching to trail over his lithe contours glowing in the candlelight.
“Sounds lovely…”
“Mmmm, but,” she hitches up her dress and straddles him, settling her hips on his waist, her dress fanning out over him, her fingers tracing the constellation of freckles on his breastbone, “You are entirely too tempting, Mr Bridgerton, and I find I just want you inside me.”
“That sounds even better,” he concedes, his voice taking on a rough edge.
He grabs her knee and runs a hand up her thigh under the gauzy layers. His questing fingers slide between her legs, and she moans as he expertly flexes them against her.
She grabs his forearm. “No, my darling, it is you who receives the pleasure tonight,” she counters, gently shaking her head as she pulls his hand away.
“But I want to watch you,” Benedict pouts, his eyes so beseeching. “I love your face when I do this to you…”
“Then allow me,” Sophie counters with a raised eyebrow.
Gathering her dress slightly, she slides her fingers between her legs, loving the wetness she finds there, all for him. She moans, fizzing with pleasure, as she holds his gaze. His grip on her thigh tightens; she intuits what he is asking for and speeds up her ministrations. She bites her lip and groans loudly, not daring to break eye contact. His other hand moves from behind his head to grip her other thigh; his Adam's apple bobs visibly as he swallows, and his chest rises and falls more visibly.
“I need you, Sophie,” his voice breathy and low. “Please...”
Her fingers slip from her body and reach behind to grab him, and he groans as she gives him a few gentle pumps with her hand before shuffling backwards to line him up with her body. Watching many expressions flit across his face, revelling in his breathy anticipation, she allows his tip inside. His moan is like poetry, and she sinks fractionally lower, loving how it feels when he invades her body—the insistent stretch and heat. She rolls her hips, eager to envelop him but also to maintain a slow tease. He looks at her pleadingly.
“What do you need, my beautiful birthday boy?” Her query wantonly flirtatious.
“Please, my love, take all of me; I need you.” Benedct’s voice sounds so needy that it makes her chest flutter.
Sophie smiles as his eyes burn into hers, then sinks, gasping at the hot, plunging invasion pulling her so taut. The lustful noise he emits makes her pulse around him, which in turn makes him call out her name, a wanton call and response that has her grabbing his hands and placing them on her breasts. The tulle of her dress scrunches against her nipple, sequins catching against her sensitive skin and between Benedict’s fingers. He slips his hand inside the neckline and grabs her naked flesh as she presses into his touch and starts to rock gently.
Usually, they talk to each other when making love, whispering their debauched thoughts or just communicating how they feel. But tonight, they enjoy a silent, almost psychic connection, something more sensual and decadent, staring into each other's eyes, saying everything without words. Sophie’s movements are fluid but slow and deliberate, savouring the intoxicating feel of him sliding within her.
Benedict lifts her left hand from his body and brings it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the wedding ring she wears so proudly. She mirrors his actions, taking his left hand, but instead plunge his wedding ring finger into her mouth, sucking it gently, the metal of his ring knocking against her teeth as she rises and falls. Hoping to convey through her actions the depth of emotion and passion she feels for this man.
He groans and drives his hips upwards, sliding even deeper, catching against the top of her channel, her toes flexing at the pleasure that causes. She calls his name, releasing his hand, her nails scratching over his abs. Something more carnal, taking them both somewhere frantic.
Sophie surges up and down, chasing all the sensations, Benedict’s hands running down her back, warm through the layers of her dress, grasping her hips and pulling her down harder into him as her fingernails drag against the ripples of his abdomen muscles. Over and over until her thighs burn, and still, she doesn't ever want to stop, revelling in the feeling she gets every time he nudges that place inside that makes all the exertion worth it.
She sees in his eyes as he is approaching his peak, converting the desperation for her to join him, making her reach under her dress and touch herself, him hissing encouragements as she does so. Benedict’s pleading voice rockets her to the edge, the sonorous rumbling through his body that sweeps her over to a place that is a kaleidoscope of bliss; breath stolen, body tensing and releasing, firing a euphoria in every fibre from her scalp to her toes.
Distantly, she can hear him climaxing, his fingers a vice-like grip as his groan turns guttural, and Benedict holds her down fiercely. All his muscles tense in rigid relief as he comes hard. He looks so beautiful in the moment, biting his lip and screwing his eyes shut, that she collapses onto him and kisses his jaw, even biting gently in a way that makes him more vocal and his grip stronger.
Then, as the intensity of the moment passes, all is serene as they recover together, breaths evening out, hands laced together. These quiet moments after the passionate storm feel the most intimate—the languid caresses, soft kisses and whispered words.
“Thank you for the most wonderful birthday gift,” Benedict sighs, sated, as she lies atop him, her head on his shoulder, drawing idle shapes on his pectoral muscle with the tips of her fingers.
“A massage and making love are not your gift, my love,” Sophie refutes quietly, twisting her head to look into his inquisitive eyes. “You deserve those and so much more. No, your gift is something else entirely,” she explains, sitting up to straddle him again. “There is a reason I dressed like this, to look like the nicest gift wrapping that I possibly could.”
“I will always think of you as the best gift in my life,” he chuckles happily.
“Not me, Benedict.” She grabs his hand and places it on her dress, just below her belly button.
“There is a present in here for you, my love. It will probably take another, hmm, seven months, but I think it will be the greatest gift you, and indeed I, could ever receive. A beautiful gift we made together.”
His breath catches, and his mouth opens a fraction in surprise; his eyes suddenly go glassy and soft with emotion.
“Are you with child, my love?” He murmurs excitedly.
“I believe I am Mr Bridgerton. Or should I say, Papa?” she smiles indulgently.
Suddenly, he is sitting up and pulling her into an embrace with his other arm, his lips finding hers.
“This is the best gift ever,” he grins, his eyes damp, his hand cradling her still-flat belly as if it is the most precious thing in the world.
“Happy birthday, Mr Bridgerton,” Sophie beams as she places her hand over his, “from both of us.”
Benophie Masterlist • Taglist must be following this blog to be tagged
Summary: Benedict gives Sophie an art lesson with a different kind of canvas...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, body painting, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, edging, vaginal sex.
Word Count: 4,7k
Author's Note: Benophie remix of an old fic as a request fill for @purplewingz1631. I hope you enjoy! <3
Sophie finds him in his art studio, barefoot and dressed only in black trousers and a white shirt, his braces hanging loosely around his hips, looking handsomely casual as he paints by candlelight, twilight settling in.
It's then that Sophie spies his subject, the lovely arrangement of flowers she received from his family for her birthday last week. Just a few minutes ago, she had wondered where the bouquet had disappeared to as she wandered through their home. They had previously held pride of place in the hallway.
“Stealing my birthday presents, husband?” Sophie jests airily, leaning on the doorframe with crossed arms.
Benedict twists around and shoots Sophie an apologetic smile. “Only the artistically meritorious ones, my love,” he responds, amusement laced into his tone. “Join me?” he suggests, waving his brush towards the empty easel beside him.
“I'm not certain I have anything close to the requisite skills,” Sophie hedges.
She has only ever attended his painting sessions as his subject or simply as a companion, mostly reading quietly nearby as he works. On some occasions, becoming something entirely other—when he has her pose naked. Her blood runs a little warm just at the mere memory.
“Art does not always need to be about skill. Enjoyment of the process is just as important, perhaps more so. Besides, I can teach you,” Benedict smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling beguilingly.
He never fails to convince Sophie with that look.
“Alright,” Sophie sighs fondly, straightening up and uncrossing her arms, “but you are not allowed to ridicule my attempt,” Sophie argues, waggling a finger as she walks over.
He laughs and leans in to drop a kiss on her cheek as she draws up next to him.
“I would never!” He promises in an amused tone. “Everything you need is right there,” he nods to the supplies, “You have watched me paint enough to know how to set up.”
His confidence in her ability seemed a little unwarranted, but she decides to give it a try.
___
“I cannot do this,” Sophie bemoans about ten minutes later, looking forlornly between the canvas and the spray of flowers, disappointed in her less-than-accurate rendering. All she has managed in her assessment is some oversized stems and a vague version of the vase, which looks uneven.
“Nonsense,” Benedict dismisses, “You are doing wonderfully for your first time, my love.”
Sophie twists around with a knitted brow to look at him.
“Benedict, please… your flattery is obsequious. This is… not good,” Sophie sighs, scratching her chin with the wooden end of her brush.
“Perhaps I can assist your efforts?” he offers, putting down his brush into a jar of water and placing his palette aside.
“Please…” Sophie requests gratefully.
A smile ghosts her lips as her husband rounds behind her, pushing her closer to the canvas. One of his hands lands upon the hip under her palette, the other curling around hers where it holds her brush. His fingers are warm and soft.
“Now then,” his voice is rich and rumbles right next to her ear, “the first thing is to start with the colour there is the most of, and then you can start to add in light and shade.”
Sophie attempts to listen as he sonorously explains the method involved and guides her selection from the palette, puppeting her hand to make brushstrokes over the canvas. But she is half-listening and half-participating at best. The moment Benedict stood close behind, her traitorous body decided this was not an art lesson at all. No, it’s something quite different. Readying itself for him with quite remarkable speed and absolutely no effort on his part. Quite astonishing, really
“Are you quite alright?” He checks as Sophie fidgets slightly.
“All is well,” she reassures far too quickly.
His breath tickles the wisps of hair around her ears as he leans in closer, until he surrounds her with his long arms and body heat. He smells of his woodsy soap, and she has to tamp down the urge to twist her nose into his strong neck and inhale deeply.
For a few minutes, he guides her hand, and Sophie relaxes into the motion, enjoying the sensation of being so utterly engulfed by him much more than the act.
“Now, you continue,” he encourages, removing his hand from hers.
Sophie stutters, realising she was not taking on board what he was saying, distracted by the striking mental image of him painting a glistening line across her collarbone, a bright golden streak over her bare flesh. She makes a hesitant dab on the canvas, but there is a disapproving noise against her temple.
“That is not what I told you to do, now, is it?” he teases lowly.
“Please guide me for a little longer, Benedict,” she beseeches in a breathy whisper.
“Were you listening to a word I said, my love?”
His query is not in a disapproving tone. Not remotely. It’s a liting rumble, his head turning so the tip of his nose nuzzles her earlobe. Sophie suspects she may be foiled.
“People pay good money for me to teach them how to paint,” Benedict's breath is hot on her jaw, both his hands now on her hips, fingers circling over the diaphanous layers of her thin, silk gown. “And yet here is my wife, not even listening to her expert teacher….”
“I am… I…” Sophie begins haltingly, knowing it's a pointless lie. So she tries a different tack. “I should hope you do not treat your other students in this manner?”
Emphasising her point by rocking back onto her heels so the press of their bodies is greater.
“Indeed, I do not,” he murmurs, and she inhales sharply as his teeth graze the shell of her ear.
“So perhaps this is somewhat unfair to me,” Sophie posits, pouting, knowing his eyes are watching her expression side on.
Benedict chuckles richly.
“Perhaps…” he acknowledges as he gently slides the paintbrush out from between her fingers. “There may be another method by which I can teach you all about the pleasures of painting, my love.”
