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mccoyyy · 2 days ago

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Bright Star

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Yet again, your husband lures you to the billiards room of Bridgerton House in the early hours. Sequel to Sonnet #29.

Warnings: 18+, smut, minors dni, smoking (cigars), dom/sub dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, mild sensory deprivation (blindfold), smidge of spanking, exhibitionism, window sex, vaginal sex, unauthorised weaponisation of poetry.

Word count: 3.7k

Author note: Sequel to my very first fic and posted on its 3rd anniversary. Not necessary to have read it, but there are callbacks. Use of ‘my lord’ is part of their d/s play. Yes, I know the Keats poem he recites here, also the title of the fic, was not published until 1838; please forgive the artistic liberties taken. Beta read by the amazing @colettebronte. Enjoy! <3

“Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?”

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict’s chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening’s carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night.

“Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?”

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

“Maybe…” you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

“Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised,” he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it.

“Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband,” you cluck, raising a brow of your own.

There’s a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: “Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife…..”

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly.

“... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours,” Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. “Least of all me.”

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

“That's it; ride my hand…” he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

“So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?” He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.

You moan and bite your lip, nodding as you ride harder, that addictive shiver racing down your spine as the slick sounds of your arousal fill the air.

But then, his hand is gone, and you whimper at the all-too-sudden loss. He makes a show of raising those glistening fingers and sucking upon them. A light flicks on behind his hazy eyes, his pupils dilating rapidly, and his nostrils flaring; your taste ignites something. He releases his fingers in a wet pop to give you a brusque order.

“Stand up, my love.”

You scramble to obey, climbing out of his lap, on your feet before you realise it, facing him, your skin flushing warm at the rich timbre he employs.

“Undress for me.”

A command that you happily follow, crossing your arms and gathering your nightgown, quickly whipping it over your head and tossing it aside.

Now you stand before him, utterly naked, a tingle all over from sheer anticipation. His stare is almost predatory, his chest rising and falling more rapidly. His eyes rake over you covetously, lingering upon your nipples, pebbling in the slightly cool room - the fire only glowing with ashy embers now - then at the apex of your thighs. His tongue flicks out to trace his lower lip before he speaks anew.

“Loathed as I am to repeat myself, I am most certainly fighting the urge to bind you in my silks,” he declares, your mind flooding with the memory of him tying your hands with his cravat as you perched upon the nearby billiards table.

You offer your wrists forward for him to repeat that whim—an open invitation to play as you sometimes do. It has him snarling and jumping hungrily out of the chair, rounding upon you with athletic alacrity.

He stops so close you can feel his breath puffing onto your collarbone. You cannot help but gaze up at him as he looms over you, mesmerised by how he can so wholly inhabit a role when you ask it of him, one so opposite to his affable, tender nature. Even the contours of his face seem altered, more angular, in the low flickering candlelight.

“I shall not bind your wrists, but I shall employ my cravat elsewhere.” He pauses to cup your cheek tenderly, his middle fingers stretching up to lower your eyelids softly. “I rather want you blindfolded, my love.”

A fizz erupts in your belly, and you can't help but whisper: “Yes, please, my lord.”

The invocation of his play title is akin to lighting a touchpaper; suddenly, he is kissing you again. One of his arms bandies your waist to pull you flush into him, the brocade of his waistcoat rough on your skin as he plunders your mouth, all heat and teeth, almost biting in intensity. His other hand at his neck, discarding the jewelled pin that holds his cravat in place and rapidly unfurling the fabric.

He steps back, holding the cravat loosely between his two outheld hands, a tacit request for your approval. You merely smile and nod, turning your back to him so he may secure it around your face. The cornflower blue silk is luxuriously soft and smells of his cologne. He loops the fabric around your head one more time so your view is blotted out completely, his breath ghosting your nape as he ties a secure knot at the back of your head.

“Your other senses should be heightened…” he pronounces, appearing to circle you, the slight creak of the floorboards your guide. Indeed, robbed of your sight, everything else feels dialled up.

