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morganxwritess · 3 months

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‧₊˚❀༉‧ 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟.

benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: your father has promised you to a much older man, but benedict refuses to let you go without a fight. He is determined to win your heart, even if it means making a fool of himself by boldly throwing rocks at your window warnings: smut ahead, 18+ mdni, slight degradation (like barely any it could be so much worse), praise, dirty talk, fingering, p in v sex, fluffy smut note: this is my first post!!! i’m so very excited to share this with all of you. season 3 benedict had me weak in the knees, and when this idea came to me after he told john to go throw rocks at francesca's window, I knew I had to write it. lots of love!! let me know what you think!!! word count: 7.4k (not sure how that happened lmao)

As the second eldest Bridgerton child and next in line for the title of Viscount, any eligible woman with intelligence sought to secure Benedict Bridgerton as their match. Unfortunately for them, Mr. Bridgerton was not looking for a wife this season, nor the last, nor any season before that. It appeared that Benedict had no desire to marry, and it was doubtful that would ever change.

Yet, that did not stop the mamas of the ton from setting their daughters upon him as if they were nothing more than dogs and he was their meal. The thought was unsettling, making you nauseous, but you tried to ignore their classless attempts to negotiate a marriage with the Bridgerton boy. At this point, however, what the fathers were offering Benedict to take their daughters' hands in marriage was no longer negotiation. It was simply bribery. Lord Ellington had offered Benedict land in the country. Lord Wentworth did the same, but he included the staff to his land as if they were slaves he could barter and sell. Lord Haverford extended a tempting proposal that Benedict almost entertained, offering a one-of-a-kind masterpiece painted by Thomas Gainsborough. While Benedict considered it for a mere moment, he ultimately declined, asserting that no work of art, however exquisite, is worth the cost of compromising one's spirit for a union with which one cannot bear.

Everyone desired to be Benedict Bridgerton’s wife. Everyone thought they knew him and could force their way into his heart and capture his attention. But you knew him intimately, which is how you knew this would never occur. You knew precisely how he took his tea. You knew his favorite artist, and while he admired Thomas Gainsborough’s work, it was not he who held the place of honor. You knew his favorite sibling, even when he insisted he had none. You knew what ignited his passions and recognized the look on his face when he felt his creativity had been compromised. You knew everything about Benedict Bridgerton, which is why you knew he would never marry without love. And Benedict has never been one to fall in love with anything other than art.

While you admired the determination and resilience of the young debutantes vying for his attention, you also resented it, for their pursuit often kept him occupied during balls, leaving you at the mercy of your mother's desire to showcase you to any willing suitor. The social scene was unbearable to you. Men gawked and whispered about young women as though they were mere commodities. It was infuriating, but thankfully, you found solace in knowing you were not alone in this sentiment. Your closest friend Eloise shared and understood your frustrations more deeply than anyone else, and when Benedict was occupied, she did a decent enough job of sheltering you from your mama.

“Has your mother lost her head?” Eloise nearly shouted, earning glares from nearby onlookers as you stared at the floor, trying to keep the blush creeping up your cheeks at bay.

“I suppose it’s not too bad,” you mumbled, not believing your statement whatsoever.

“Not too bad?” Eloise asked as if speaking to a stranger and not you, her best friend whom she’d known since childhood. “You cannot marry him.”

“He hasn’t proposed yet. I believe it is just an option.”

“An option you're entertaining, tell me not.”

“Lord Kensington is not a cruel man, Eloise. He is very wealthy and will allow me to spend my days reading alone while he tends to his business. It seems like an appropriate match.”

Eloise scoffed and crossed her gloved hands over her chest. “Lord Kensington is nearly three and seventy. You are a child in comparison. This is the furthest thing from an appropriate match.”

“This is my third year on the marriage-mart. I’d rather be a widow than a spinster who’s a burden to her family.”

“Is that what you think of me? A burden?”

Your eyes widened. “Eloise, no I—”

“I’m going to seek some refreshments. Perhaps when I return you’ll no longer be behaving in such an unbearable manner.”

With that, Eloise stormed away, her dress flashing through the crowd like a river of blue. You took a deep breath, attempting to ground yourself and regain composure. It was not as if you were excited to potentially marry Lord Kensington. He was simply an option. One that disgusted you and made your skin crawl, but an option nonetheless. You were only confiding in a friend, but leave it to Eloise to blow things out of proportion and not give you the opportunity to explain.

