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Prompt request:

"Tell me you've though of this too." 👀

P.S. Love your writing, you're so talented!

Tell Me You've Thought of This Too

TAGS: Modern AU, Friend's Brother, Secret Hookup, Mutual Pining, Eloise's Favourite Brother, Benedict's Loft, Secretly Texting, Oral, Fingering, Penetration, Size Kink, Spicy RomCom Vibes

Sophie had been standing in the freight lift for twenty seconds longer than strictly necessary because the moment she folded back the gate, something was going to be decided.

She folded back the gate.

The top floor of the Shoreditch warehouse opened up around her: exposed brick, canvases stacked six deep against every wall, books in piles instead of shelves, a velvet sofa the colour of moss that looked like it had survived a beautiful nervous breakdown, and Benedict Bridgerton at the stove, barefoot, in a grey t-shirt with paint on the hem and black sweats that hung low on his hips. His hair was doing the thing. The unwashed, curling-at-the-nape thing that on any other man would read as deeply concerning hygiene choices and on him read as a personal thesis on entropy being, actually, kind of hot.

Sophie had known Eloise for three years. She'd known about Benedict for two, in the abstract sense that you know about a comet, i.e., from a safe distance, and with the understanding that getting too close would be catastrophic. She was here because he had texted her at 2:07 a.m. last night — not Eloise, her, directly, which he'd been doing increasingly often in a way she refused to examine too closely — and the text had said: Gallery showing in three days. Need to paint the partition wall. Need an actual eye. Don't tell El.

She had replied what colour? at 2:08, which was its own kind of decision.

"You said you needed a favour," she said.

"I do." He didn't turn around. "Come in. Shut the gate."

She shut the gate. The loft was warm from whatever he was cooking, garlic and something with tomatoes and basil, and the late August light came through the industrial windows in long amber columns. It lit the dust motes and the paint smears on the floorboards and, when he finally turned to look at her, the edge of his jaw.

He moved the pan off the heat. Wiped his hands on a tea towel. Crossed to the kitchen island — white marble, currently buried under sketches and a half-eaten bowl of pasta — and swept the papers into a pile with his forearm to reveal a row of paint swatches fanned out like a bad hand in cards.

Six whites. Or, technically, six things that would insist they were all different colours, including one that Sophie was fairly certain was just beige in denial.

"The partition wall," she said.

"East-facing. The showing's figurative work, mostly, so I want something warm but not yellow. Something that won't compete with the frames."

"You could have sent me a photo."

"Photos distort the undertone and you know that because I explained this at length at one in the morning, which I stand by as a reasonable hour to discuss colour theory."

He was closer than he needed to be. He'd been closer than he needed to be for six months now, in a slow, undeniable pattern — at Daphne's garden party, at two separate Sunday lunches, once in the corridor at Eloise's flat when they'd arrived at the same moment and stood in the doorway for three seconds too long while their bodies sorted out logistics their brains were refusing to address.

Sophie's phone buzzed.

Eloise: You're late for wine and my extremely compelling documentary about ocean microplastics Eloise: which yes I know sounds grim but it has incredible cinematography Eloise: Sophie?? Eloise: if you're on a date with the banker I will find out and I will be annoying about it

Sophie turned the phone face-down on the marble.

Benedict watched her do it. "She doesn't know you're here."

"You told me not to tell her."

"I know what I told you." He uncrossed his arms. His hand settled on the marble next to hers, paint-stained fingers two inches away. "I'm asking whether that bothers you."

The honest answer was: yes, obviously, in the kind of way that doing something you've wanted to do for nearly two years while fully aware it's probably a terrible idea tends to bother a person. The other honest answer was: not enough to leave.

"Third from the left," she said, looking at the swatches. "Warm but not yellow. The brick will do the rest."

"Good. I already knew. I needed confirmation."

"You texted me at two in the morning for confirmation."

"You replied one minute later, which means you were also awake, which means we can drop the part where you pretend this is an inconvenience."

Oh, I really want to murder him. "Your reputation, for the record—"

"Is substantially overstated."

"Eloise says you've slept with half of London."

"Eloise is being protective and wildly approximate. Half of London is four and a half million people. I'd need a spreadsheet, a support team, and significantly more stamina." He turned to face her fully. The amber light hit the blue-green of his eyes and Sophie's chest did a thing she clocked and ignored. "I'm not a cautionary tale, Sophie. I'm a man who has been extremely badly behaved in your general direction for the last six months and is now approximately thirty seconds from doing something about it."

"That is the least sexy way anyone has ever—"

He tucked her hair back behind her ear. His knuckles slowly grazed her jaw. The knuckles were still paint-stained and she could smell the turpentine up close and none of that helped.

"Tell me you've thought about this too," he said.

She kissed him.

His mouth was warm and tasted of the pasta and the wine he'd been drinking while waiting for her, and his hand went to the back of her neck and the kiss was not tentative, or exploratory, or the restrained first contact of people being sensible about things. It was six months of loaded eye contact across Sunday lunch tables detonating in a single point of contact. His other hand gripped her waist, lifted her onto the marble island, and she went, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him into the space between her thighs, and the height difference corrected itself, and the paint swatches scattered to the floor.

"Fuck," he said, into her mouth.

"Yeah," she said.

He kissed her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. His hands slid under her shirt and his palms were warm on her ribs and he looked at her bra — plain beige cotton, entirely unselected for drama — like he was regarding something genuinely sacred, which was either very sweet or very extra and she'd decided she didn't care which.

