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“Remember this.” His tone is smug, but not without reason. Little aftershocks ripple over your skin as you come down from the high. He is still languidly tracing his tongue over you.
Your head drops to your left, and you sigh as you see your wedding dress hanging, ready for use in a few hours. It’s just such a damn shame you’re not marrying the man between your thighs.
***
Almost from birth, you knew you would be married to one John Darby, one day to be the 8th Viscount Darby. Not much choice in the matter - your mamas had jointly designed it. You were, however, determined to have some fun before the inevitable happened.
Once you turned of age, your hedonistic tendencies manifested in sneaking out to parties on the bohemian side of town. It’s where you had met one Benedict Bridgerton, fighting the mould he was expected to conform to as much as you were chasing a diminishing window of freedom. Two moths to each other’s proverbial flames.
And so it began.
Yours was a relationship of kinship, mutual satisfaction, and sensual pleasures. In an ideal world, Benedict was precisely the man you would choose to marry. Sadly the real world is rarely so, well, ideal.
***
“Who’s Benedict?” John asks over dinner, two weeks into marriage.
You try not to choke on the soup.
“Why do you ask?” You equivocate, attempting to suppress your cough.
“You say his name a lot in your sleep,” he responds with a shrug.
“Say his name?” You echo, stalling, smoothing out your napkin.
“Yes, well, it’s more of a moan or sometimes a scream, really.”
Your cheeks flush as your mind flashes with dozens of images. You take a sip of your water, deciding honesty is the best policy.
“Bridgerton. We were close in the past.” Choosing not to reveal exactly how much of a recent past. He left your bed for the last time four hours before your marriage ceremony.
“You never say my name like that,” John states matter-of-factly, his countenance thoughtful.
You stay silent and reach for a bread roll. What can you say to that?
***
“There’s a Mr Darby here for you, sir” Benedict looks up from his easel to his butler.
“Err, ok. Show him in,” he responds, slightly trepidatious. He recognises the name.
Benedict sizes up the man who enters the room. Probably not much taller than you, a slightly sallow complexion, a friendly face but not particularly handsome. Mostly Benedict feels disappointed. For you. He wanted your husband to be a worthy suitor, and this man seems so, well, average.
“Good afternoon Mr Darby; what brings you here?” Benedict greets warmly, ever the polite host.
“I want to know exactly what makes my wife scream,” John states plainly, with no introduction, no preamble.
Benedict will spend the next two days trying to cover up the enormous black streak across his painting that remark caused.
***
“We could run away together,” his tone is honeyed, “live abroad, away from all this. You wouldn’t need to marry.”
“Well, aren’t you full of ideas today?” You tease, enjoying the feel of his lips trailing up your spine.
“Oh, I’m a veritable genius,” he confirms playfully as his kisses reach the back of your neck, his weight sinking on top of yours, pressing your front into the mattress. His cock nestled between the backs of your thighs.
“I concur with that assessment,” you sigh, opening your legs and pushing back against him.
***
“I’m not sure exactly what you’re asking,” Benedict says after a pause, frowning at the painting, putting down his brush and walking away from his art before any more damage is done.
“I’m a pragmatic man Mr Bridgerton” John responds, taking a proffered seat. “I know my wife had a life before me; I have no issues with that. I have issues with her being unsatisfied in our marital bed. I am not a man of the world, but I do know a happy wife means a happy life.”
Benedict is impressed with his honesty. As you once said, he’s not a bad man.
“Why do you think I could help?” Benedict takes a seat opposite, hedging his bets, unsure John knows the exact nature of your previous relationship. He takes a sip of tea for something to do. This is an odd encounter.
“She says your name in our bed, in her sleep. She doesn’t know it, but I’ve seen her touching herself, always your name.” John shrugs as if recounting the weather.
Benedict is glad he was sitting down for that one. And not still holding the teacup he just put down.
To his credit, John doesn’t look annoyed or even judgemental, merely perplexed. Like he cannot find the last few pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that reveals a final picture.
***
“What’s he like?” Benedict asks idly, playing with a strand of your hair.
“He’s not a bad man; in fact, he’s a good one. He’s just… “ you trail off; it’s challenging to summarise someone you’ve known your whole life.
“Not what you want?” He supplies helpfully.