“Is that a frown I see?” The blue-eyed devil whose company you were praying for teased as he stood to your right.

“Eloise is upset with me.”

Benedict smirked as if what you said was an insufficient reason to be emotional. “Eloise will be Eloise. What have you done that has destroyed her life, ruined her future, and perhaps changed the course of history itself?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in your throat. “Your sister is not that dramatic.”

“We are speaking of the same sister, correct?”

You rolled your eyes, and he moved to stand in front of you, capturing your complete attention. He looked exceptionally handsome tonight, his deep navy tailcoat contrasting elegantly with the crisp white linen shirt beneath. The maroon cravat, tied with exquisite precision, drew the gaze of any unfortunate soul who dared to look his way. His hair, styled almost artistically, gave him the appearance of a portrait subject moments before the painter's brush touched the canvas.

Other than the mass of invalids gathered at these balls, what you despised most was how impossibly handsome the man standing before you appeared when you finally got the chance to speak with him. He was, of course, handsome every day, but there was something incomparable about his appearance when meticulously dressed for the social event of the season.

“You truly are upset,” Benedict stated as he stared into your eyes, realizing the extent of your worry. “Tell me, what is it that you and my sister were arguing about?”

“I am to be engaged.”

Benedict’s eyes widened, and his large, goofy smile was replaced by a stern, thin-lined frown. You paused, staring at his hardening features. Why was he upset? He had not even heard the worst part yet.

Clearing his throat, Benedict tried to force a smile. “Congratulations. Who is the lucky husband-to-be?”

“Lord Kensington.”

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “You must be mistaken. Are you speaking of Lord Kilmartin? I believe he fancies my sister Francesca, but I could be mistaken.”

You shook your head. “No, I am not mistaken. I am to be engaged to Lord Kensington. He and my father are speaking tonight, but he has already declared his intentions.”

Benedict's face contorted with many emotions, but only one seemed clear to you as you studied his burning blue eyes. Anger. Was he angry with you for finding a husband? While yes, Lord Kensington was many years older than you, this sort of thing happened all the time. Just last week, Miss Radcliffe, who is your age, married Lord Pennington, who is nearly eight and sixty.

"Lord Kensington is older than the combined ages of your parents," he argued. "By the time you marry him and bear him an heir, he will likely be dead. In fact, he may not even live to see the child born."

“Benedict—”

“This is unacceptable,” he exclaimed, looking around the room like a madman. “Where is your father? I will speak with him.”

“And do what, Benedict? This is my third year on the marriage-mart. The longer I wait to marry, the more undesirable I become.”

“You can wait one more season. There must be someone else—”

"There is no one else, Benedict!" you exclaimed, your voice echoing through the room and drawing the attention of onlookers. In this moment, it felt as though you were the only souls in existence. Nothing else mattered—not the curious gazes nor the threat to your reputation. With unwavering resolve, you met his gaze, channeling every ounce of strength within you. “And frankly, I am tired of waiting. This is a suitable match, and the union will be short enough.”

“I will find you someone else to marry,” he whispered under his breath to avoid the attention of the rest of the ton.

Firmly, you shook your head, not wanting to argue with him. “Mr. Bridgerton, I apologize for my outburst. I must be feeling unwell. I believe I will turn in early.”

You began to walk away to find your mother and father and convince them to take you home when he grabbed your gloved arm, forcing you to face him once more.

“Y/N, please—”

“There is nothing left to be done, Mr. Bridgerton. Now please remove your hands from me.”

Reluctantly, Benedict released you. “Then I suppose the next time I see you will be at your engagement celebration.”

Holding back tears, you nodded. “As always, I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Bridgerton.”

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That evening, upon returning to your residence in Mayfair, your lady's maid assisted you in preparing for bed before retiring for the night herself. Your father was absent, likely in discussion with Lord Kensington, finalizing the arrangements for your impending engagement, while your mother, deep in slumber, dreamt of the wedding preparations ahead. Meanwhile, you lay wide awake beneath the canopy of your chamber, clad in your nightgown, yearning to be anyone but yourself.

In that moment, the faintest tap at your window caught your attention. Initially, you dismissed it as a figment of your imagination—surely, no one would seek to contact you at such a late hour, especially considering your residence on the second floor. Yet, the sound persisted, growing more insistent with each repetition.