"You are—"

"If you reference a dead artist, I will leave."

"I was going to say gorgeous, but noted for future reference." He unhooked the bra, which fell between them, and his thumbs traced the undersides of her breasts with a reverence that made her thighs tighten around his hips. His mouth followed. She gripped the edge of the island and let herself make the sound that came out.

He sank to his knees on the concrete floor.

The ambient light from the windows caught his hair and his jaw and the very serious way he was looking up at her with his hands on her hips, and Sophie's brain ran a brief involuntary image of every girls' brunch Eloise would make deeply uncomfortable if this ended badly, and then he undid the button of her jeans with his teeth and her brain vacated the premises.

Three attempts. He gave up on the third and used his hands, which was faster and significantly less ceremonial, and she was laughing when he pulled her jeans down her legs and tossed them somewhere behind him with the sort of energy that had made its decision and was fully committed to the consequences.

"Ben, if you tease me—"

His tongue pressed flat against her cunt. One slow, ruinous lick and whatever threat she'd been composing dissolved completely. Her hand found his hair and she gripped it and he made a muffled sound of approval and settled in.

He had a methodology. She noticed this somewhere around the second minute, between the first time her back hit the cold marble and the point where her thighs had taken up independent residency on his shoulders: a specific pattern of pressure and variation that suggested he'd thought about this, that this was something he'd applied actual cognitive resource to, which was somehow more impressive than pure instinct would have been.

Two fingers inside her. His mouth on her clit. The combination made her vision swim at the edges. His free hand held her hip against the marble with a firmness that might have bruised if she'd cared, which she did not.

"Fuck — right there, don't stop—"

He didn't stop. She was close, climbing fast, her hand twisting in his hair, and he groaned against her, muffled and rough, and the vibration tipped her—

He pulled his fingers out and pressed them to her lower lip. She opened her mouth, tasted herself, salt and copper and heat, and his eyes went very dark and his hips pressed forward against the island edge and she could see, through his sweats, exactly what the reputation had been approximately correct about.

"I need to be inside you," he said.

"Then carry me to bed."

He stood, pulled her off the island, and carried her across the loft. Her legs around his waist, his hands on her arse, weaving between the canvas stacks and the book piles and the scattered paint swatches. It was ridiculous. The warehouse floor, the late light, Eloise's unanswered texts — all ridiculous — and she had her face in his neck and was aware of every point of contact between them and the specific thick press of his cock against her through the cotton.

The bed was a low platform with white sheets that probably needed changing. She didn't remark on this. He set her down, shed the t-shirt, pushed the sweatpants off, and his cock was hard and big enough that Sophie processed the reputation-to-reality ratio and arrived at: broadly accurate, with rounding up in key areas.

She found the condom in the bedside drawer. Rolled it on him with her fingers around the shaft, and his head dropped forward and he exhaled hard through his nose in a way that suggested she had, at least momentarily, acquired significant negotiating power.

He braced over her. Guided himself through the slick mess of her. Pushed in slowly, watching her face, and the stretch was considerable — a full, deep pressure that made her exhale and adjust, and he held still, forehead against hers.

"You good?"

"Shut up and move."

He moved. Slow, deep strokes she matched with her hips, her heels finding his lower back, pulling him deeper. The slick sound of them in the quiet loft. His mouth found hers and the kiss was off-centre and their teeth bumped and she laughed into it and he laughed back and the laughter changed the angle and she stopped laughing immediately because the new angle hit a place that made her forget every word she knew.

"Harder."

He gave her harder. His hand pushed her thigh up toward her chest, the angle steepening, and every stroke hit that specific internal geography that made her genuinely loud in a way that was going to carry through the warehouse walls, and he'd have to deal with the neighbours later—

Her phone rang.

On the kitchen island. Forty feet of warehouse floor away. Eloise's ringtone — Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill — blaring through the loft like a war declaration.

They froze. His cock buried inside her. Her legs around his waist. Bikini Kill echoing off the exposed brick and the stacked canvases in a moment of such precise comedic timing that Sophie briefly wondered whether God was a romcom writer.

"Don't," he said.

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

"She's going to know."

"She's going to know eventually."

"Benedict—"

"Sophie." He pulled back and thrust deep and her head fell back and Rebel Girl rang out into the amber-lit warehouse. "My sister has survived twenty-five years without my undivided attention during sex. She can manage another few minutes."

The phone rang through to voicemail. The chime pinged. He fucked her through it, her back arching off the sheets, his hand gripping the headboard, and the sound she made when she came was nowhere near quiet and she actively didn't care.

He followed a few strokes later with his face in her shoulder and her name in his mouth, and then there was just the weight of him and her own heartbeat.

"We have to tell Eloise," she said, to the ceiling.

"Tomorrow."

"She's going to murder you."

"Probably. Worth it." He propped himself on his elbows. His hair was wrecked. He looked at her like he'd done something irreversible and was at complete peace with it. "Third from the left."

"Third from the left."

"Good. I needed to be certain."

She shoved his shoulder. He rolled off her and pulled her into his chest, one arm heavy around her waist, his mouth against her hair, and her phone buzzed again on the island — Eloise, texting, probably seventeen messages deep by now, the documentary about microplastics unwatched and the wine getting warm.

Sophie pressed her face into the turpentine-and-cedar warmth of his neck and let the voicemail sit unopened.

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