“Precisely,” you respond, climbing on top of him, surging up for a kiss.
“And what is it you want?” He asks, his voice like velvet, as he grabs your hips and pins you on top of his body.
“To do this again,” you evade seductively, grabbing him and aligning yourself to him, sinking down with a shuddering groan. Fuck does that feel good.
***
“Mr Darby, I don’t know this is something we should be discussing” Benedict’s discomfort is only worsened by the flood of flashbacks his mind is supplying.
“Would you not wish y/n to be happy?” John counters.
That response skewers Benedict right to the core. Of course, he does. In another reality, maybe even in this one, he is in love with you. He wants nothing but the best for you, even if he can’t be the one to supply it.
“What do you want to know?” Benedict capitulates with a sigh.
***
He catches your eye in your joint reflection. He looks so debauched, his hair wild from your tugging, and his skin has a sheen of sweat. His large hands wrap around your hips as he fucks you hard from behind. You watch in the mirror as he leans over and bites your neck.
“Don’t forget me”, he growls, his voice edged with desperation.
“I could never”, you gasp truthfully. This man is etched into your very soul.
***
“Everything you can share about her, what she wants, what she likes,” John says honestly.
“Her neck is her biggest pleasure zone,” Benedict begins, “never skip it. Depending on the mood, you can run your fingers over it, lick, suck, or bite; all will have her squirming. There’s a spot about an inch below her right earlobe where her jaw meets her neck. If you kiss there, she stops talking.” Benedict smirks at that one.
***
“I should be getting home,” you protest, somewhat weakly, as his lips cross your cheek towards your neck “my mama will know I’m gone if I….” Your words die with a ragged exhale as he hits the spot on your neck.
You feel him smile against your skin, and then he kisses there again, a bit harder with some suction. Oh dear god.
***
“She loves hands, or at least mine,” Benedict preens a little. “Cup her jaw or the back of her head when you kiss. Run them up her arms, sides, down her back, grab her rear with both hands and pull her against you” Benedict’s voice gets a little rougher, “she loves that.”
***
“Benedict,” you whisper, “are you sure you want to do this? Now?” You can see his family gathering on the other side of the tree he has you hidden behind.
He grabs both your ass cheeks and pulls you against his body, you feel him hard against your stomach, and it causes your breath to hitch.
“Does that answer your question?” He asks silkily before releasing his grip and letting you fall away again.
“Ohhhh, do that again,” you reply breathily, running your hands into his hair, “and harder.”
***
Benedict is on a roll now, all the experiences and memories tumbling out of him. Appropriateness be damned. If this man wants to know you, know what you need, Benedict will not hold back for the sake of apparent decency.
“Don’t always take her clothes off slowly. Sometimes she wants sensual, you can tell, but mostly, she wants passion. Either rip them off, you can afford to buy her new, or tell her to strip.”
***
“Strip now,” he commands, stepping back to take in the sight of all of you.
You can't scramble fast enough. Why does your clothing have to have so many goddamn buttons??
***
He wants to shock John now. Realise how little he has been doing for you that you need.
“Talk to her. The filthier, the better. She will never flood faster than if you describe what you want to do to her, what you want her to do to you. Say it right into her ear, especially in public.” Benedict has to clear his throat to stop the gravel in his voice.
John blanches; it’s evident to Benedict the man doesn’t know even half of what makes you lose control. It doesn’t seem like these things would even occur to him. It makes Benedict so incensed that you are not getting what you need, what you crave.
***
He leans over during the opening aria. His lips brush your ear as he speaks so low and dusky as he pulls your shawl over your lap.
“I can smell you from here, and god, I need to taste you right now. Touch yourself, my dear.”
You thrill at the idea. As subtle as possible, run your fingers under your dress and into your underwear with a whimper.
“That's it; feels good, doesn't it? Now give me that hand,” his voice is barely audible.
You withdraw your hand slowly and want to moan as he kisses your hand and then plunges those fingers into his mouth, running his tongue sinfully around you sucking your skin clean.
The filth of his actions juxtaposes violently with the opulent theatre. Everyone dressed up in their finest jewels and silks. Your hand digs hard onto the meat of his thigh, and he smirks as he watches you squirm in your seat. This three-hour opera better be over in less than ten minutes, or you may just expire.