With cautious steps, you rose and approached the window, uncertainty weighing heavily upon you. Slowly, you drew aside the voluminous pink curtains that had obscured both moonlight and the view of the street below. There, you observed a small pebble making contact with the glass, producing a gentle, persistent knocking sound.

Who on earth was throwing rocks at your window? Especially at this hour?

Delicately, you released the latch securing the window and eased it open, peering down to the street below to discern the identity of the visitor. From your vantage point, you observed a figure below, stooping to retrieve more stones, his movements deliberate yet furtive. As he straightened, your gaze locked onto his face, and in that instant, you recognized the familiar features of the culprit.

“Benedict?” you whispered down at the man.

Upon hearing your voice, Benedict dropped the rocks in his hand, and a relieved sigh escaped him.

“Y/N, I must speak with you. I attempted to enter the house, but the door is locked.”

“Because it is exceptionally late. Benedict, you cannot be here. This is rather improper.”

“I will not leave until I get a word with you, and I will only get louder as you make me wait.”

You could not let him in. You were dressed in your nightgown. Your hair was not done nor your makeup. Not to mention, if anyone were to see him come inside, your family would be cast out of society. While you all were wealthy, respected, and had titles, you were no Bridgerton. You could not get away with such a feat.

“Why are you here, Ben?” you asked, your voice full of defeat.

You observed a softening of his features from hearing the nickname you had given him all those years ago. Despite wearing the same attire from the ball, his hair was now disheveled, evidence of repeated runs of his hand through it—a nervous habit of his. He gestured with open arms, as if inviting you to leap into them—an implausible notion, surely.

“I am here to be bold and declare myself,” he declared, ever so confidently.

“You are not being bold,” you whispered, looking up and down the street for any passersby. “You are making a fool out of yourself and my family.”

“I am calling upon you—” he began to shout before you quickly shushed him and caved to his demands.

“Fine! Fine! I will be down in a moment,” you hissed, shutting the window in your wake.

You hastily raked your fingers through your tousled hair, attempting in vain to tame the unruly strands that betrayed a night of restless tossing and turning in bed. Eventually conceding defeat, you reached for your baby blue robe hanging on the door and descended the stairs with purposeful strides. Benedict Bridgerton's unexpected appearance bewildered you—had he lost his senses? His unannounced visit threatened to disrupt everything.

You grasped the gilded handle of your front door, turning it with utmost care to avoid arousing anyone's attention to Benedict's presence. The door swung open slowly, revealing Benedict poised outside, patiently awaiting your invitation inside that would not be coming.

“What are you doing here, Benedict? If anyone were to see you—”

“I have found you another option,” he stated breathlessly.

You frowned, confused by his words. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you must marry Lord Kensington because there is no other option. I have found you another one.”

You could not help but roll your eyes at his audacious statement. “And who might that be? My father has looked for other men for me to marry, and his search has been fruitless. I doubt yours would be much different.”

“You will marry me.”

A ringing sensation echoed in your ears, accompanied by a wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm you. Surely, he could not mean what he was saying. Perhaps confusion had clouded his judgment. As you gathered your thoughts, uncertainty gripped you tightly.

“Are you drunk?” you asked hoarsely. Your eyes widened momentarily, realizing the potential rudeness of your question. “I apologize. I meant—No, I meant what I said. Are you drunk?”

The same goofy smile you had come to love appeared on Benedict’s face. “Believe it or not, I have never been more sober.”

You shook your head, alarmed by this whole situation. “Well then, are you mad? That’s the only excuse for you to come here at this hour asking for my hand in marriage.”

“You are one of my dearest friends. I will not let you marry a man on his deathbed,” he stated firmly, reaching for your hands and holding them in his.

Still unconvinced, you scoffed, “What about Eloise? Surely your sister would not be fond of you marrying one of her closest friends.”

“It was actually her idea,” he stated, creating only more confusion for you. “We were on the swings discussing how unfond we were of your fiancé when she said that she wished I were marrying you instead.”

Realizing the gravity of this conversation, you ripped your hands from his. “You do not even wish to be married, and I will not let you marry me out of pity.”