Words of query die on her tongue as warm lips land on her neck, that weak spot which makes her utterly pliant incavaoel of speech.
“It requires a different canvas,” he whispers, his lips catching on her skin.
For a fleeting moment, Sophie considers if he could read where her thoughts had skated only minutes earlier; the vivid tableau of golden paint on her flesh flashing before her.
There is a faint ting as he drops her brush into a glass jar of water, then he eases the palette from where it is hooked around her thumb. Sophie stands still, eagerly awaiting what he will do next.
Her heart rate spikes as deft fingers begin to undo the buttons between her shoulder blades.
“You have such beautiful skin, my love…”
Benedict's lips are warm on the top of her shoulder as her dress relents and falls in a pool around her feet.
“I want to paint you.”
Sophie’s breath hitches as he runs a knuckle down the notches of her spine; glad she did not bother with a chemise or undergarments after her earlier bath. Her eyes flutter closed as he kisses her skin again and plucks open the laces of her stays. When the material slackens, he pulls the structured fabric away from her body and tosses it aside, his hands instantly cupping her breasts and pulling her back into him. Her moan is wanton as his fingers snag her nipples, pebbling in his touch; now utterly naked.
“Lay down, darling wife,” he murmurs, the tone laden.
He gestures to the oversized emerald-green chaise, conveniently covered in a heavy canvas drop cloth, almost as if he planned for this.
She holds his hand delicately as he assists her into a reclined position.
“Will you not be getting naked too, husband?” Sophie coos, watching him return to gather his palette and brush.
“It would certainly make clean-up easier,” Benedict concedes and rips off his shirt, tossing it aside.
He walks back to Sophie, a slight swagger in his gait, knowing he has her undivided attention as her eyes covetously drink in his toned torso, glowing in the candlelight.
“Gold…” escapes her lips unbidden and stops him in his tracks as he towers above her.
“Gold, what?” His query is warm but puzzled as he places the art supplies on the floor next to the chaise.
“When I dream of you painting me, my body,” Sophie confesses raspily, “it’s always gold.”
He leans over, his face etched with desire. “You dream of me doing this?”
“Yes,” Sophie murmurs, “a cool, wet brush swirling over my heated skin….” closing her eyes and biting her lip, lost in the reverie of it.
“Tell me more,” he implores, his breath hot on her cheek, the chaise squeaking a touch as he sits beside her. “Keep your eyes closed if it helps,” he adds, fiddling with his art supplies.
“You start at my neck….” Sophie sighs, inhaling sharply when a wet ticklish brush lands right on the left side of her neck, then holds still.
“And then?” he prompts gently.
“Then… You do a swooping line over my chin to my other ear,” Sophie exhales, gasping as he does exactly as she describes, the smell of fresh paint filling her nostrils, the feel of it wet and heavy.
“What is next?” Benedict’s voice is dark and sweet now, goading her into more detail.
“You paint a line down the side of my neck, over here…” Sophie gestures at her collarbone, “...then lower,” she ends in a whisper, almost reluctant to admit how erotic her fantasies can be.
Nothing, however, can prepare her for those errant thoughts becoming a reality—the drag of cold buttery substance, each bristle a damp tickle as he smears a line to the swell of her breast, her eyes flying open to see his gaze heavy and intense on the task at hand.
Her nipple pebbles almost painfully, even though he does not stray close to it, encircling her breast with a golden loop, his pupils dilating, leaning close so she can feel his exhales dusting over her skin.
“Does that feel good?” Benedict practically purrs.
Sophie nods, feeling the wetness blotting across her neck at her movement. Without asking what happens next in her dream, he takes the initiative and traces a line around her other breast, the brush dipping into the valley of her breastbone before continuing. When Sophie tilts her head to see his handiwork, the metallic hue glistens brightly in the candlelight.
“May I use other colours on you too, my love?” his question is almost reverential in tone.
“I am yours, Benedict,” Sophie sighs honestly, “do with me as you wish.”
Those words light an artistic and sensual fire in his being.
He pushes up to kiss her, plundering her mouth with a possessive kiss. When he pulls away, Sophie feels dazed, desperate for more, watching him reach for another clean brush on the floor by his feet and select a new shade from the palette.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
Sophie does as he asks, gasping as a broader brush runs across her skin, starting at her neck and sweeping down, shadowing the path of the other line already drying on her skin, before curiosity gets the better of her.
“What colour?”
“What is your favourite on me?” Benedict prompts softly, his strokes lingering on the sensitive skin under her breast, making her thoughts fuzzy, distracted—Sophie knows it's intentional.
“You look good in so many colours, husband,” she offers truthfully. “I do love your light gold cravat…” knowing he has already employed such.
“You are stalling, my love,” he points out congenially, teasingly flicking the ends of his brush in the spot closest to her underarm.
“Blue? You always look so handsome in every shade of blue, from navy to sky…” Sophie guesses.
“Oh, then that shall have to be next,” he lilts, giving away that she was incorrect.
Sophie mentally flicks through some of her favourite of his outfits, squirming slightly at the delightful images conjured, his brush still a distracting tease over her flesh.
Then there is a lightbulb moment.
“Burgundy red!” she exclaims, recalling the waistcoat he wore just last week, the one that made her lose the power of speech, temporarily tongue-tied.
“Well done, darling,” Benedict compliments.
Sophie opens her eyes to see that he has interwoven the harmonious shades into an exquisite arching design, truly using her skin as a canvas.
“Now lay still; there is much work still to do,” he instructs softly.
Sophie settles into the chaise, her belly fluttering as Benedict's brush slips lower, daubing her diaphragm in intricate loops, trying to keep her breath shallow for a still surface. He swaps brushes again, back to gold, holding the other in his knuckle, the rich red-loaded tip contrasting with his pale skin.
When he sinks below her ribs onto her belly, Sophie bites her lip, the light touch tickling her to the point of giggling. She tries her best not to move, but when he glides over a sensitive patch, it bubbles out of her on reflex.
His gaze pings up to her face, a lopsided grin claiming his features. “Does that tickle?” he taunts gently. She can only giggle more in reply as he teases even lighter over that weak spot.
“Stop it,” Sophie whispers, knowing how much he enjoys the tease.
“Never,” he responds lightly, lowering his face.
She jolts and cries out as he lightly bites her bare nipple,
“I veritably exist to tease you; you are so beautiful like this,” he whispers, pausing in his artistry, pressing Sophie into the chaise with his body weight.
“Look at you,” Sophie giggles as he pulls away again, seeing smears of pain across his chest.
“That is nothing. I expect both of our bodies will be a riot of colours by the time I am done with you, dear wife.” His tone is simultaneously light with mirth and dark with promise.
“Perhaps you should speed up,” Sophie answers playfully; it may dry before you have the opportunity.”
He laughs, teething her other nipple before refreshing the paint line. “Not a chance.”
Just as her stomach clenches at the idea he will move lower, he grabs her right arm and concentrates his efforts there, as if to elongate the burn of anticipation.
It's less ticklish… until he swipes the crook of her elbow over her veins, making her giggle again and meeting his hazy eyes with an intense stare. Wordlessly, he kisses her hand before switching to her left arm, creating a mirror image of the pattern on her right freehand. It's striking. Adrently wishing there were a portrait of her looking like this, covered in his design.
As she is lost in her reverie of that thought, Benedict slips lower on the chaise, and she gasps as he restarts the line at her middle and swirls down all over her belly. He employs a heavier stroke to avoid tickling as much as possible, alternating between the two, holding both brushes with ease in his long, artistic fingers. Sophie has to bite back a moan when one swoop goes lower, skating along the top of her pubic hair.
“Open your legs,” Benedict's voice is low and decadent as he implores her to do what she has fantasised about so many times.
Feeling a burning low in her gut, Sophie draws her knees up a few inches and parts her legs a fraction, keeping her feet together. Benedict tuts a little, a mischievous smile as he captures her ankle and plants it at the edge of the chaise, out wide, making her flush hot. She then meekly moves her other foot to match the stance, now lewdly spread before him. His gaze is heavy on her core,
“Please do not move,” his voice ragged.
Sophie pants lightly as he resumes, leaning in so close she can feel his breath on her inner thighs.
He paints a golden line from her belly down over her hip and up her thigh. It's the longest continuous stroke he has made, ending with a flourish at her kneecap. Then he swaps the brushes and traces along the same path in the dark red.
“What of the navy blue husband?” Sophie murmurs, trying to keep her voice even, even though she feels a slight tremble in her body; the exquisite contrast of cool liquid paint and the warm flush of arousal.
“All in good time. You should not rush an artist at work, darling,” he replies playfully.
“What if your canvas is in need?” Sophie inquires quietly.
“Where does my darling canvas have a need, hmm?” Benedict asks duskily, acting obtuse even as his breath puffs close to the place Sophie wants him the most.
He runs a line achingly slow down her inner thigh, looping under into the crease where her buttock meets her leg, the odd feeling making goose bumps break out across her surrounding skin, the tilt of his face right above where Sophie burns so hot.
“Here, perhaps?” he whispers,
Sphie cries out as his warm, wet mouth opens wide on her folds.
One of her hands shoots down to grasp his hair as he unfurls his tongue, swiping deep, lapping the overflowing well of moisture there. She stares down the plane of her body, watching the colours on her inner thigh streak across his clavicle and shoulder as he drinks from her body, pulling her pearl between his lips and sucking so hard she sees stars. Benedict's eyes hold a fiery intensity as he holds and swipes under her clitoral hood. His tongue dabs the most sensitive spot, the one that makes her leg want to kick out and go rigid from the intense sensation. Just as she starts to squirm and moan, he pulls back.
Sophie pouts in disbelief as he calmly returns to painting.
“How can you tease me so?!” she laments, chest heaving, hand falling from its grip on his chestnut locks.
Benedict laughs gently but continues with his art, her concentration barely registering it, her heartbeat throbbing in her abandoned, swollen clit.
“Please, Benedict,” Sophie appeals, absentmindedly watching him switch to the other shade.
But his brow merely knits in concentration, glancing at her other leg to ensure, as with her arms, the pattern is an exact mirror. It's undoubtedly stunning, but somehow her interest in it has waned, all of her thoughts of needing his mouth back where it was.
He seems to take pity, moving so his face is a fraction closer to where Sophie wants him. After one long, indulgent swipe through her soaked folds that has Sophie gasping loudly, Benedict stops, rears up and quickly climbs over her body, his lips landing on her, damp and tangy with her desire. Sophie whimpers against his musky tongue as he kisses her deeply.
“Soon,” is his whispered promise, her voice and body trembling with unsated need, denial making her prickle hot all over. “Your skin is too arresting a sight, flushed like this. I need to paint more upon this gorgeous canvas.”
Sophie pouts and, careful not to disturb his artwork, slides her fingers between her legs, eager for stimulation.
Benedict tuts and removes her fingers.
“Do not be so hasty, dear wife,” he chastises softly with a crooked smile, encircling her wrist, then daubing large beads on her fingertips. “There we go, as requested, navy blue,” he smirks, grabbing her other hand and repeating the action.
