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You are glad to slip into the staff stairwell at the back of Bridgerton House, escaping the evening’s whirlwind for a momentary respite. Much cooler than the cloying heat of the ballroom, you could not be more relieved by the serenity this temperate, quiet space offers. Knowing all the staff are preoccupied elsewhere, ensuring the evening is a success.
After a brief spell leaning upon the door through which you retired, your energy is restored. An elated sense of freedom bubbles within; you find yourself bounding up the staircase, decorous propriety abandoned. Revelling in the joy of moving your body freely, away from the judging gaze of the Ton and its expectations of a lady's comportment.
In fact, you are so relishing the novelty, you do not even clock another figure racing down the very same stairwell in perhaps an equal state of vigour.
Until, that is, you collide bodily with a tall, solid mass on a short landing between flights.
You both reel back, your senses invaded by a woodsy, citrus scent that causes a hot spike to run through your entire body.
You would know that mouth-watering scent anywhere.
Benedict Bridgerton.
The most handsome man you know. And so deliciously wrapped as he often is: a riot of bohemian ruffles and colourful jewel tones straining under a sharply tailored jacket.
His reaction is a mirror of your own. Taken aback at first, then rapidly morphing into something else, both of you realising the tantalising opportunity this unintended, chance encounter presents.
A heated, laden staring match for a few seconds before you crash into each other.
Lips meeting in a frenzied kiss. One of his large hands wraps behind your head, the other banding your torso, hauling you into him. He does his level best to scatter all your thoughts to the wind as his kisses like a wildstorm, practically ripping the singular button of your pelisse and tossing the offending garment down the stairs behind you as if it causes him some personal offence.
Left only in your gauzy gown, it is mere seconds until, with a light growl, he is dipping down, grabbing your legs and hoisting you far above him, spinning until your back hits the wall with a soft whump. His searching, searing lips find yours again. Bearing your weight on his forearms, pressing bodily into you, so much strength lurking beneath the layers of fabric.
“What are you doing here?” You pant out as his lips trail a line over your cheek.
You can tell from the glint in his eye how this exchange will go.
“That is a more pertinent question for you, is it not?” he rebutts, a gust of air over your ear as he sucks your lobe into his mouth, a teasing lilt to that deep voice, so devastating this close up.
You would quibble that, but then his tongue runs a hot stripe down the column of your neck, and you quite forget to articulate it. Instead, sinking a hand into his luscious head of chestnut hair, directing his lips back to yours, sliding down the wall a fraction as his hold slackens, your tongues parrying heatedly.
“We may be discovered….” you breathe the warning into his mouth.
“Do not act as if such is not a considerable allure for you,” he smirks, reading you like a book, that crooked grin engulging his face before his lips journey southwards, mapping your clavicle.
You inhale sharply as one arm unfurls from your thigh and roughly tugs down the neckline of your dress, the heat and suction of his mouth on the upper swell of your breast making you moan softly.
“Then make such a risk worth my while, Mr Bridgerton,” you contend cheekily, raising a challenging brow.
“With pleasure…” he returns, as he looks up at you through his lashes, swapping to your other breast with a mischievous mien you know will be your downfall.
The sound of silk and cotton being torn asunder echoes up the stairwell, which you could not give a hoot about once his warm lips envelop your areola, suckling your nipple into his mouth, teasing it into a stiff peak with a hint of teeth.
Your hands card through his hair, pulling and twisting his careful style into a wild thatch as tingles zip right from where his lips tease to the juncture of your thighs. That ticklish sensation grows to a shudder down your spine at the light scratch of his stubble when he drags his face up over your chest, your neck until his lips find yours again. Another feverish kiss, almost bruising in intensity.
When he finally breaks the kiss, both heaving breaths, and you are momentarily perplexed when he slides two of his own long, elegant fingers into his own mouth, staring you down, all blown pupils and flushed high cheekbones. He releases them with a wet pop, the tips glistening in the sconce’s candlelight as he trails them down over the thin silk of your dress, gathering your hem over his forearm.
You cry out, and he snarls as he finds your slit bare and already soaked under your chemise. His fingers delve into your pussy expertly, driving deep, your channel stretched wide by the swell of his knuckles, a stutter escaping your lips at that wonderdous stretch.
His devastating lopsided grin is the last thing you see as your eyes slip closed and your head thunks lightly back into the wall. It appears this will be a quick encounter, perhaps wise, given the location lends an air of borrowed time. He immediately sets a determined tempo, designed to drive you right to the edge in rapid time, his thumb hooking over your swollen clit with a practised ease.
You sag into his hold, one of your shoes slipping from your foot and bouncing down the staris but neither of you pays it any heed. You wrap your arms tight around his shoulders, lips pressed to his dewy temple. His mouth is in your hair now, humid, brandy-sweeten breath across your scalp; he moves with you, you riding his fingers as he murmurs encouragement. You can feel the curve of his cheekbone against your jaw, that victorious grin that he knows how fast he can spiral you towards ecstasy.
Your moans are muffled into him, body dewy even under your thin gown, feeling the swell of his cock on your thigh as he rhythmically seeks a friction of his own. His long fingers are just perfect to reach places you could never hope to. Even you can hear the sound from between your legs, your body greedily suctioning to his questing digits, that tangy scent in the air you know makes him even more feral.
“More…” you stutter, ribs squeezed in your stays, wanting to strip bare but also loving the illicit nature of this rushed encounter—something so irresistible about still being fully clothed as you race towards ecstasy.
Benedict's chuckle in your ear tells you he knows what you are asking for. “I rather think you should reach your pinnacle upon my hand…” he counters, tone bordering on smug, knowing that with a trace more persistence, you will do precisely that.