As you reached for the door to slam it in his face, he asserted himself, pushing it open and pressing you gently until your back met the doorframe. Your chest rose and fell with heightened emotion as you gazed up at him, but before you could react, he captured your lips with his own. A rush of warmth enveloped your entire being, causing you to pause, unsure of your next move. The sensation was entirely new to you; while you had read about such moments in the pages of Jane Austen’s novels, experiencing them firsthand was another matter altogether. Benedict's kiss felt unlike anything you had ever known—a gesture filled with a fervor that seemed to imply he needed your very breath to survive.

As you drew back from him, a swell of emotion threatened to bring tears to your eyes. Leaving his embrace was painful; you longed to linger, yet the reality of the situation weighed heavily upon you. With the door ajar, vulnerable to prying eyes, the impropriety of the moment loomed large in your mind. It felt unjust and heart-wrenching—to share such a tender kiss with the man you loved, only to face an impending marriage to another that you could not stand.

“This is cruel, Benedict,” you whispered, your voice trembling and your lips quivering. “I did not take you to be a cruel man.”

“I am not marrying you out of pity,” he declared firmly, his gaze intense as he wiped away the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Or obligation,” he added, his touch gentle yet resolute. “Or convenience.”

“Then why would you do this?” you asked, fighting to maintain composure before him. “Why come here, demanding to marry me when you know I have loved you for years?”

He hesitated briefly, taken aback by your words, before gently cupping your cheeks with both hands. “Because I will not let the woman I love marry a man who is not me.”

You gasped involuntarily as his words replayed in your mind. Benedict's face broke into a triumphant smile, akin to winning a hard-fought duel. The revelation felt almost surreal. Benedict Bridgerton loves you? It seemed impossible to comprehend. You'd known him since childhood, and despite the few years' difference in age, you would have expected him to declare his feelings long before the eve of your arranged engagement.

“Do not lie to me, Benedict, or so help me God—”

“I have never lied to you, my love,” he interjected, pressing a tender kiss to your right temple as he continued to cradle your face. “And I never will.”

Overwhelmed by your emotions, you pulled away, your voice rising in frustration. “Why did you not say something sooner?” you demanded, no longer caring about your mother asleep upstairs or the servants resting elsewhere in the house. “Why tell me now?”

“Because, I—” he began, his frustration evident as he ran a hand through his hair. “I thought I had more time. I convinced myself that if you chose to marry another man, someone of substance, I would step aside. But this…I cannot let you marry Lord Kensington. It would be a fate worse than I could endure.”

“You wanted more time?” you asked, exasperated. “More time for what? To visit brothels? To sleep with whores? To continue being a rake? You wanted more time to be selfish before you had to force yourself to settle down?”

He scoffed. “Do you even know the meaning of the words you say? Or are they just judgmental statements you’ve heard your father make about me to your mother?”

“I love you, Benedict. I always have, but I will not be second to the life you want for yourself. I will not become a regret of yours when you are my entire world. It would break me, so I would rather become the wife of a man who disgusts me than marry you and have you disdain me.”

Forcefully, he seized your bicep, pulling you close until your chest pressed firmly against his with every breath. Benedict had always been so kind, so gentle, so transparent, but as you gazed into his eyes now, you saw a different man entirely—a beast poised to devour its prey.

“Do not presume to know my desires or what I will regret,” he declared, his voice a low growl as he towered over you. “You may love me, but you do not know me better than I know myself. What I know is that I want you, in every sense of the word. I want you to be my wife, my partner, the woman with whom I share my life. I want to wake up each morning with you in my arms. I want to possess you, and I want the world to know that you belong to me.”

Your eyes blinked heavily as you stared up at him, tears beginning to fill them. "I want nothing more, Benedict, but my father has most certainly already promised me to Lord Kensington. You’re too late."

Benedict shook his head, refusing to accept your words. "You will come with me now to Bridgerton House—"

"I cannot leave the house at this hour in this attire with you!" you gasped, horrified by the idea. "I’ll become the biggest scandal in Lady Whistledown’s next issue."

"You will not interrupt me," he stated firmly. "Do you not trust me?"

You sighed, "I trust you. I’m just questioning your judgment. Have you truly thought this through?"

"Listen to me, Y/N. You are coming with me to Bridgerton House now. We will not keep this quiet. The more people who see us, the better. Tomorrow morning, I will go to your father and declare my intent to marry you. Perhaps we may even obtain a special license to wed quickly, avoiding further scrutiny."

"That will not change the fact that my father has promised me to Lord Kensington."