Sophie stares at him, dumbfounded, realising she cannot touch herself now without a mess.
That lopsided, handsome smile is still there as she watches him crawl slowly between her legs. And dives in face-first. Sophie's loud stuttering moan echoes up the walls. She desperately wants to grip his hair, but with her fingers now dripping with navy, she refrains. When he loops his arms around her hips, she instead grabs his wrists as they frame her thighs. Slathering streaks of dark blue on his pale forearms as he lashes her with his tongue, calling his name.
He is ravenous, using his whole face to arouse her senses, the stubble of his chin chafing her labia as he once again teases her, suckling her clit into his mouth, circling his tongue in firm strokes, undulating and spearing it just where she needs, as if intuiting what she needs at any moment, The tip of his nose is burrowed into her patch of hair, inhaling her scent as if he cannot get enough of her taste and smell, his primal behaviour just making her more wanton for him.
Benedict moans, muffled encouragements into her, the cadence vibrating up into her pubic bone. Sophie stares transfixed at him, decadent, delicious, filthy, a debauched and erotic tableau, the skin pulling taunt over his high cheekbones as he consumes her.
Just as her pussy starts to flutter, he pulls up and teases her, pursing his lips and blowing a slow puff of air over her overheated pearl. It's not enough and too much all at once, such a different sensation from his lathing tongue. He chuckles as Sophie groans in frustration and grasps his wrists tightly, fingernails digging blue crescents into his flesh, hoping to incite him back into action.
Instead, he shakes off her grip and swiftly stands up. Roughly, he tugs at the buttons on his trousers, smirking down at Sophie as she turns breathless again with desire, painted fingers on either side of her head as he drops the fabric. As ever, he is without underwear, and even though his straining cock is a familiar sight, every time, it steals her breath and makes her pulse deep inside.
He prowls over her supine body, almost cat-like, admiring his handiwork.
“You are my masterpiece…”
The awed but somehow still achingly seductive tone he employs makes her hips rise towards him, a reflex, her body seeking his. Uncaring of the mess it will leave, Sophie runs her navy fingertips from his chest to his pelvis, curling a little to scrape her nails into the paint trails. It looks like animal claws—as if she is marking him, possessive.
His response is a light growl, hoisting her legs into the crook of his elbow and with a flash of something primal in his eyes, he surges into her weeping body with one swift thrust.
It makes Sophie call his name. So loudly that she knows the Crabtress may hear all the way in the staff quarters. But she cannot care—not even if they were to come running to check on her welfare. Part of her would almost be proud to be found like this, naked and decorated, pinned under her husband as he begins to fuck into her so thoroughly, the whole chaise squeaking and shuddering across the tiled floor. His body curled over her, his large hand above her head, gripping the raised chaise end for leverage.
Sophie is lost in the carnality of how Benedict is taking her, her walls clinging to his plunging cock, She bands her arms around him, smearing long finger trails down the contours of his back until she reaches his buttocks and squeezes them covetously, encouraging him to drive deeper, go harder, almost make it hurt.
The glorious, intricate pattern of his art still tacky on her skin, causing her flesh to cling to his and smudge together—blue, gold and burgundy blotches and smears that look so vibrant on his pale skin.
“Are you close again, my love?” His question is a touch breathless as he thrusts so vigorously.
Sophie hisses her confirmation, eyes rolling as she grasps his cheeks again and spreads her legs wider, always greedy for him, for more. For him to push so far into her body, it will feel like he’s always there, even when he’s not, like some internal tattoo of him carved into her being.
“More Benedict… please,” her words tingling and urgent craving release so badly her mind feels akin to madness, an itch in her brain that needs to be scratched.
But Benedict slows, and Sophie wants to scream in frustration, his movements shallow, delicate, not the onslaught she needs to take her over the precipice he has dangled her over, what feels like countless times.
“I love to see you like this,” his voice husky, breath puffing hot on her face, “when you are so unbridled with need, darling. I cannot resist taking you so close and denying you: the wild look, your untamed desire.”
Sophie releases her grip on his behind and grabs his jaw, uncaring that it plasters his face with blue fingermarks.
“It's always for you, just you, Benedict, my love, my life,” she affirms, hoping that is what he needs to hear to finally take her over the edge from this heightened state of near delirium.
His responding grin is breathtaking, and he begins to plough into Sophie in earnest, his gaze never leaving hers, burning to witness the moment she breaks for him. The chaise protests loudly, the wooden feet scraping hard on the floor under his unforgiving pace. Sophie bites her lip and pleads with her eyes, wanting his expert touch to push her over.
“Your fingers, please,” Sophie implores breathily, and suddenly three are pressed between her lips, traces of the tang of sweat and the flavour that is all him.
Sophie greedily wraps her tongue around his invading digits and slathers them in her saliva, drooling around him as his thrusts jolt her entire body. Benedict snarls as she runs an edge of teeth over his cuticles, goading him, loving to see him just as lost in the potency of the moment. Then, with a look that always makes Sophie breathless, he slides the fingers out of her mouth and snakes them between their bodies, finding her engorged clit with ease.
Sophie screams his name, and a few harsh flicks are all she needs to tip over, clenching so hard around his cock that his hips stutter and he roars into her ear as she fractures around him. Waves of pleasure ripple and fan out to every cell inher body, an almost violent delight, all her muscles spasming, her limbs shaking uncontrollably after so long denied.
Distantly, as if through cotton wool, Sophie hear Benedict cursing and growling her name, teeth pressing into the cord of her neck as he curls around her with one final jerk and a loud, guttural groan, he stills, his body stiff, a vein pulsing heavily in his neck and forehead as he empties into her, warmth blooming deep inside her as he spills.
Shortly after, he collapses onto his forearms, bracketing her body, mindful not to squash her under his weight as he pants, heaving breaths, his chest bumping hers with each ragged inhale.
Sophie doesn't say words; she just trails the remaining blue paint on her fingers across the skin of his shoulders, connecting the collage of freckles there into a slanted star-like shape. Below a certain point, her bodies resemble a rainbow; the detail he built so carefully now merely a smudge of lively streaks.
“Did you enjoy your painting lesson, my love?” Benedict's tone is whimsical as his breathing returns to normal.
Sophie giggles and plants a kiss on his smiling lips. “You know I did, Mr Bridgerton; you are a wonderful teacher,” Sophie winks; his responding laugh makes her whole body jiggle under him.
“Now to get clean,” he hums drolly, his grin lopsided and winsome. “I believe we may need to share a bath.”
“Or swim in the lake,” Sophie posits jokingly, rolling her head to look out of the window, down across the unlit grass to the water beyond, shimmering in the moonlight.
When Sophie tilts her head back, Benedict's look is priceless. His eyebrows shoot up, and that grin grows wider.
“I love how you think, my darling wife…”
Sophie squeals as he scoops her into his arms bridal style, and before she knows it, he has elbowed open the French doors and is carrying her to the water’s edge in a purposeful stride, both utterly naked and blissfully happy.
Benophie Masterlist • Taglist must be following this blog to be tagged
Summary: When your husband, Benedict, joins you in your relaxing bath, it soon becomes anything but...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Bathing, foreplay, vaginal sex, sex under water.
Word Count: 2.1k
Author's note: Anon request fill for bathtub sex with Benedict. Well, this is not exactly unexpected, given ep 8 lol. This is built upon a drabble I wrote a couple of years ago. Not betaed, I just wanted to get it posted before I changed my mind lol. Enjoy! <3
Closing your eyes with a contented sigh, you relax back against one end of the large copper bathtub. The water hot, the air swirling with delicate notes of jasmine—a sublime oasis of sensual calm.
Just the gentle sound of a ticking clock upon the nearby mantle has you slipping into a reverie, so much so that you do not even discern the door softly clicking open. Starling a little at a smooth baritone voice ringing out.
“Is there room for one more in that bathtub?”
Your eyes fly open to find one Benedict Bridgerton standing just beyond the other end, peeling off his riding coat with a smirk on his face. He is freshly returned from a bracing ride out over the fields on this fine, sunny morning.
“That depends,” you simper, pushing up to allow your nipples to peak over the top of the water line—an intentional tease. “Pray tell, how dirty did you get out there?”
“Absolutely filthy,” he rumbles, eyes glittering as his gaze slips down to your breasts, his boots clattering heavily onto the wooden floor as he yanks them off.
“Well then, we shall need to find a suitable method by which to scrub you clean indeed…” Your response is coquettish, cocking your head to the side as if in deep thought as you watch his waistcoat disappear.
“I have a proposal…” he offers, the words slightly muffled behind his shirt as he discards it over his head.
“I am all ears, Mr Bridgerton.”
Reflexively, you bite your lip as his sculpted torso is revealed. There is a slight sheen from his exertions, his skin glistens like polished marble in the gauzy sunlight filtering through the window voiles. When your eyes finally pan up to meet his, his brow is arched, teasingly, clearly enjoying your wanton perusal.
“Perhaps you may cleanse my body while it is wrapped around yours, Mrs Bridgerton?”
There's a crooked smile toying at his handsome face as he asserts such, while also roughly unbuttoning his trousers.
“What an intriguing prospect…” You quip as you twist your legs and push up onto your knees.
His inhale is ragged as your naked body is revealed, rivulets sluicing down over your flesh that his eyes greedily track, his chest heaving just a little more.
Then he leans forward, hands curling around either side of the bathtub as he looms large, and his breath dusts warm over your cheekbone. He smells woodsy with a musky undercurrent that is all him, his unbuttoned trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips.
“What a rotten shame there is no room in that most sizeable bathtub for me, too, then,” he murmurs.
“Such an awful shame,” you concur in a whisper, tilting to trace your mouth over his.
There is an amused huff, and then suddenly his lips claim yours. The kiss is instantly intense, a growl in the back of his throat as his fingers curl tightly on the rolltop, his signet ring tinking against it. You reach forward blindly as your tongue tangles, hands sliding covetously down the sculpted plane of his body, giving his last item of clothing the final tug of encouragement needed to fall to the floor.
He pulls back from the kiss and stands upright, gloriously naked, cock already standing proud, stepping fully out of the trousers, and allowing you to enjoy the view for a few moments before he climbs into the tub, sliding his legs either side of your knees, facing you.
Instantly, he hauls you forward, arms banding your waist and lips finding yours again hungrily. The jostled water laps your bottom as you settle over him, that cock an insistent hot press into your belly, your pebbled nipples sliding over the smooth slab of his pectorals. One of his hands slides down your back, mapping your contours until it reaches your buttock, squeezing your rounded flesh and pressing you down further over his body. Your pussy already slicker than the water you are submerged in.
“This is not getting you clean, husband…” You cluck pointedly, but your breathiness slightly undermines your argument. Not that you really care, something primally alluring about his salty, tangy essence when he is slightly less than clean.
“I am not stopping you, dear wife,” he challenges, lips skating over your cheekbone. “The sponge is right there….”
Your eyes track sideways to the small stool by the side of the tub, where there is indeed said item, alongside a bar of almond soap and a jug for washing hair. But then he sucks on your earlobe, both of his large hands now grasping your bottom, seeming to span the entirety of both cheeks, and all you can do is melt into his attentions.