“Hearing…”

That word is exhaled right into your ear from behind, the proximity making you jump a fraction, his breath gusting through the tendrils of your hair. Indeed, you swear you can hear the ticking of the grandfather clock out in the hallway as he withdraws. A flutter under your ribs as you sense his renewed movement.

“Touch….”

You inhale sharply as his thumbnail hooks onto your left nipple, flicking up and dragging slowly down. You can tell he is cataloguing the way your skin erupts into goosebumps; just know there is a victorious quirk on his lips.

His other hand then cups your right breast and treats it with the same care. You moan gently and rock forward onto the balls of your feet, him plucking the swollen, darkened nubs between his dextrous fingertips. All too soon, though, the touch is gone, and you try not to pout. Swaying into the space he has just left.

It seems like an eternity on tenterhooks as he prowls around, so close you can smell him, his cologne, and feel the occasional waft of breeze where he passes, trying to modulate your breathing, your thighs rubbing together reflexively, seeking friction.

“Scent…”

Suddenly, your nostrils are filled with the peaty, smoky aroma of expensive scotch, assuming he has grabbed the glass to hold close to your face. You inhale deeply, cognisant of his desire for you to indulge in each sense.

“And finally, taste….”

That last word is like velvet as he gently tilts your chin up, a drop of liquid falling onto your cupid's bow. You open reflexively to swipe it with your tongue - only for his wet fingers to hook over your bottom teeth. It appears he did not use the glass after all; just soaked his fingers.

On instinct, you close around them and suck, an intentional provocation that has a strangled noise catch in his throat. He tastes of the liquor but also traces of the ashy tang of charcoal and your own arousal from when he teased you before. Your eyelashes flutter against the softness of his cravat as you suckle harder, as if it were his cock, hollowing your cheeks and pulling his fingers deeper so the tips brush the roof of your mouth, lathing with your tongue.

“You utter vixen,” he growls, wholly commendatory, always pleased when you instinctively follow your desires without shame. And your desire for him appears boundless, infinite.

You chase after his hand as it withdraws, a touch petulant at his continuous tease. But this is what he does so well: keeping your desire simmering for what can seem like an eternity until you are almost mindless.

“What will you do next?”

You do not even realise you have vocalised your thoughts until you hear his amused noise.

“‘Tis a good question,” he concedes, as you sense him circling you again, feeling the weight of his stare on your bare flesh.

And again, you find yourself fidgeting, craving to sate the insistent throb between your legs.

“Stay still…” he warns in a seductive rumble, a quelling hand landing on your lumbar spine, seeming to span across your whole back.

“I desire you too much, my lord,” you appeal brazenly.

“I know you do, my sweet girl….” He burrows his nose into your hair, that hand sliding down to the globe of your left bottom cheek. “...That is what makes this all the more delectable for me.”

He lightly spanks you, a gentle slap that makes you sway back into him.

“More… please…” you appeal sotto voce, twisting over your shoulder, the instinct ingrained to seek his gaze even though you are unable to see him.

He taps your other cheek, an amused huff at how responsive you are to it.

“My lord…” you whine, arching your back to accentuate your bottom, begging for his hand.

Strong arms band around to pull you back flush to him. The ruffles of his shirt tease your shoulder blades; he must have shucked his waistcoat. He kisses down the column of your throat as his hands map your contours—one burying between your legs, the other wrapping loosely around your jaw, tipping your head back so you feel his lips on the shell of your ear through the delicate fabric.

“I do so love to watch you in heat for me,” he murmurs approvingly as you begin to ride his fingers a second time, needing more, so much more; this renewed tease has you all the more overwrought.

Your hands loop around the sinewy mass of his forearms, pleading with the curl of your fingers for him to take you. Pressing your hips backwards, mashing your pelvis to his, intent clear, elated by the hardness you feel there.

He growls lightly as you chafe his cock between your buttocks, rising onto your tiptoes and sinking back down, riding his fingers, rubbing yourself all over him akin to a cat in heat. And he lets you. Seems to revel in it based on the little huffs he makes, meeting your thrusts with a tilt of his hips as he frottages himself into your skin, likely turning a shade darker with the wool friction over your cheeks.