***
“Eat her pussy.”
It's John's turn to almost drop his teacup.
“Like a starved man, don’t do it because you expect something in return. She tastes exceptional, particularly when she’s midway between her courses. You can use some teeth to push her over the edge.”
***
He holds your gaze fiercely as he swirls his tongue slowly around your clit. He languidly takes his time, varying pressure and vibrations. He sucks hard and takes you to the edge, then backs off to gentle kisses, not letting you over. Your whole body burns with anticipation.
“Oh god Benedict” you gasp, “I need…”
He chuckles against your skin. “Oh no, not yet; we are just getting started.” he teases, lifting your leg over his shoulder and opening you up even more.
***
“Are you warm? “ Benedict asks, changing the topic rapidly. “It’s hot in here, isn't it?” He seems distracted. “Smith, please could open a window,” Benedict calls out.
John observes as Benedict pulls on his cravat to loosen it and peels off his jacket. He looks flushed, overwrought.
Benedict starts up again once the window is open and the servant has left the room.
“Semi-public arouses her,” Benedict advises, “not getting caught, but the idea you might be, she’ll be extra needy.”
***
“Benedict, people might see,” you admonish as he pushes you against the wall upstairs from the ball, gathering your dress around your hips.
“Oh, please don’t pretend it's not exactly what you want; you are not wearing any underwear, you total tease,” he growls, picking you up and roughly pulling down his trousers.
He plunges into you, and you have to bite the shoulder of his jacket to muffle your scream. Precisely what you've been craving; he knows you too well.
***
Benedict sighs and stands up. “There is so much more I could say. How she loves to be spanked, her nipple pinched, her mouth gagged”. He watches with bemusement as John’s face contorts into a picture of shock.
“But mostly John, it’s not just about all that, is it? Just listen to her, be there for her. She can be your best friend and singularly the most irritating person you could ever meet in one heartbeat. She is the most intelligent, stubborn, wise, funny, warm, frustrating, wonderous person you will ever have the privilege to spend time with, and every day remind yourself of just how bloody lucky you are.” Benedict’s words are tumbling out of him, and as he finishes his monologue, he is breathing hard and pacing up and down the room as if a man possessed. John has never seen anything like it. The passion, the singular focus.
“You love her, don't you,” John says solemnly after a long pause.
***
“This is our last time together; make it count, Benedict,” your voice teems with the desperation of borrowed time you are on.
“Don’t say that,” he gasps desperately, “please, I can’t bear the thought.” He is teetering as close to the edge as you are, not voicing all the words behind his meaning.
“Don’t you dare pull out of me,” you pant harshly into his mouth. “Please just give it to me. In four hours, I’m marrying another man. What does it matter now? I need to feel you; I need something to remember you by, my love.”
He groans your name and holds your face, and then as he stares deep into your eyes for the first time, you know what it feels like to have a man come undone inside you. It’s visceral and so hot it takes you over the edge again.
***
Benedict doesn’t answer John directly, but his response gives away everything.
“No good advice should ever go unused. After all of this, If you so much as slightly disappoint her again, you do not deserve to be in the same room as her, let alone the privilege of being married to her.” He looms over John. “She deserves the world, and you better give it to her or, by God, I will hunt you to the ends of this earth and make you regret ever meeting me.”
Until now, John guessed Benedict was merely a soulful gentle artist. But it’s clear now still waters can run very deep, and creative passion can be channelled in surprising ways.
John nods. “I will try; you have my word; I will try to give her the world.”
Benedict sags backwards, almost into himself. “Good. Good.”
***
It's a mystery to you, but after one afternoon in London, your husband is a changed man.
You're not complaining, but equally, you're not entirely sure what to make of it, especially in the bedroom. What's most confusing is sometimes it feels like Benedict is a ghost in the room, whispering to your husband what to do to make you satisfied. Of course, he’s never quite as good as Benedict was, but he's so much better.
***
Nine months after your wedding, you become a family. John has never been more overjoyed than when he becomes a father; it's a comfortable life you have built together in many ways. You're content, settled. Maybe not perfect, but perfectly acceptable. Luckily the fact the child has blue eyes when neither of you does is something he never questions.