Indeed, at this point, he adds a third finger, you shuddering and moaning at the filling sensation, his resolve evident as he strums a new tattoo on the pearl of your clit. He does not let up, bearing you into the wall so you are pinned open, leaking down his palm, blood boiling in your veins.
He nuzzles your face until your lips meet, his tongue plundering your mouth, and that is how you break, Him swallowing your cries of rapture, flung starwards as you scale those heights where your body is weightless and your mind adrift. Distantly, you hear him snarling at the tight vice your pussy becomes, squeezing his knuckles, his forearm tensing to stay inside as your body attempts to drive him out in clenching waves.
Woozily, you slump forward into him, his fingers withdrawing from your pussy so he can bare you weight, dimly aware he is leaving darkening streaks of your own juices across the delicate silk of your dress as he does so. But all you can do is whimper, feeling the loss, yearning for him to be inside you again.
“Perhaps a second pinnacle is required…” he assesses, amused, as you raise your head to plead silently with him.
A zing of victory racing inside as you sense him fighting with the buttons of his trousers, reading your expression that indeed you are ravenous for more.
Almost as if you are a rag doll, his arms band under your thighs again, holding you aloft, and you have to bite down on his jacket shoulder as his sizeable cock spears into you, the wool scratchy under your tongue, quelling your lusty cry. He drives deep in one determined thrust, your pussy still quivering from your orgasm, swollen, slick, sensitive, cleaved open around him.
His baritone groan rumbles into your chest, the ivory of his teeth clinking your earring, his hands a firm grip, a telltale stretch in your inner thighs, pushed obscenely wide over the loop of his arms, the wool of his jacket abrading the back of your splayed legs.
“I will not last long…” He warns, stilling when fully sheathed within you, a subtle pulse up his sturdy length, no doubt already aroused from frottaging himself while you came upon his hand.
“I do not need you to…” You confess over a gasp of air, the slippery swollen nub of your clit mashed against his root, only a little more stimulation necessary for you to break again.
With that, there are no more words exchanged for a while, just moans you both try to subdue but cannot, hoping the sounds of the celebrations elsewhere will not alert anyone to your vigorous coupling.
Benedict snaps his hips, plundering deep, in a persistent rhythm, over and over his steely, searing tip cleaving you open, the air swirling with the tangy scent of your heated bodies and desires, which just spurs him on, breathing deep, an irresistible olfactory symphony for him.
His trousers slip down to his knees as he releases one of your legs and brings a hand between your faces, fingers still damp with your cum. He smears those tart remnants onto your lips before kissing you fiercely, his tongue lapping up each drop, even as his athletic pace never wavers. Fucking you so hard it's like he is attempting to leave his imprint inside you, forever altered in some way.
Your engorged clit is tugged harshly with each thrust he takes, wrecked pleading noises escaping your lungs as you are nudged towards that oblivion again, fluttering around him in a way that has him panting, groaning, grasping at your flesh, begging for your release, even as you sense he wants to prolong this moment for as long as possible. You can read in the depths of his inky black, enlarged pupils as you stare into each other's eyes how he wants to freeze this ephemeral snapshot in time, like a fly trapped in amber, memorialise the frantic few beats when you are both teetering on the boundary of rapture; a wildness that is so very primal, addictive and all-encompassing.
The edges of your consciousness blur as you begin to tumble, your whole body bucking into him, him fighting to pin you to the wall, to feel his weight as you shatter. Your senses dimming to a tiny pin of white light before exploding into technicolour. Your pussy convulsing and fracturing on his cock, the sensation fanning out across your body, to the tips of your toes and the top of your scalp.
You dig your heels into the globes of his bottom, silently telegraphing your wish for him to stay sheathed within you, needing to feel his release just as much as your own. When he realises what you are asking for, the sound he emits is near feral, the catalyst that makes him break. A few frenetic thrusts, deeper than ever, then he stills. You feel a heavy pulse travelling up his length, his mouth hung open, teeth hooked over your chin as he comes too, warmth blooming deep inside, against your hilt, his body wracked with little aftershocks as you both recover, mutely clinging to each other with soft caresses, not wanting to be parted.
—
“So…. could you really not wait a mere handful of hours for satisfaction?” His query is teasing with an unrepentant, prideful smile tugging at his lips as he rebuttons his trousers a few minutes later.
“This is all your fault,” you huff, ruefully surveying the damage wrought to your gown.
His face creases in that charming way it does when he knows he has done wrong, but is also not a jot contrite.
“If I could resist you, I would still have my favourite dress,” you scowl as he chuckles, crowding into you and bussing a kiss to your temple as you raise a more pertinent question: “What were you doing charging down the servants' stairs in such a hurry?!”
“I may have been beating a rather hasty, concealed retreat from the men’s gathering upstairs,” he confesses a touch sheepishly. “Gregory had just discovered it was I, not Colin, who put glue in his shoes last week…” he grins, eyes sparkling.
Yours merely roll affectionately. “I see turning one and thirty has not brought with it a modicum of maturity,” you offer drily, ceasing efforts to fix your dress, scooping up your discarded pelisse to conceal the worst of the damage instead.
“Heaven forfend!” He exclaims, a hand placed over his heart in theatrical affront, before he winks at you. “But shall I take you home? I am certain we can slip out of the staff entrance unseen.”
“Now that may be the most wise thing you have said all evening, dear husband…” You volley, your smile a match of that on his face.
“Your wish is my command, Mrs Bridgerton,” Benedict rumbles, dropping a brief, chaste kiss onto your knuckles before guiding you chivalrously downstairs, picking up your one wayward shoe along the way.