“Say you are mine,” he pleads hotly into your neck, his lips plush on your pulse point,

“I am yours, Benedict, my lord, my love, my husband,” you vow earnestly, calling him every epithet that comes to you, still squirming on his touch.”Always.”

With a low growl, he pulls off his shirt and flings it aside. Suddenly he is walking you forward, his smooth chest pressed into your back, propelling you across the room, skirting around the billiards table.

“Last time we were here, I seem to recall you being aroused by the idea of an audience of my brothers…”

You blush at the memory. But then, you really would do anything for him when he is like this. Under his thrall in a way that makes you reckless and wanton.

“Only if you wish it, my lord,” you demure, your toes gliding over the smooth, polished wood floor as he manhandles you a few more paces forward.

“Such a dilemma,” he sighs, as you feel a sudden coolness envelope your torso that can only be from proximity to glass. “For I do not ever wish to share you, but I do so want you to be watched...”

You inhale sharply as he tilts you forward, your cheekbone and nipples rasped by lace net curtains, then pressed into the cold window pane.

“My lord, we might be seen…” It’s barely a whisper.

There is a flutter in your gut as you realise that is precisely what he wants: for you to be seen, utterly naked and blindfolded, coveting him in a way polite society would deem uncivilised.

“I know,” he chimes, his breath hot on your temple.

There’s a world of meaning behind his tone; you can sense the smirk on his handsome face. Grateful your eyes are covered, the thrill enhanced by not knowing. The voiles likely provide partial obscurity; passersby may see bodies but may not be able to determine exactly whom.

A rush of blood pulses in your clit as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, the back of his wrists brushing your bottom. Without prompting, you place your hands on the window high above your head, fingertips curling into the delicate lace, readying yourself for him to slide into you roughly as you so desperately want him to do.

“Good girl.”

A moan escapes your lips, and a trickle of moisture trails down your inner thigh, a reflexive response to his velvet compliment, the solid mass of him against your bum unmistakable. You sense him hunch down a little, and you cry out as, indeed, he spears into you, hauling you upright onto tiptoes as he straightens his legs. Every time, the intense stretch and heat of him opening you up steals your breath—every single time.

He stutters delightfully, motionless and sheathed within you, burying his face in your hair, exhaling a hot gust into your scalp. His hands are seemingly everywhere on your body before settling on the flare of your hips, pressing you down further onto him.

“I can see your reflection, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek below the line of his cravat tied over your face.

Slowly, he withdraws, then snaps his hips, furrowing deeper into you, making you groan and slump further into the window, ceding to his control.

“What else do you see, my lord?” you inquire, needing his voice as much as his touch.

“The night sky, resplendent with stars,” he answers languidly, sliding out and back in.

Even without your sight, you are aware of something in his demeanour shifting, even as he begins a leisurely pace, pushing you up onto tiptoes with every thrust.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art… he begins in a lyrical cadence.

The line seems familiar, but your mind is jumbled, recall fuzzy from the pleasure courses through your veins.

“Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night…. ”

His resonant voice seems to coil all around you, vibrating from his chest into your back. Each syllable settles over your flushed skin, seeping into your bones. He surges into you, your body rolling like a wave, the soft silk of his cravat snagging gently on your brows, your lips parched, yearning for his soft, damp kisses. You turn your head and nuzzle into his slightly stubbled jaw, seeking his mouth. He obliges, kissing you in sync with his thrusts, the following line of poetry dancing over your tongue.

“And watching, with eternal lids apart….” he chuckles at the irony of you being unable to see, your eyelids fluttering against his cravat. “Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite….”

“What is this poem, my lord?” you interject, curiosity getting the better of you. “I know it cannot be Byron,” you append cheekily.

He laughs heartily, which you feel inside as he stills. “Indeed it is not, my beautiful, bright star…” he offers, hinting obliquely.

Your brain rattles. Knowing you have read it. Indeed you believe he has recited it aloud at a dinner party held with friends at your country home.