"What changes is that if Lord Kensington discovers you stayed the night unchaperoned with me, he will not want to marry you."

Pausing, you realized the sense in his logic, though you were still confused. "But why not?"

“Because he will think I have bedded you, and he will not marry a woman whose purity he believes is not intact,” Benedict explained.

“Oh... So, you’re not planning to bed me? We're tricking him?” you asked, sounding more disappointed than you intended.

A broad smile spread across Benedict's face, lighting up the foyer where you stood. “Do you want me to bed you, my love?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you tried to look down, but he gently lifted your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.

“I just assumed that you would eventually. It is my marital duty, after all,” you mumbled.

Benedict shook his head. “In our marriage, the only duty will be to love each other with every ounce of our being until our dying breath. I will not make love to you unless you ask me to.”

“But when my mother explained the marital duty, she said—”

“Your mother is wrong,” he interrupted firmly, his grip on your chin steady. “You will be my wife, and as your husband, I promise that I will never force you into intimacy. You will come to me willingly, as I will to you, or not at all. I will not coerce you.”

With a gentle embrace, you wrapped your arms around his neck and rose onto your tiptoes to meet his gaze. “I’m not wearing shoes, my handsome fiancé. How will you manage to get me to your bed?”

He tapped his chin playfully, a mischievous smile lighting up his face. “I’ve got it!” he exclaimed teasingly, eliciting a laugh from you. Without warning, he swept you into his arms bridal-style, prompting a squeal of delight as he started towards his home.

“Benedict, we must close the door,” you laughed.

He shrugged nonchalantly, his stride toward his house unwavering. “Your father can handle it when he returns from his meeting with your now ex-fiancé.”

“He was never my fiancé. He was almost my fiancé.”

“And who do we have to thank for that?”

“How would you like me to thank you, Ben?”

"I have many ideas in mind, my love, but I'm curious to see what you're thinking," he smirked devilishly.

Now it was your turn to foolishly tap your finger against your chin as he had done before. "I've got it!" you exclaimed, teasing him, which prompted him to tickle your underarm with the hand that rested on your back. Your laughter filled the air, and Benedict couldn't help but note that he had never heard a more liberating sound.

"You're not getting your reward anymore!" You gasped, squirming playfully in his arms.

“Oh no!” He pouted, placing his head in the crook of your neck, and you couldn’t help but feel the movement of his soft smirking lips, “How may I get it back? Tell me, my love. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

“I believe I rather prefer you on your worst behavior, Mr. Bridgerton.” You teased.

Benedict’s head snapped up to meet your gaze, his pupils dilated with lust and desire, “Is that so?”

“You are ever so enticing when you wear that dopey mischievous smirk that you are sporting this instant.”

“And you are ever so desirable when you look at me like you wish for me to fuck you, my dear.”

A surprised gasp escaped you, but before you could finish it, Benedict captured your mouth in another kiss. The kiss started out soft and lazy as his steps began to falter, it is then when he maneuvered you so your front is facing him and he is carrying you by your thighs. Unintentionally, you began to grind your body against his length with each step he took as you sat beautifully atop of his clothed member. His grip tightened over your nightgown, and your hands pulled at his hair as he continued to devour you.

“Ben.” You moaned, pulling him closer if there were even such a possibility.

“What is it, beautiful?”

“I need more. I need you.”

Benedict smirked, his lips never leaving your neck, “I see. I never dreamed of you being this desperate for me especially in such a public place. If I were not as desperate as you, I would see it as pathetic.”

“Be nice.” You pouted, throwing your head back as he ravished you.

“Of course, my dearest. I know you want nothing more than to behave as an absolute angel, and I must act in a manner that is befitting to accompany you. God forbid, I scare my good girl off before I have the opportunity to ruin her.”

“Yes!” You moaned, almost bouncing in his arms having no earthly idea why the feeling of him against you was as ethereal as it is. “Ruin me, Ben. I’m all yours.”

If it were up to Benedict, he’d lie you against the dirty ground beneath him and fuck you until you were both unmoving and drenched in sweat. And while he supposed he could make that decision for the two of you and lie you down right now, he did not want your first time to be where anyone could see. When he took you intimately for the first time, he wanted to cherish you, and he wanted to be the only one who knew the look that appeared on your face when you discovered just how beautiful making love could be. When you realized that the action should never be a duty, but a gift.