“You do not play fair…”
Your protests falter as he sucks upon that sensitive spot on your neck, goosebumps breaking out down your arms, despite the warm water you both lie in. Your hands instead loop his neck, nuzzling until his lips meet yours again.
The kiss you share starts slow and sensual, but once again soon turns passionate, lips sliding hungrily over each other, breathing each other's air. A hot surge of want through your being as Benedict gently spanks your bum cheek under the water, smiling into your mouth.
“Perhaps instead, then, you may have a morning ride,” he coaxes, the double entendre clear from the bowing of his body, so his cock nudges you. “I promise to make it even more stimulating than mine was.”
Such an offer is impossible to resist, especially when he encourages you to sit upright, and he tilts toward to catch your nipple in his mouth, sucking insistently in a way that is a beeline right to your core. You grasp the tub for leverage as he swaps to your other breast, pressing yourself into his questing tongue and suction, as your other hand slips underwater. His teeth bite down as your fingers wrap around his cock, making you groan and shudder, suddenly desperate for him to be inside you. Shuffling so you line up your body.
You both groan loudly as you lower yourself onto him. It's the same glorious stretch it always is, cleaved open, your pussy clinging to his every contour as you slide to his root; that eyerolling sensation of utter fullness could simply never get old.
His wet hands slide up over your back, round your shoulders and cup your face, eyes locked on each other as you start to move, lips touching, just a slow rise and fall, luxuriating in how it feels to have him inside you while in this warm aromatic bath.
Droplets of water run down his toned forearms and drip onto your diaphragm as you ride him unhurriedly, indulgently, revelling in every passing contour of his cock.
One of his pinky fingers slides down your face to hook into the side of your mouth, and you suckle upon it, a trace bloom of tanned leather hide from where he gripped the horse's reins. It spurs you on. Staring him down as you start to speed up. The water now sloshes about the tub as you go harder, faster, chasing that wondrous sensation with increasing urgency.
The warmth of the water makes you feel flushed, even a little lightheaded from the exertion, slumping forward and clinging to him like a vine, him caging you as you ride and moan loudly, uncaring if the staff may hear. They are more than used to your amorous activities now, having walked in on more than one occasion to your passionate lovemaking in all rooms of the house, even outside in the grounds.
You feel your clit swelling with each nudge to his body as you rise and fall, a zip of pleasure that makes you ache for his fingers there to send you over the edge, your lips on the shell of his ear.
“Touch me,” you rasp, a little breathless now, and you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it.
“Oh, not yet, darling,” he denies, his smirk obvious where his face is pressed into your cheek.
You lean back to stare into his eyes with a beseeching pout, hoping to implore him.
“Do not be so hasty…” he chides playfully, one hand slipping underwater to hold your hip, halt your motions, so you are sat upon him, clit throbbing against his ticklish pubic hair. “Rest, my love.”
He seems to enjoy how you whimper, the stretch of him inside you a mass you cannot ignore, the urge to circle your hips to drag his cock over all those spots inside almost impossible to resist. But you do as he suggests, sit impaled upon him as he detangles from you, leans back on the tub end and reaches casually for the sponge, soaping it up.
The drag of the slightly rough texture of it over your nipples makes you clench upon him, and he groans deeply, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before he continues soaping up the part of your body above water with almost torturously slow motions, dipping it into the water occasionally to cleanse your body of the soap.
He strays lower under the water, a devastating crooked smile as he swipes the sponge over your belly, brushing briefly over your clit in a way that makes you shudder anew.
“Your turn,” he hands you the sponge and nods down at his body.
You mirror his actions, cleaning his torso, enjoying the play of lithe muscle under skin as he breaths deeply, watching you. His cock is still rigid inside you. The scent of almond rising from his skin makes you want to pitch forward and bite down on his broad shoulder.
He sits up and kisses you as he gently lifts you off his cock, you whimpering over his tongue at its loss.
“Turn around,” he purrs, taking the sponge from you. Dutifully, you flip over using his thighs as leverage to do so. Then he is up and kneeling behind you, guiding your hands to the far end of the tub, curling your fingers over it.
You cry out as he roughly thrusts into you from behind, ploughing deep, then holds still once more. One hand moulded to the flare of your hip, the other dragging that sponge across your back. Washing your skin, running languorous swipes across your ribcage and spine, while all that you can think of is being fucked hard.
“Please….” You moan, hoping it will telegraph your need.
“Once you are clean…” He counters, and that sponge rounds your hip, a teasing swipe of its ticklish texture against your distended clit again.
Just as you want to protest, he starts to move. A slow, sensual drag that has you rolling with him in sync. The feeling is utterly divine, the water lapping your sides as he takes you from behind, his chin hooked over your shoulder. One of his hands cups your face, twisting so your lips meet hungrily. Your moans get louder as he speeds up, both of you needing a release now.
You cling to the bath edge, knees sliding on the oiled copper as his hands roam your body, reaching in front to seize your breasts, your nipples snagging between the swell of his knuckles, you calling out into his mouth.
The pace is faster now, the water turning choppy as his long, dextrous finers slide between your legs, catching against your engorged clit as you call his name. Just a few flicks and you are rocketed skywards, the rhythmic pull of his cock furrowing into you enough to fling you into the stars. Barely cognizant of the tide of water now swashing out of the tub as his movements become frenzied, approaching his peak, your pussy convulsing around him.
As ecstasy races through every cell of your body, his mouth hangs open on your cheekbone as he freezes. Dimly, you feel that familiar pulse deep inside the warmth of his seed blooming against your hilt as he shudders and moans your name, collapsing against your back, panting as you still float on a cloud of bliss.
“I am almost certain there is now more water outside this tub than in,” you giggle a few beats later as you rearrange, him pulling you down on top of him in a languid embrace. “Will it not cause damage?”
“Possibly,” Benedict chuckles blithely, kissing your temple, his fingers trailing soothing patterns on your lumbar spine. “I’ll towel it all up before Mrs Crabtree can chastise me,” he promises.
——
“Tis quite the darndest thing, Mr Bridgerton…”
A few days later, you return from a walk to find Mr Crabtree signalling to a large stain that has appeared on the ceiling of the dining room.
You wince slightly, feeling your cheeks flush dark as Benedict grins unrepentantly, both of your reactions unseen by the other man, who is still staring up at the patch, puzzled.
“Such a mystery indeed, Mr Crabtree,” he breezes, shooting you a wink.
masterlist • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)
Summary: Sophie tries to help Benedict get clean-shaven…
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI due to brief mention of vaginal sex. Otherwise, it is just suggestive fluff with flirting, teasing, and shaving.
Word Count: 0.9k
Summary: Benophie remix of a short, flirtatious moment between newlyweds. Enjoy! <3
“Stop that!” Sophie admonishes playfully as a hand runs heavily down her side to grasp her hip, pulling her onto the nascent bulge in his trousers.
“Then don’t sit on me in such an appealing way, my love,” Benedict croons with a crooked smile, a clump of shaving cream sliding down his neck at the movement.
“Benedict, are you really trying to distract a woman holding a cutthroat razor?” She raises an eyebrow, waving her hand slightly to show the weapon she wields while seated in his lap.
“Your offer to shave me was not meant to include you straddling me like this,” he answers drolly.
“How else am I supposed to do so?” Sophie frowns, looking at the reclined chair he is in and their surroundings.
“Stand behind my head?” He chuckles as if the answer is obvious.
“But then your face would be upside down. I would not be able to see under your chin; that is a foolish placement,” she dismisses airily.
“Well, I am quite certain a barber would not be allowed to practice if they tried this technique,” Benedict jests, his hands wrapping around her back, running fingers across her spine.
Sophie’s face twitches with that little mischievous smile he knows so well now.
“What a shame for them. It really is a rather nice seat…”
Her statement is accompanied by a gyration of her hips, pressing down on his rapidly hardening cock.
“You are just doing this for sport…” Benedict huffs, shaking his head slightly but not exactly looking upset about it.
“Maybe,” she singsongs, “but hold still. You wish to look nice for our first ball as a married couple, do you not?”
“I want to fuck you more…” he expresses casually, but with a tone he knows flusters her every time.
“Benedict Bridgerton!!” Sophie exclaims in mock outrage. Then leans down and whispers in his ear, “You had better. I am not wearing any underwear today.”
His groan is lewd, and his hands flex on her body. “For god's sake, remove this shaving cream at once. We need to go to bed right now!” His proclamation is accentuated by his pelvis thrusting up so far that Sophie’s feet leave the ground.
“Oh, apologies, husband. But I shall only have sex with freshly shaven men today,” she contends, eyes sparkling as she runs a hand up the small sheet covering his chest. “So, lie still, and if you let me finish this endeavour, perhaps there will be time for other activities before we must get ready…”
Benedict suddenly becomes quiet and compliant.
Sophie takes a centring breath, then starts to shave near his left ear. Gentle, small but deliberate motions, his stubble rasping under the blade, wiping the remains onto the damp rag to her side. She makes steady progress, listening to the sound of his breathing, humming gently to herself to maintain focus.
“You are a very handsome man, husband,” Sophie sighs almost unthinkingly a while later as more of his face is revealed.
“Do not…” Benedict's warning is muffled, trying not to move his lips or face too much as she passes the sharp instrument over the round of his chin.
“What? I just speak the truth,” Sophie shrugs, pausing her motions to lower her face right over his. “Can I not tell my husband how attractive I find him? How much he arouses me?”
She is perhaps goading him now; his breath is a harsh exhale of hot air across her lips, and there is a pained noise from the very back of his throat.
“Stop teasing me…” he grumbles, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, husband, that is not a tease,” she chuckles. “Why, a tease would be telling you I sat in that very window over there earlier today and touched myself while watching you fence with your brothers. So very commanding with your epee.”
Benedict growls and pushes away the hand holding the razor. In her surprise, Sophie loses her grip, and it clatters loudly to the wood floor. There is a heated staring match, her heartbeat fluttering under his grip on her wrist, while his breath is uneven, his eyes trained on her slightly parted lips.
“You did what?!”
“You heard me,” she answers, just a touch triumphant.
Suddenly, there is a blur of movement as Benedict roughly tugs Sophie’s dress upwards around her thighs, grabs her hips. She squeaks as he stands up in one swift, fluid motion, her legs wrapping around him on instinct.
Commandingly, he strides towards their bed, his cock branding hot through his trousers at her inner thigh.
He practically throws her down on the bed, his face still half-covered in shaving cream.
“I believe I said I would only have sex with a freshly shaven husband,” Sophie attempts to point out, but her ragged breathing reveals the lie behind the words, watching her husband prowl over her body on all fours with growing delight.
“Sorry, darling,” he clucks, fighting with her dress layers. “Half-shaven will have to do. You cannot tell me you touched yourself and not expect this….”
Sophie winds her arms tight around Benedict’s shoulders, hands clutching the back of his neck as he roughly unbuttons his trousers and spears into her hard, hot, and so very invasive—a gustily exhaled curse falling from her lips, head thrown back, eyes closed.
God, Sophie will never tire of that feeling.