“Keats?” you guess.

“My clever girl,” he lauds as you push your hips back into him, urging him to restart his thrusts.

Grabbing his left hand, you bring those whiskey-flavoured fingers back into your mouth, suckling. Even without sight, you know his gaze is on your lips, wrapped plumply around his knuckles.

“I quite forgot where I was; you distract me so,” he chides affectionately, his wedding ring clicking into the ivory of your teeth as you lathe your tongue between each digit.

“I recall there being something about moving waters around human shores,” he teases, punctuating his lilting with a well-timed thrust into your soaked channel. “And a soft fallen mask,” he adds as you suckle upon him, his nose tracing the line of your blindfold.

“You know all the words well,” you contend, releasing his fingers.

“Indeed I might,” he concedes, “but I may skip a few lines….”

His touch sweeps down to cup your breast in sizeable hands, squeezing softly.

“Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast…..”

“To feel forever its soft fall and swell….” The words seem filled with yearning but also so adroit to how he is pulling you along in a tide of passion. “Awake forever in a sweet unrest,”

He tweaks your nipples puckered from the cool glass they have been pressed into as he speeds up a little. A tinge of frantic to his panted words now. He cups your jaw and leans in so your lips brush the shell of his ear, his soft curls of hair tickling your forehead.

“Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath…”

He chooses that moment to slide his other hand between your legs, middle finger swiping your throbbing clit, making your breath hitch harshly.

“I veritably live for that sound,” he confesses over a groan, breaking from the poem, spiralling you higher as his movements speed up, chasing the high you are both so close to.

He tugs the cravat loose from your eyes; it flutters to a loop around your neck. You blink even though the light is feeble from the one sconce across the room.

Benedict twists so your mouths meet, one hand buried between your legs, the other sweeping up to your throat, holding onto the cravat almost as leverage as he takes ever more piercing thrusts, your pussy clinging to his onslaught, rippling as your peak rushes towards you.

“And so live ever—or else swoon to death.”

That last line, panted into your mouth, is when he breaks. A shudder wracking his whole frame, then he stills, the feel of him spurting deep, pushing you over the edge, too. He swallows your cries as you clench around him, every muscle tensing and releasing, your whole body a wildfire.

You slump bodily into the window, its frame creaking as it takes your weight and his, crushed into your back as he heaves breaths. The cold glass is a balm to your flushed, dewy skin, your legs twitchy and leaden with the exertion of withstanding his passions. Benedict wraps you in his arms and pulls you to the ground, curling around you in an embrace as you recover.

—

“Did you lure me down here just to have your wicked way with me again?” You quip lazily, basking in the afterglow, burrowing deeper into his comforting embrace.

“And what if I did, dear wife? Had you not noticed, our rooms here back onto Anthony’s. I thought it prudent not to raise his ire with our amorous activities so soon. I concede; I did also make doubly certain he was not in his office next door,” he concludes dryly.

“Wise,” you reply with a giggle, tilting your head to exchange sated smiles. “And he will no doubt be pleased his billiards table survived this time.”

At that, Benedict laughs heartily, his chest jostling yours as he looks upon you with a rekindled flame dancing in his hazy eyes.

“Is that a challenge, darling? Because I could be ready for you once more, should you wish it. I have more than the necessary funds to repay my brother. I just sold that landscape of Somerset.”

“You did?!? Benedict, that is wonderful!” You effuse, lighting up with pride, pulling his face to meet yours in a celebratory kiss, which rapidly turns heated, tongues tangling.

“Let us put that money to good use,” he asserts raggedly as you break apart.

You peal with delight as he stands up, hauling you into his arms and strides purposefully towards the billiards table with that trademark troublesome, lopsided grin….

… Which still seems to be in place the following day when he wordlessly hands a confused Anthony a wad of notes with a shrug and a surreptitious wink over to you. You have to stifle your giggle behind your gloved hand.

masterlist • wips • taglist (must follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @divaani @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @fern-reads @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette @mmontgomeryb

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