“My love, if you do not behave, I will not be able to compose myself.” He stated, as he grinded his teeth together, attempting to hide just how far gone he was.

Before you even had the opportunity to whine or protest, Benedict threw you over his shoulder like a rag doll. You were instantly met with disappointment at the loss of contact, and you were about to argue with him when his hand playfully smacked your bottom.

“Benedict!” You shouted as his walking began to speed up, and you could sense from your surroundings that you were almost to Bridgerton House.

“I apologize, dearest, but I cannot wait a second longer to claim you, and this is the fastest way to get us to our destination.”

“By treating me as a child?” You argued. He slapped your bottom again, and once again, you shouted after him, “Benedict Bridgerton.”

“If you are going to behave like an ill-disciplined child, I will treat you as such. Now, keep your voice down. This isn’t a secret, but we do not need the entire ton to know I have stolen you away.”

Your ribs bounced against his shoulder as he took you up the steps into Bridgerton House, and you couldn’t help but smirk as you whispered, “You only want me to be quiet, so I do not wake your mother. You could not care less about the rest of the ton.”

Not answering you like the stubborn mule he was, he slapped your ass once more, and not willing to admit that you enjoyed the sting of his affection, you slapped his back in return.

You felt his stifled laugh before you heard it as he swiftly maneuvered you into one of the few rooms of Bridgerton House that you have never seen: his bedroom. You weren’t given the chance to look at your surroundings and see the room where the man you would be marrying laid his head each night. As soon as you saw the door swing closed behind him, your vision shifted to his ceiling. With a swift motion, he threw you onto his mattress, your back bouncing against the soft surface.

Before you could tease him for his impatience, he was already on top of you, his lips on your neck with a hunger akin to Dracula's. How had you resisted his charms for so long? Why had you denied yourself the fulfillment of tasting his lips? What had you done to deserve the intense pleasure he now bestowed upon you? Amidst all these unanswered questions, one thing became clear: there was no going back to a life where Benedict didn't kiss you so sweetly and speak to you with such desire.

He nibbled at the smallest bit of skin below your ear, eliciting a moan from you that he now has deemed the sound of the Lord calling him home. Surely, there was nothing more heavenly than the sound your body made when it called for him.

“Ben, please—” You begged.

He moved from your neck to your swollen lips, pecking them ever so gently, “You are alright, my love.” He said in between kisses, “Do you wish for me to continue?”

Nodding your head rapidly, Benedict couldn’t help but smile down at the sight, “Are you certain, dearest? There will be no turning back.”

You placed one hand on his shoulder and the other behind his head as you pulled him down to meet you, “Don’t ever stop.”

With your consent, Benedict removed your baby blue robe and began to bring the bottom of the skirt of your simple white nightgown up to rest at your hips, leaving your bottom half exposed. You moved to close your legs, feeling slightly insecure from the display, but Benedict stopped you placing his hands on your thighs.

“Do not hide from me, my love.” He stated, tenderly as he gently squeezed your thigh.

Your eyes widened and with them your legs, accepting his strong manly presence.

“Have you touched yourself here?” He asked, ghosting his hand between your legs, almost making contact, but immediately pulling back before you could feel him.

You shook your head no, “Why would I?”

Mumbling against your hip bone, he replied,“Because it brings you pleasure.”

“Just as you are doing now?” You gasped as his fingers finally made contact.

He chuckled almost sinisterly as he planted delicate kisses across your hips and lower stomach while rocking his fingers back and forth across the button between your legs, “Exactly as I’m doing now.” He murmured, “In fact, when you try it, I want you to think of this moment. Do you understand?”

You nodded your head desperately, and he lowered himself further into the valley that was your thighs, “Are you certain you understand?” He asked, dastardly kissing your cunt for the first time while his fingers continued their calculated movements.

Throwing your head back in desperation, you shouted, “Yes! Yes! I will think of you Benedict!”

“And only me?” He asked with the fakest pout, jutting his lip out like a fool. You were too busy enjoying his fingers and tongue to entertain his teasing.

“Of course you! Only you! God, Benedict. Do not stop!”

“Does it feel good, my darling?” He asked rhetorically, inserting one finger, to carefully begin stretching you out for his cock

A peculiar warmth enveloped your abdomen, radiating to that intimate place between your legs. This sensation first stirred upon seeing him for the first time tonight and has only grown the longer you lie here in his bed. Your thighs felt sticky and moist, your breasts tingled and rose with each heavy breath, and your mind became blissfully empty. It was an unusual feeling, yet undeniably welcome.