An hour later, when Eloise asks why she has whipped cream on her neck, Sophie’s eyes go wide. She must have missed a spot during cleanup. Benedict’s jubilant smirk is priceless.
Benophie Masterlist • Taglist must be following this blog to be tagged
Summary: Anthony gets overprotective when there is an injury
Warnings: None... just fluffy fluff.
Word Count: 1.5k
Authors Note: This is an anon request fill (request: could you do a fluffy one-shot where the reader is injured in a minor way and benedict or Anthony takes care of her?). I went with Anthony for this one. I hope you enjoy Nonny, and sorry it took so long to respond <3 Many thanks as ever to my lovely beta @makaylan :)
The gardens of Aubrey Hall are so beautiful you take every opportunity to spend time in them during your stay. It’s early on a warm sunny morning, and you are delighting in the thick borders of lilacs and roses, breathing deep to enjoy the floral scents, picking your way through the winding flagstone paths, the wondrous riots of colour.
You stoop to smell a beautiful yellow rose when you hear a thunder of hooves and the call of a masculine voice.
“Woahh, boy,” he signals to his horse as they come to a stop.
There he is. The viscount, Anthony Bridgerton. Owner of this magnificent estate. You cannot help but stare at his handsome face, jaw thrown into relief by the sharp angle of the morning sun. You find yourself drawn towards the sight, akin to a moth to a flame. Not paying attention to where you are walking, you don’t even see the small flight of steps at the gentle elevation change in the garden.
Before you have your bearings, you feel a pain bloom in your ankle, and the next thing you know, you are staring at fluffy clouds passing over an azure sky. It appears you have fallen down the steps and landed rather inelegantly in the soft grass beside.
Hoping the embarrassing moment has not been seen, the bright sunlight is suddenly shaded by the looming concerned expression of the aforementioned Viscount. No such luck.
“Miss y/l/n!” His voice exclaims, filled with apprehension, “are you quite alright? Did you hit your head? Can you hear me?”
“I am fine, my lord,” you assure, going to sit up.
“No, no!” he argues, “do not sit up! You could be injured. Let me assist you.”
“Honestly, I believe I'm alright. Just my ankle.”
Before you can argue, he swiftly picks you up and carries you towards the house. You feel his body flex against you as he effortlessly strides across the lawns; you blush at where some of your thoughts slide when he is being nothing but an exemplary gentleman.
“My lord, please do not inconvenience yourself like this!” You try to argue.
But he will hear none of it and will not let you to your feet to test out the ankle.
“I witnessed the fall. I need to confirm you are not injured before I can allow such a chance,” he frets as he enters the house.
“Jenkins, please send someone to fetch the local doctor with haste!” he instructs. “Miss y/l/n took a tumble in the gardens, and I’m concerned she has broken her ankle.”
“My lord, it is not broken,” you protest.
“Let the medical professional decide that, please,” he responds, a tick of annoyance on his face.
You cease your complaints and allow him to carry you up the stairs and through the hallway to your guest room. You are somewhat taken aback that he knows the room you are staying in without asking; it seems like a detail a lord would not trouble themselves with knowing.
He settles you upon your bed and starts to bark orders at the assembling staff that have followed in your wake - to bring blankets, extra pillows, tea and biscuits and cake, lots of cake.
You lay there, mostly bemused by his overreaction. Yes, your ankle is slightly swollen, and it throbs a little, but nothing that couldn’t be cured by a touch of rest, a cold compress and maybe some brandy.
He drags a chair to your bedside and insists on staying until the doctor gives his opinion. Taking tea with you and attempting, though somewhat stifled in his delivery, to read to you from a novel on your bedside table. You are touched by his caring nature but slightly confused by his continued presence.
“Lord Bridgerton, I am sure there are many pressing requests upon your time’” you begin carefully, “I’m quite certain the staff can see to my needs, and you can return to more important pursuits.”
“Nonsense. The health and welfare of my friends and family are of utmost importance to me; this takes precedence.” he dismisses. “Are you sure your pillows are adequately placed for comfort? Would you like a fire built?”
“I’m quite fine,” you chuckle, and he nods but does not move.
“I shall leave when the doctor provides his diagnosis,” he assures for your mother’s benefit. She has taken to hovering in the room, which he likely interprets as her concern for your injury and, indeed, the appropriateness of his presence in your bedroom. However, you are sure her enthusiasm for an eligible bachelor in your room far outweighs any concern for your injury or even your reputation; she is very keen to have you married off soon.
“Doctor Samuels,” Anthony's greeting is flooded with relief as a kindly gentleman walks in. “My good friend Miss y/l/n has injured her ankle, and I fear it’s broken.”
“Let me be the judge of that, please, Lord Bridgerton,” the doctor bustles and starts his examination.
He moves your leg gently around and checks a few movements with your ankle.
“Any pain when I do this?” He queries as he manoeuvres your foot.
“No, doctor,” you answer honestly.
“Well, it’s not broken. It appears to be a twisted ankle. I recommend resting for a day, and the swelling should reduce.” He opines, reaching into his bag. “I shall bandage it to provide support, but you should be able to remove it in a few days.”
“Thank you, doctor,” your reply is in unison with Anthony.
Your eyes meet, and you both chuckle, your cheeks blushing.
“Yes, well, I can assure you, doctor, she will be nursed for with the utmost care,” Anthony says solemnly.
Dr Samuels frowns, bemused, as he finishes bandaging. “It is not a serious injury Lord Bridgerton; you needn’t fuss.”
Just then, some kitchen staff walk in, laden with platters of what looks like freshly baked cakes.
“I tried telling him that doctor, and look where it got me,” you jest lightly, nodding at the cake.
Anthony rolls his eyes as Dr Samuels laughs and bids you farewell.
“I will see the good doctor out. Please rest,” Anthony implores and gives a respectful bow.
“Please don’t….” you raise your hand as you see your mother’s mouth open. “I assure you, mother, he is just being a good host and gentleman. Please do not make more of this than it is.”
She pouts and goes to leave the room as well. “Darling daughter, I must disagree; I would wager your pin money that man asks for your hand before the week is through.”
You just shake your head and motion her away—what a ridiculous notion.
——
A few hours later, you are happily engrossed in a book when there is a knock on your door.
“How’s my favourite patient?” Anthony asks brightly, clutching a bundle of yellow roses, your favourite.
“Well, thank you,” you answer with a smile, smoothing down your bedding. “You really didn’t have to go to such trouble. Also, that was far too much cake.”
“It’s no trouble,” he assures, placing the flowers on your bedside table, “and I’m sure I’ve heard eating cake assists with healing,” he adds, a small teasing smile tugging at his handsome features.
You laugh. “Then I’ll be right as rain in no time, my lord.”
“You’d better be; your presence has been much missed,” he opines quietly, the sincerity making your heart skip a beat.
“It’s only been four hours since my injury,” you tease.
“And I’ve had to endure a luncheon without your sparkling wit; believe me, time is immaterial in such matters,”
You giggle but quieten as his hand covers yours gently.
“You will rest, won’t you? For me?”
“Yes, my lord, I’ll be fine very soon, I’m sure.”
“Good, because our annual country ball is in three days, and I was rather hoping to be the first on your dance card,” a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
“Of course, Lord Bridgerton, it would be an honour” you smile demurely, knowing even if you’re still in pain, you’ll endure it for a dance with him.
“I may also have a very important question for you to answer,” he said lightly but with a lingering look that causes butterflies in your ribcage.
“What sort of question, my lord?” your voice sounds breathy even to your own ears.
“The very best kind,” his answer and smile being somewhat cryptic.
“Will you not give me a clue?” You ask cheekily.
“How attached are you to your last name, Miss y/l/n? Because my question might change it,” he breezes with a wink.
You gasp loudly and place the hand not under his over your heart on instinct. He wants to marry you.
“I… I…” you falter, then plum for the best option you can think of, to sum up your thoughts. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton. For everything.” You don’t know what else to say.
“It is nothing. As I said earlier, albeit in different words,” his voice crackles with a quiet intensity, “I will always, always protect those I love.”
Your heart soars as he raises your hand in his and your last fleeting thought before his warm lips brush against your knuckles is, strangely, of your mother and how you have just lost your pin money wager. But it appears you may be gaining a husband—what compensation!
I'm so glad you enjoyed this. It's rare I write pure fluff, especially for Anthony, so this means a lot. Sorry that I'm so late in saying so. I've been struggling with writing, and so have been off this platform a lot. Anyway TY 😁🧡🧡
Summary: When your husband, Benedict, joins you in your relaxing bath, it soon becomes anything but...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Bathing, foreplay, vaginal sex, sex under water.
Word Count: 2.1k
Author's note: Anon request fill for bathtub sex with Benedict. Well, this is not exactly unexpected, given ep 8 lol. This is built upon a drabble I wrote a couple of years ago. Not betaed, I just wanted to get it posted before I changed my mind lol. Enjoy! <3
Closing your eyes with a contented sigh, you relax back against one end of the large copper bathtub. The water hot, the air swirling with delicate notes of jasmine—a sublime oasis of sensual calm.
Just the gentle sound of a ticking clock upon the nearby mantle has you slipping into a reverie, so much so that you do not even discern the door softly clicking open. Starling a little at a smooth baritone voice ringing out.
“Is there room for one more in that bathtub?”
Your eyes fly open to find one Benedict Bridgerton standing just beyond the other end, peeling off his riding coat with a smirk on his face. He is freshly returned from a bracing ride out over the fields on this fine, sunny morning.
“That depends,” you simper, pushing up to allow your nipples to peak over the top of the water line—an intentional tease. “Pray tell, how dirty did you get out there?”
“Absolutely filthy,” he rumbles, eyes glittering as his gaze slips down to your breasts, his boots clattering heavily onto the wooden floor as he yanks them off.
“Well then, we shall need to find a suitable method by which to scrub you clean indeed…” Your response is coquettish, cocking your head to the side as if in deep thought as you watch his waistcoat disappear.
“I have a proposal…” he offers, the words slightly muffled behind his shirt as he discards it over his head.
“I am all ears, Mr Bridgerton.”
Reflexively, you bite your lip as his sculpted torso is revealed. There is a slight sheen from his exertions, his skin glistens like polished marble in the gauzy sunlight filtering through the window voiles. When your eyes finally pan up to meet his, his brow is arched, teasingly, clearly enjoying your wanton perusal.
“Perhaps you may cleanse my body while it is wrapped around yours, Mrs Bridgerton?”
There's a crooked smile toying at his handsome face as he asserts such, while also roughly unbuttoning his trousers.
“What an intriguing prospect…” You quip as you twist your legs and push up onto your knees.
His inhale is ragged as your naked body is revealed, rivulets sluicing down over your flesh that his eyes greedily track, his chest heaving just a little more.
Then he leans forward, hands curling around either side of the bathtub as he looms large, and his breath dusts warm over your cheekbone. He smells woodsy with a musky undercurrent that is all him, his unbuttoned trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips.
“What a rotten shame there is no room in that most sizeable bathtub for me, too, then,” he murmurs.
“Such an awful shame,” you concur in a whisper, tilting to trace your mouth over his.