The stretch of the single digit inside you stung at first, but that pain quickly morphed into pleasure as he moved it in and out, sliding it against your walls, eliciting a feeling you had never felt before.

Benedict groaned merely at the sight of you beginning to come undone around his finger. He inserted a second and you reached for his hand, gasping, not necessarily in protest just in desperate need for a pause.

With one hand still inside you, he planted the other beside your head and slowly climbed up your body, kissing every inch until he reached your jaw. He gently sucked on the edge of your neck while you reached for his hair, causing him to smile against your skin. A slight tug unintentionally escaped you from the overwhelming sensation of him between your legs, eliciting a growl from him into your throat, pushing you further over the edge.

He suddenly pulled away from you and tugged at the cravat around his neck, tossing it to the floor. You moaned at the loss of his fingers, but it was then when you realized he was still fully clothed and you were almost completely naked. He continued pulling at his clothing, throwing his shirt and tailcoat to the floor before reaching for his belt. Realizing where this was heading, you pulled the remainder of your nightgown over your head, leaving your entire body on display for him before you placed it gently in your lap unsure of what to do next.

Sensing your uncertainty, he took your nightgown from you and tossed it to the floor, taking charge. He climbed on top of your body while he pushed his pants down his legs and planted himself on your chest. His lips enveloped your right nipple while his large hand twisted and grabbed at your left breast. Benedict had seen the tops of them over the years in the countless corsets you had worn, but seeing them bare as they are now, he felt like the luckiest man in London.

As he kissed your chest, it only created a desperate need to be inside you. He was dying to watch your breasts bounce as he pumped in and out of you, fucking you like he had always dreamed of. Your body was a dream in its entirety. How Benedict got so lucky to claim it was beyond him, but he knew better than to question God’s gifts.

“You are breathtaking, my love.” He moaned, rutting against you as he switched directions and kissed up your neck, “You are a goddess, and I am only a lucky mortal who gets to bear witness to your beauty.”

“Benedict—” You begged, cutting yourself off as you reached for him, “I miss your fingers. Put them back inside me.”

You were addicting and those words only ensured your future husband that he would never let you leave him. He would never be able to survive another day without seeing the glow that your face currently held. He buried his head into the side of your neck and reached for his cock knowing you were ready from the wetness that soaked in between your legs.

“I am going to give you something better than my fingers.” He stated, hungrily. Your brain is too foggy to comprehend what he means by this statement. What could be better than his fingers? “I am going to give you my cock, and it is going to hurt for a moment at first, but I promise you it will feel better after a while.”

“It will hurt?” You asked, sounding frightened.

“It is nothing you can not handle, my dear.” He smiled, kissing your temple not wanting your nervousness to interfere with your pleasure, “I love you, and I guarantee this will bring you pleasure. It just takes a moment to get used to the size, but you are wet enough that it should not hurt exceptionally bad.”

You grabbed at his biceps anxiously, stopping him for a moment, “My mother said that the marital duty—“ You interrupted yourself as his eyebrows narrowed at you, and you knew the reason for his confusion was that with him, there would be no marital duty. You had a feeling that your marriage would be entirely different from your parents because unlike your parents you and Benedict were a match made of love, “She said that making love was painful and unpleasant for the first time. One of the worst pains imaginable.” A tear pricked at the corner of your eyes, “I am frightened.”

“Oh, my love,” He cooed, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear, “You may not need to be frightened with me. Yes, sex can hurt if you are not properly prepared, but I have ensured that you are ready for this experience. The more you think about it, the worse you will build it up in your head. Just relax, dearest. The more you relax the better it will be.”

You nodded your head, but you did not remove your hands from Benedict’s large biceps, you closed your eyes almost as if you were bracing yourself for him. Wanting to bring you as much ease as possible, Benedict leaned down to kiss your temple before moving to your lips. Your hands moved from his arms to his face, and while you were occupied with the feeling of your lips on his, he grabbed his cock in his hand, stroking it twice before pushing only the head inside,allowing you time to adjust.

A quick gasp escaped you and in an instant your hands were back on his biceps. It took every ounce of strength that possessed Benedict to not push into you further, but he wanted this to be a good experience for you, and he refused to put you in more pain than he had to.

“You just tell me when you are ready for me to move, and I will, dearest. This is all up to you.”

“Ok,” You murmured breathlessly, nodding your head. The sting inside you had dulled to an aching need for him to move, “You may move.”

At that, Benedict pushed further in, slowly seating himself completely in your heat. The pain worsened slightly, but with the way he whispered sweet nothings to you and kissed you so softly, you were too overcome with emotions to comprehend the pain. He sat inside you for a moment, not wanting to rush this time with you and not wanting it to be over so soon. You were so tight and squeezing him like a vice that he needed a minute or else it would all be over before it began.

Once you both had adjusted to the feeling of eachother’s warmth, Benedict began moving. He slowly started pulling his length out until he pushed back in before he could slip out of you, continuing pumping in and out as you got used to the feeling. It was almost enough, but you knew you needed more.

“More, Ben,” You moaned, breathily, “Faster.”

A lazy smirk fell on Benedict's lips as he placed his forehead against yours, “Look at my needy girl. She’s begging for it like some common street whore. It's ok, my love. I will take care of you.”

Your eyes widened at his statement, and you wished you could say that his words had no effect on your body, but with the way your head unintentionally fell back and your lips gasped for more of him, you knew it would be nothing but a lie.

Benedict ravaged your body like you were his for the taking, which you were, and it made you realize that you could not have lived another second without having Benedict this intimately. You were not meant to be any man’s wife but his. You were not meant to bear any child that lacked the last name Bridgerton. As your childhood best friend gave you everything you had always wanted, you knew that he was your destiny in every life, and you couldn’t fathom how you almost let him go.

As Benedict kissed your lips, your neck, your cheeks, and every inch of your face while he pounded in you, he placed one hand on the bottom of left thigh and lifted your leg over his shoulder, resting it there as he picked up his pace. The feeling instantly left butterflies in your stomach, and a loud moan escaped you as you relished the feeling of this new angle.

“Oh, Benedict! You must not stop. I have a feeling I cannot name—” You shouted and he placed his large hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

With sweat dripping off both of your bodies, Benedict leaned down placing his mouth by your ear without slowing his pace in the slightest.

“That is called an orgasm, my love, and I want it to rip through you like a flood. Just tell me when you are there, and I will finish with you.”

You nodded your hands gripping his biceps as he pummeled into you until you simply could not hold it any longer. Sensing your closeness to the edge, Benedict somehow managed to speed up as he stared at your breasts, watching as they bounced every time he thrusted into you. His hips became sloppy as he felt how close he was as well.

“Ben—” You gasped, unable to even finish a sentence.

“I know. I know. I’m right there with you.”

In that moment, it felt as though fireworks exploded between you, your body convulsing in bliss and your mouth parting with cries of ecstasy. Benedict, equally overwhelmed, carefully lowered your leg before collapsing onto you, mindful not to crush you. The sensation was indescribable. Although Benedict had been with other women before, he knew he could never return to those empty encounters, for nothing compared to being with the one he truly loved.

As the euphoria gradually subsided, you both lay there, tangled in each other’s embrace, feeling the warmth of your shared connection. Benedict gently brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender and affectionate. His eyes, filled with a mix of satisfaction and devotion, met yours.

"You are heavenly," he whispered, his voice husky and sincere.

You smiled, feeling a surge of happiness and contentment. "So are you," you replied softly, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.

For a while, neither of you spoke, savoring the intimate silence and the steady rhythm of your breathing. It was in these quiet moments that you felt the depth of your bond, stronger and more profound than ever before.

Eventually, Benedict propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze never leaving your face. "I love you," he said, the words carrying the weight of his heart, “I will never leave you, and if I have to duel Lord Kensington or your father to have you as my wife, I will do so happily.

"I love you too," you replied, your heart swelling with emotion.

You both knew that this was just the beginning of something extraordinary, a journey of love and passion that you would navigate together, no matter what challenges lay ahead. No matter what the morning brought, no matter what your father said, whether he cast you out or forbade you from marrying Benedict, it didn't matter. You knew in your heart that you were meant to be Benedict Bridgerton's wife. It was always you. This new and sacred union would withstand the scrutiny of the ton and any obstacles thrown your way. Your love was destined, and nothing could change that. As long as you had each other, you could face anything the world decided to challenge you with.

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