There is an amused huff, and then suddenly his lips claim yours. The kiss is instantly intense, a growl in the back of his throat as his fingers curl tightly on the rolltop, his signet ring tinking against it. You reach forward blindly as your tongue tangles, hands sliding covetously down the sculpted plane of his body, giving his last item of clothing the final tug of encouragement needed to fall to the floor.
He pulls back from the kiss and stands upright, gloriously naked, cock already standing proud, stepping fully out of the trousers, and allowing you to enjoy the view for a few moments before he climbs into the tub, sliding his legs either side of your knees, facing you.
Instantly, he hauls you forward, arms banding your waist and lips finding yours again hungrily. The jostled water laps your bottom as you settle over him, that cock an insistent hot press into your belly, your pebbled nipples sliding over the smooth slab of his pectorals. One of his hands slides down your back, mapping your contours until it reaches your buttock, squeezing your rounded flesh and pressing you down further over his body. Your pussy already slicker than the water you are submerged in.
“This is not getting you clean, husband…” You cluck pointedly, but your breathiness slightly undermines your argument. Not that you really care, something primally alluring about his salty, tangy essence when he is slightly less than clean.
“I am not stopping you, dear wife,” he challenges, lips skating over your cheekbone. “The sponge is right there….”
Your eyes track sideways to the small stool by the side of the tub, where there is indeed said item, alongside a bar of almond soap and a jug for washing hair. But then he sucks on your earlobe, both of his large hands now grasping your bottom, seeming to span the entirety of both cheeks, and all you can do is melt into his attentions.
“You do not play fair…”
Your protests falter as he sucks upon that sensitive spot on your neck, goosebumps breaking out down your arms, despite the warm water you both lie in. Your hands instead loop his neck, nuzzling until his lips meet yours again.
The kiss you share starts slow and sensual, but once again soon turns passionate, lips sliding hungrily over each other, breathing each other's air. A hot surge of want through your being as Benedict gently spanks your bum cheek under the water, smiling into your mouth.
“Perhaps instead, then, you may have a morning ride,” he coaxes, the double entendre clear from the bowing of his body, so his cock nudges you. “I promise to make it even more stimulating than mine was.”
Such an offer is impossible to resist, especially when he encourages you to sit upright, and he tilts toward to catch your nipple in his mouth, sucking insistently in a way that is a beeline right to your core. You grasp the tub for leverage as he swaps to your other breast, pressing yourself into his questing tongue and suction, as your other hand slips underwater. His teeth bite down as your fingers wrap around his cock, making you groan and shudder, suddenly desperate for him to be inside you. Shuffling so you line up your body.
You both groan loudly as you lower yourself onto him. It's the same glorious stretch it always is, cleaved open, your pussy clinging to his every contour as you slide to his root; that eyerolling sensation of utter fullness could simply never get old.
His wet hands slide up over your back, round your shoulders and cup your face, eyes locked on each other as you start to move, lips touching, just a slow rise and fall, luxuriating in how it feels to have him inside you while in this warm aromatic bath.
Droplets of water run down his toned forearms and drip onto your diaphragm as you ride him unhurriedly, indulgently, revelling in every passing contour of his cock.
One of his pinky fingers slides down your face to hook into the side of your mouth, and you suckle upon it, a trace bloom of tanned leather hide from where he gripped the horse's reins. It spurs you on. Staring him down as you start to speed up. The water now sloshes about the tub as you go harder, faster, chasing that wondrous sensation with increasing urgency.
The warmth of the water makes you feel flushed, even a little lightheaded from the exertion, slumping forward and clinging to him like a vine, him caging you as you ride and moan loudly, uncaring if the staff may hear. They are more than used to your amorous activities now, having walked in on more than one occasion to your passionate lovemaking in all rooms of the house, even outside in the grounds.
You feel your clit swelling with each nudge to his body as you rise and fall, a zip of pleasure that makes you ache for his fingers there to send you over the edge, your lips on the shell of his ear.
“Touch me,” you rasp, a little breathless now, and you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it.
“Oh, not yet, darling,” he denies, his smirk obvious where his face is pressed into your cheek.
You lean back to stare into his eyes with a beseeching pout, hoping to implore him.
“Do not be so hasty…” he chides playfully, one hand slipping underwater to hold your hip, halt your motions, so you are sat upon him, clit throbbing against his ticklish pubic hair. “Rest, my love.”
He seems to enjoy how you whimper, the stretch of him inside you a mass you cannot ignore, the urge to circle your hips to drag his cock over all those spots inside almost impossible to resist. But you do as he suggests, sit impaled upon him as he detangles from you, leans back on the tub end and reaches casually for the sponge, soaping it up.
The drag of the slightly rough texture of it over your nipples makes you clench upon him, and he groans deeply, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before he continues soaping up the part of your body above water with almost torturously slow motions, dipping it into the water occasionally to cleanse your body of the soap.
He strays lower under the water, a devastating crooked smile as he swipes the sponge over your belly, brushing briefly over your clit in a way that makes you shudder anew.
“Your turn,” he hands you the sponge and nods down at his body.
You mirror his actions, cleaning his torso, enjoying the play of lithe muscle under skin as he breaths deeply, watching you. His cock is still rigid inside you. The scent of almond rising from his skin makes you want to pitch forward and bite down on his broad shoulder.
He sits up and kisses you as he gently lifts you off his cock, you whimpering over his tongue at its loss.
“Turn around,” he purrs, taking the sponge from you. Dutifully, you flip over using his thighs as leverage to do so. Then he is up and kneeling behind you, guiding your hands to the far end of the tub, curling your fingers over it.
You cry out as he roughly thrusts into you from behind, ploughing deep, then holds still once more. One hand moulded to the flare of your hip, the other dragging that sponge across your back. Washing your skin, running languorous swipes across your ribcage and spine, while all that you can think of is being fucked hard.
“Please….” You moan, hoping it will telegraph your need.
“Once you are clean…” He counters, and that sponge rounds your hip, a teasing swipe of its ticklish texture against your distended clit again.
Just as you want to protest, he starts to move. A slow, sensual drag that has you rolling with him in sync. The feeling is utterly divine, the water lapping your sides as he takes you from behind, his chin hooked over your shoulder. One of his hands cups your face, twisting so your lips meet hungrily. Your moans get louder as he speeds up, both of you needing a release now.
You cling to the bath edge, knees sliding on the oiled copper as his hands roam your body, reaching in front to seize your breasts, your nipples snagging between the swell of his knuckles, you calling out into his mouth.
The pace is faster now, the water turning choppy as his long, dextrous finers slide between your legs, catching against your engorged clit as you call his name. Just a few flicks and you are rocketed skywards, the rhythmic pull of his cock furrowing into you enough to fling you into the stars. Barely cognizant of the tide of water now swashing out of the tub as his movements become frenzied, approaching his peak, your pussy convulsing around him.
As ecstasy races through every cell of your body, his mouth hangs open on your cheekbone as he freezes. Dimly, you feel that familiar pulse deep inside the warmth of his seed blooming against your hilt as he shudders and moans your name, collapsing against your back, panting as you still float on a cloud of bliss.
“I am almost certain there is now more water outside this tub than in,” you giggle a few beats later as you rearrange, him pulling you down on top of him in a languid embrace. “Will it not cause damage?”
“Possibly,” Benedict chuckles blithely, kissing your temple, his fingers trailing soothing patterns on your lumbar spine. “I’ll towel it all up before Mrs Crabtree can chastise me,” he promises.
——
“Tis quite the darndest thing, Mr Bridgerton…”
A few days later, you return from a walk to find Mr Crabtree signalling to a large stain that has appeared on the ceiling of the dining room.
You wince slightly, feeling your cheeks flush dark as Benedict grins unrepentantly, both of your reactions unseen by the other man, who is still staring up at the patch, puzzled.
“Such a mystery indeed, Mr Crabtree,” he breezes, shooting you a wink.
masterlist • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)
My friend... I owe you so many apologies for my tardiness in general on this platform. Begging your forgiveness and saying TY for your amazing support, your reblog and your awesome beta skills. I hope to have new fics to throw at you one day! You're the best! 😁🧡🧡
Summary: When your husband, Benedict, joins you in your relaxing bath, it soon becomes anything but...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Bathing, foreplay, vaginal sex, sex under water.
Word Count: 2.1k
Author's note: Anon request fill for bathtub sex with Benedict. Well, this is not exactly unexpected, given ep 8 lol. This is built upon a drabble I wrote a couple of years ago. Not betaed, I just wanted to get it posted before I changed my mind lol. Enjoy! <3
Closing your eyes with a contented sigh, you relax back against one end of the large copper bathtub. The water hot, the air swirling with delicate notes of jasmine—a sublime oasis of sensual calm.
Just the gentle sound of a ticking clock upon the nearby mantle has you slipping into a reverie, so much so that you do not even discern the door softly clicking open. Starling a little at a smooth baritone voice ringing out.
“Is there room for one more in that bathtub?”
Your eyes fly open to find one Benedict Bridgerton standing just beyond the other end, peeling off his riding coat with a smirk on his face. He is freshly returned from a bracing ride out over the fields on this fine, sunny morning.
“That depends,” you simper, pushing up to allow your nipples to peak over the top of the water line—an intentional tease. “Pray tell, how dirty did you get out there?”
“Absolutely filthy,” he rumbles, eyes glittering as his gaze slips down to your breasts, his boots clattering heavily onto the wooden floor as he yanks them off.
“Well then, we shall need to find a suitable method by which to scrub you clean indeed…” Your response is coquettish, cocking your head to the side as if in deep thought as you watch his waistcoat disappear.
“I have a proposal…” he offers, the words slightly muffled behind his shirt as he discards it over his head.
“I am all ears, Mr Bridgerton.”
Reflexively, you bite your lip as his sculpted torso is revealed. There is a slight sheen from his exertions, his skin glistens like polished marble in the gauzy sunlight filtering through the window voiles. When your eyes finally pan up to meet his, his brow is arched, teasingly, clearly enjoying your wanton perusal.
“Perhaps you may cleanse my body while it is wrapped around yours, Mrs Bridgerton?”
There's a crooked smile toying at his handsome face as he asserts such, while also roughly unbuttoning his trousers.
“What an intriguing prospect…” You quip as you twist your legs and push up onto your knees.
His inhale is ragged as your naked body is revealed, rivulets sluicing down over your flesh that his eyes greedily track, his chest heaving just a little more.
Then he leans forward, hands curling around either side of the bathtub as he looms large, and his breath dusts warm over your cheekbone. He smells woodsy with a musky undercurrent that is all him, his unbuttoned trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips.
“What a rotten shame there is no room in that most sizeable bathtub for me, too, then,” he murmurs.
“Such an awful shame,” you concur in a whisper, tilting to trace your mouth over his.
There is an amused huff, and then suddenly his lips claim yours. The kiss is instantly intense, a growl in the back of his throat as his fingers curl tightly on the rolltop, his signet ring tinking against it. You reach forward blindly as your tongue tangles, hands sliding covetously down the sculpted plane of his body, giving his last item of clothing the final tug of encouragement needed to fall to the floor.
He pulls back from the kiss and stands upright, gloriously naked, cock already standing proud, stepping fully out of the trousers, and allowing you to enjoy the view for a few moments before he climbs into the tub, sliding his legs either side of your knees, facing you.
Instantly, he hauls you forward, arms banding your waist and lips finding yours again hungrily. The jostled water laps your bottom as you settle over him, that cock an insistent hot press into your belly, your pebbled nipples sliding over the smooth slab of his pectorals. One of his hands slides down your back, mapping your contours until it reaches your buttock, squeezing your rounded flesh and pressing you down further over his body. Your pussy already slicker than the water you are submerged in.
“This is not getting you clean, husband…” You cluck pointedly, but your breathiness slightly undermines your argument. Not that you really care, something primally alluring about his salty, tangy essence when he is slightly less than clean.
“I am not stopping you, dear wife,” he challenges, lips skating over your cheekbone. “The sponge is right there….”
Your eyes track sideways to the small stool by the side of the tub, where there is indeed said item, alongside a bar of almond soap and a jug for washing hair. But then he sucks on your earlobe, both of his large hands now grasping your bottom, seeming to span the entirety of both cheeks, and all you can do is melt into his attentions.
“You do not play fair…”
Your protests falter as he sucks upon that sensitive spot on your neck, goosebumps breaking out down your arms, despite the warm water you both lie in. Your hands instead loop his neck, nuzzling until his lips meet yours again.
The kiss you share starts slow and sensual, but once again soon turns passionate, lips sliding hungrily over each other, breathing each other's air. A hot surge of want through your being as Benedict gently spanks your bum cheek under the water, smiling into your mouth.
“Perhaps instead, then, you may have a morning ride,” he coaxes, the double entendre clear from the bowing of his body, so his cock nudges you. “I promise to make it even more stimulating than mine was.”
Such an offer is impossible to resist, especially when he encourages you to sit upright, and he tilts toward to catch your nipple in his mouth, sucking insistently in a way that is a beeline right to your core. You grasp the tub for leverage as he swaps to your other breast, pressing yourself into his questing tongue and suction, as your other hand slips underwater. His teeth bite down as your fingers wrap around his cock, making you groan and shudder, suddenly desperate for him to be inside you. Shuffling so you line up your body.
You both groan loudly as you lower yourself onto him. It's the same glorious stretch it always is, cleaved open, your pussy clinging to his every contour as you slide to his root; that eyerolling sensation of utter fullness could simply never get old.
His wet hands slide up over your back, round your shoulders and cup your face, eyes locked on each other as you start to move, lips touching, just a slow rise and fall, luxuriating in how it feels to have him inside you while in this warm aromatic bath.
Droplets of water run down his toned forearms and drip onto your diaphragm as you ride him unhurriedly, indulgently, revelling in every passing contour of his cock.
One of his pinky fingers slides down your face to hook into the side of your mouth, and you suckle upon it, a trace bloom of tanned leather hide from where he gripped the horse's reins. It spurs you on. Staring him down as you start to speed up. The water now sloshes about the tub as you go harder, faster, chasing that wondrous sensation with increasing urgency.
The warmth of the water makes you feel flushed, even a little lightheaded from the exertion, slumping forward and clinging to him like a vine, him caging you as you ride and moan loudly, uncaring if the staff may hear. They are more than used to your amorous activities now, having walked in on more than one occasion to your passionate lovemaking in all rooms of the house, even outside in the grounds.
You feel your clit swelling with each nudge to his body as you rise and fall, a zip of pleasure that makes you ache for his fingers there to send you over the edge, your lips on the shell of his ear.
“Touch me,” you rasp, a little breathless now, and you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it.
“Oh, not yet, darling,” he denies, his smirk obvious where his face is pressed into your cheek.
You lean back to stare into his eyes with a beseeching pout, hoping to implore him.
“Do not be so hasty…” he chides playfully, one hand slipping underwater to hold your hip, halt your motions, so you are sat upon him, clit throbbing against his ticklish pubic hair. “Rest, my love.”
He seems to enjoy how you whimper, the stretch of him inside you a mass you cannot ignore, the urge to circle your hips to drag his cock over all those spots inside almost impossible to resist. But you do as he suggests, sit impaled upon him as he detangles from you, leans back on the tub end and reaches casually for the sponge, soaping it up.
The drag of the slightly rough texture of it over your nipples makes you clench upon him, and he groans deeply, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before he continues soaping up the part of your body above water with almost torturously slow motions, dipping it into the water occasionally to cleanse your body of the soap.
He strays lower under the water, a devastating crooked smile as he swipes the sponge over your belly, brushing briefly over your clit in a way that makes you shudder anew.
“Your turn,” he hands you the sponge and nods down at his body.
You mirror his actions, cleaning his torso, enjoying the play of lithe muscle under skin as he breaths deeply, watching you. His cock is still rigid inside you. The scent of almond rising from his skin makes you want to pitch forward and bite down on his broad shoulder.
He sits up and kisses you as he gently lifts you off his cock, you whimpering over his tongue at its loss.
“Turn around,” he purrs, taking the sponge from you. Dutifully, you flip over using his thighs as leverage to do so. Then he is up and kneeling behind you, guiding your hands to the far end of the tub, curling your fingers over it.
You cry out as he roughly thrusts into you from behind, ploughing deep, then holds still once more. One hand moulded to the flare of your hip, the other dragging that sponge across your back. Washing your skin, running languorous swipes across your ribcage and spine, while all that you can think of is being fucked hard.
“Please….” You moan, hoping it will telegraph your need.
“Once you are clean…” He counters, and that sponge rounds your hip, a teasing swipe of its ticklish texture against your distended clit again.
Just as you want to protest, he starts to move. A slow, sensual drag that has you rolling with him in sync. The feeling is utterly divine, the water lapping your sides as he takes you from behind, his chin hooked over your shoulder. One of his hands cups your face, twisting so your lips meet hungrily. Your moans get louder as he speeds up, both of you needing a release now.
You cling to the bath edge, knees sliding on the oiled copper as his hands roam your body, reaching in front to seize your breasts, your nipples snagging between the swell of his knuckles, you calling out into his mouth.
The pace is faster now, the water turning choppy as his long, dextrous finers slide between your legs, catching against your engorged clit as you call his name. Just a few flicks and you are rocketed skywards, the rhythmic pull of his cock furrowing into you enough to fling you into the stars. Barely cognizant of the tide of water now swashing out of the tub as his movements become frenzied, approaching his peak, your pussy convulsing around him.
As ecstasy races through every cell of your body, his mouth hangs open on your cheekbone as he freezes. Dimly, you feel that familiar pulse deep inside the warmth of his seed blooming against your hilt as he shudders and moans your name, collapsing against your back, panting as you still float on a cloud of bliss.
“I am almost certain there is now more water outside this tub than in,” you giggle a few beats later as you rearrange, him pulling you down on top of him in a languid embrace. “Will it not cause damage?”
“Possibly,” Benedict chuckles blithely, kissing your temple, his fingers trailing soothing patterns on your lumbar spine. “I’ll towel it all up before Mrs Crabtree can chastise me,” he promises.
——
“Tis quite the darndest thing, Mr Bridgerton…”
A few days later, you return from a walk to find Mr Crabtree signalling to a large stain that has appeared on the ceiling of the dining room.
You wince slightly, feeling your cheeks flush dark as Benedict grins unrepentantly, both of your reactions unseen by the other man, who is still staring up at the patch, puzzled.
“Such a mystery indeed, Mr Crabtree,” he breezes, shooting you a wink.
masterlist • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)
Given it's now 3 months later (sorry, hiding in shame), I HOPE you have seen the new episodes by now. Also, thank you for your kind words & reblog. I'm so glad you enjoyed this 😁🧡🧡
Not too sure if the AMA means i can also ask somewhat personal questions, but i'll try:
Is there anything you do in your spare time that helps you decompress/empty your mind the most? (Basically help you get rid of as much stress as you can)
Like, for example my mother likes to knit because she only needs to count threads and nothing more. I enjoy reading cause it distracts me and my Bestie likes to bake cause she only needs to follow instructions and not think.
Thanks and can't wait for all the answers! ✨️
Hi lovely!
Yes I’m happy to answer personal questions.🫶
Thank you for sharing what you and your nearest and dearest enjoy to decompress! I am a reader too (mostly of non fiction) and I used to bake a lot, although our oven is unreliable these days, so not so much for a few years.
Tbh for me, it’s alway been puzzles. Be it Wordle, Connections, all the various forms of Sudoku (current fave is Tubedoku), cryptograms, logic grids or anything of that ilk. Yes, I pay for the NYT games subscription hahah.
If I get the chance I will pour over a 1000 piece or more jigsaw for hours on end. That’s sort of a family tradition at Christmas back in England.
During COVID, my husband and I rented a lovely Vermont cottage and they had so many jigsaw puzzles on the shelves. I was in my element every night, just puzzling away to the sound of the crackling fire. 🥹
That’s his glasses at the top of the pic lol.
Anyway thanks for your question. It was a fun one 😁🧡🧡
Anthony went to All Souls, Oxford like Edmund had done before him. Violet basically states how none of her sons have got a first class degree like Simon. Both are in the first book. Simon also studied Mathematics.
In the second book, Edwina (who wants a scholar) asks Anthony what he studied, and he says “the usual” and “history, mostly,” and “a bit of literature,” and that “never could stomach the stuff,” when asked about philosophy. So I’d wager he studied Classics.
*sigh* Nonny the question was what I (as in ME) thought they studied, NOT what the books say. 🤦♀️
This account is about writing fics, hence its name, and playing in a fictional universe.
I do not use the books as canon. Please check my About Me page. Thanks!
Summary: When your husband, Benedict, joins you in your relaxing bath, it soon becomes anything but...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI. Bathing, foreplay, vaginal sex, sex under water.
Word Count: 2.1k
Author's note: Anon request fill for bathtub sex with Benedict. Well, this is not exactly unexpected, given ep 8 lol. This is built upon a drabble I wrote a couple of years ago. Not betaed, I just wanted to get it posted before I changed my mind lol. Enjoy! <3
Closing your eyes with a contented sigh, you relax back against one end of the large copper bathtub. The water hot, the air swirling with delicate notes of jasmine—a sublime oasis of sensual calm.
Just the gentle sound of a ticking clock upon the nearby mantle has you slipping into a reverie, so much so that you do not even discern the door softly clicking open. Starling a little at a smooth baritone voice ringing out.
“Is there room for one more in that bathtub?”
Your eyes fly open to find one Benedict Bridgerton standing just beyond the other end, peeling off his riding coat with a smirk on his face. He is freshly returned from a bracing ride out over the fields on this fine, sunny morning.
“That depends,” you simper, pushing up to allow your nipples to peak over the top of the water line—an intentional tease. “Pray tell, how dirty did you get out there?”
“Absolutely filthy,” he rumbles, eyes glittering as his gaze slips down to your breasts, his boots clattering heavily onto the wooden floor as he yanks them off.
“Well then, we shall need to find a suitable method by which to scrub you clean indeed…” Your response is coquettish, cocking your head to the side as if in deep thought as you watch his waistcoat disappear.
“I have a proposal…” he offers, the words slightly muffled behind his shirt as he discards it over his head.
“I am all ears, Mr Bridgerton.”
Reflexively, you bite your lip as his sculpted torso is revealed. There is a slight sheen from his exertions, his skin glistens like polished marble in the gauzy sunlight filtering through the window voiles. When your eyes finally pan up to meet his, his brow is arched, teasingly, clearly enjoying your wanton perusal.
“Perhaps you may cleanse my body while it is wrapped around yours, Mrs Bridgerton?”
There's a crooked smile toying at his handsome face as he asserts such, while also roughly unbuttoning his trousers.
“What an intriguing prospect…” You quip as you twist your legs and push up onto your knees.
His inhale is ragged as your naked body is revealed, rivulets sluicing down over your flesh that his eyes greedily track, his chest heaving just a little more.
Then he leans forward, hands curling around either side of the bathtub as he looms large, and his breath dusts warm over your cheekbone. He smells woodsy with a musky undercurrent that is all him, his unbuttoned trousers hanging dangerously low on his hips.
“What a rotten shame there is no room in that most sizeable bathtub for me, too, then,” he murmurs.
“Such an awful shame,” you concur in a whisper, tilting to trace your mouth over his.
There is an amused huff, and then suddenly his lips claim yours. The kiss is instantly intense, a growl in the back of his throat as his fingers curl tightly on the rolltop, his signet ring tinking against it. You reach forward blindly as your tongue tangles, hands sliding covetously down the sculpted plane of his body, giving his last item of clothing the final tug of encouragement needed to fall to the floor.
He pulls back from the kiss and stands upright, gloriously naked, cock already standing proud, stepping fully out of the trousers, and allowing you to enjoy the view for a few moments before he climbs into the tub, sliding his legs either side of your knees, facing you.
Instantly, he hauls you forward, arms banding your waist and lips finding yours again hungrily. The jostled water laps your bottom as you settle over him, that cock an insistent hot press into your belly, your pebbled nipples sliding over the smooth slab of his pectorals. One of his hands slides down your back, mapping your contours until it reaches your buttock, squeezing your rounded flesh and pressing you down further over his body. Your pussy already slicker than the water you are submerged in.
“This is not getting you clean, husband…” You cluck pointedly, but your breathiness slightly undermines your argument. Not that you really care, something primally alluring about his salty, tangy essence when he is slightly less than clean.
“I am not stopping you, dear wife,” he challenges, lips skating over your cheekbone. “The sponge is right there….”
Your eyes track sideways to the small stool by the side of the tub, where there is indeed said item, alongside a bar of almond soap and a jug for washing hair. But then he sucks on your earlobe, both of his large hands now grasping your bottom, seeming to span the entirety of both cheeks, and all you can do is melt into his attentions.
“You do not play fair…”
Your protests falter as he sucks upon that sensitive spot on your neck, goosebumps breaking out down your arms, despite the warm water you both lie in. Your hands instead loop his neck, nuzzling until his lips meet yours again.
The kiss you share starts slow and sensual, but once again soon turns passionate, lips sliding hungrily over each other, breathing each other's air. A hot surge of want through your being as Benedict gently spanks your bum cheek under the water, smiling into your mouth.
“Perhaps instead, then, you may have a morning ride,” he coaxes, the double entendre clear from the bowing of his body, so his cock nudges you. “I promise to make it even more stimulating than mine was.”
Such an offer is impossible to resist, especially when he encourages you to sit upright, and he tilts toward to catch your nipple in his mouth, sucking insistently in a way that is a beeline right to your core. You grasp the tub for leverage as he swaps to your other breast, pressing yourself into his questing tongue and suction, as your other hand slips underwater. His teeth bite down as your fingers wrap around his cock, making you groan and shudder, suddenly desperate for him to be inside you. Shuffling so you line up your body.
You both groan loudly as you lower yourself onto him. It's the same glorious stretch it always is, cleaved open, your pussy clinging to his every contour as you slide to his root; that eyerolling sensation of utter fullness could simply never get old.
His wet hands slide up over your back, round your shoulders and cup your face, eyes locked on each other as you start to move, lips touching, just a slow rise and fall, luxuriating in how it feels to have him inside you while in this warm aromatic bath.
Droplets of water run down his toned forearms and drip onto your diaphragm as you ride him unhurriedly, indulgently, revelling in every passing contour of his cock.
One of his pinky fingers slides down your face to hook into the side of your mouth, and you suckle upon it, a trace bloom of tanned leather hide from where he gripped the horse's reins. It spurs you on. Staring him down as you start to speed up. The water now sloshes about the tub as you go harder, faster, chasing that wondrous sensation with increasing urgency.
The warmth of the water makes you feel flushed, even a little lightheaded from the exertion, slumping forward and clinging to him like a vine, him caging you as you ride and moan loudly, uncaring if the staff may hear. They are more than used to your amorous activities now, having walked in on more than one occasion to your passionate lovemaking in all rooms of the house, even outside in the grounds.
You feel your clit swelling with each nudge to his body as you rise and fall, a zip of pleasure that makes you ache for his fingers there to send you over the edge, your lips on the shell of his ear.
“Touch me,” you rasp, a little breathless now, and you feel his chuckle as much as you hear it.
“Oh, not yet, darling,” he denies, his smirk obvious where his face is pressed into your cheek.
You lean back to stare into his eyes with a beseeching pout, hoping to implore him.
“Do not be so hasty…” he chides playfully, one hand slipping underwater to hold your hip, halt your motions, so you are sat upon him, clit throbbing against his ticklish pubic hair. “Rest, my love.”
He seems to enjoy how you whimper, the stretch of him inside you a mass you cannot ignore, the urge to circle your hips to drag his cock over all those spots inside almost impossible to resist. But you do as he suggests, sit impaled upon him as he detangles from you, leans back on the tub end and reaches casually for the sponge, soaping it up.
The drag of the slightly rough texture of it over your nipples makes you clench upon him, and he groans deeply, his eyes fluttering closed briefly before he continues soaping up the part of your body above water with almost torturously slow motions, dipping it into the water occasionally to cleanse your body of the soap.
He strays lower under the water, a devastating crooked smile as he swipes the sponge over your belly, brushing briefly over your clit in a way that makes you shudder anew.
“Your turn,” he hands you the sponge and nods down at his body.
You mirror his actions, cleaning his torso, enjoying the play of lithe muscle under skin as he breaths deeply, watching you. His cock is still rigid inside you. The scent of almond rising from his skin makes you want to pitch forward and bite down on his broad shoulder.
He sits up and kisses you as he gently lifts you off his cock, you whimpering over his tongue at its loss.
“Turn around,” he purrs, taking the sponge from you. Dutifully, you flip over using his thighs as leverage to do so. Then he is up and kneeling behind you, guiding your hands to the far end of the tub, curling your fingers over it.
You cry out as he roughly thrusts into you from behind, ploughing deep, then holds still once more. One hand moulded to the flare of your hip, the other dragging that sponge across your back. Washing your skin, running languorous swipes across your ribcage and spine, while all that you can think of is being fucked hard.
“Please….” You moan, hoping it will telegraph your need.
“Once you are clean…” He counters, and that sponge rounds your hip, a teasing swipe of its ticklish texture against your distended clit again.
Just as you want to protest, he starts to move. A slow, sensual drag that has you rolling with him in sync. The feeling is utterly divine, the water lapping your sides as he takes you from behind, his chin hooked over your shoulder. One of his hands cups your face, twisting so your lips meet hungrily. Your moans get louder as he speeds up, both of you needing a release now.
You cling to the bath edge, knees sliding on the oiled copper as his hands roam your body, reaching in front to seize your breasts, your nipples snagging between the swell of his knuckles, you calling out into his mouth.
The pace is faster now, the water turning choppy as his long, dextrous finers slide between your legs, catching against your engorged clit as you call his name. Just a few flicks and you are rocketed skywards, the rhythmic pull of his cock furrowing into you enough to fling you into the stars. Barely cognizant of the tide of water now swashing out of the tub as his movements become frenzied, approaching his peak, your pussy convulsing around him.
As ecstasy races through every cell of your body, his mouth hangs open on your cheekbone as he freezes. Dimly, you feel that familiar pulse deep inside the warmth of his seed blooming against your hilt as he shudders and moans your name, collapsing against your back, panting as you still float on a cloud of bliss.
“I am almost certain there is now more water outside this tub than in,” you giggle a few beats later as you rearrange, him pulling you down on top of him in a languid embrace. “Will it not cause damage?”
“Possibly,” Benedict chuckles blithely, kissing your temple, his fingers trailing soothing patterns on your lumbar spine. “I’ll towel it all up before Mrs Crabtree can chastise me,” he promises.
——
“Tis quite the darndest thing, Mr Bridgerton…”
A few days later, you return from a walk to find Mr Crabtree signalling to a large stain that has appeared on the ceiling of the dining room.
You wince slightly, feeling your cheeks flush dark as Benedict grins unrepentantly, both of your reactions unseen by the other man, who is still staring up at the patch, puzzled.
“Such a mystery indeed, Mr Crabtree,” he breezes, shooting you a wink.
masterlist • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)
Hey friend! 👋 So, you're having an AMA Night...What to ask you? Ooooh I know! I just might be time for another....
BRIDGERTON BRO DEATH MATCH 🚨🚨
The theme is.... BEST WET MOMENT (them, not us) 🤣🤣
Here we go!
Wet!thony, having just rode to Danbury House in the rain
2. Are we calling him Rain!edict here? Sick!Ben? either way, this one!
3. Lake!edict...err I still see a few droplets on him...somewhere, so it counts, surely 👀
4. and it may seem WILDLY unfair but I HAVE to include this one, it's THE LAW....the original Wet!thony
and then this is not a contender, I just wanted to include it, Wet Manbread!
So, you have four contenders. There can be only one, WHICH ONE DO YOU CHOOSE?
Hi my fren!!
OMG, what an AMA question!!!
OK OK OK.... As per usual... imma cheat. Those who don't make the cut are not dead; they are merely sent to a room to dry off and be dealt with later. 😉
My instinct is I want ALL of them, OF COURSE. So I think I have to go with the rule of least damp and work backwards, cos we all know wettest is bestest (or something).
First lets get rid of 5) Wet Manbread. It's delicious, but they are barely misted.
Next to go, I guess, has to be 1) Wet!thony. A bit more rained-on but still not the level of dampness I require.
This is getting tough.... he is DELICIOUS, but next up I have to eliminate 2) Rainedict. He is all jawline and soaked through BUT wearing FAR TOO MUCH CLOTHING.
Well, predictably, it hath come down to my lake boys.
Can I have both? Please? No? Even though I broke my own rule above cos he is CLEARLY the driest of them all, I have to give it to 3) Lakedict... cos he is wearing the least amount of clothing and I am an EXTREMELY shallow, thirsty old bish. BUT I'll have you know 4) Lake!thony is also the wettest, so he wins too, based on my abovementioned rules.
Thank you for this hilarious silliness, my fren. You are literally the best 😁🧡🧡
