Forgive me, it sounds cocky
He ah-matized me and opened my eyes
Redwood tree, it ain't hard to see
His love was the key that opened my thighs
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I'm also on Ao3: "Stop all the world now"
Warning: 18+ and explicit sexual content.
It's just shameful smut... (before returning to art business, i promise)
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It was nearly impossible to hear oneself speak.
The clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter, fragments of song, and the lively strains of instruments filled the apartment, blending into a vibrant, intoxicating chaos. The air itself seemed alive. Emma’s cheeks were flushed, her skin warmed by both the press of bodies and the heat of the room. A faint sheen of perspiration traced along her collarbone. She could feel Benedict behind her — his hands, broad and certain, resting at her waist, his chest warm against her back. From time to time, he leaned closer. His breath brushed her ear as he murmured something she scarcely caught, or his lips would graze the delicate hollow of her neck, sending a quiet shiver through her.
It was early December. In two days’, time, she would leave for Kent, as she did every year, to spend the Christmas season away, far from this noise, this warmth, this… him. It was precisely for that reason that she had agreed to accompany him to one of these bohemian gatherings. Because she knew these moments were fleeting. Soon, the festive season would claim her entirely. And yet, she also knew she would find a different kind of peace there: in the stillness of the southern countryside, beneath the hush of winter snow.
But that quiet felt distant now.
Here, everything felt vivid.
Over the past months, Emma had come to know his world. Or rather, the part of it he allowed her to see.
A world where he seemed freer. More real. Untouched by expectation.
Here, Benedict was no longer the impeccably dressed gentleman she sometimes glimpsed in the park, adorned in finely tailored coats and embroidered waistcoats. Here, he wore loose white shirts, the sleeves carelessly rolled to his forearms, sometimes a simple waistcoat thrown over them, and trousers without ornament. Nothing that spoke of rank—save, perhaps, the effortless confidence he could not conceal.
But more than his appearance, it was his manner that captivated her. He spoke differently here — freely, without restraint. His words were unguarded, his tone unmeasured, his thoughts unfiltered. He laughed more openly, argued with spirit, and listened with an intensity that was almost disarming. Especially when it came to her.
The world knew Benedict Bridgerton—the second son of one of the most distinguished families in the city. But Emma knew only Benedict. Not the son of. Not the brother of. Certainly not the brother-in-law to a duke. Only the man. And here, she too felt free.
Since that incident months ago—when someone had dared, with a cruelty she had not forgotten, to remind her of her place as a maid—no one had attempted such a thing again. It had not been spoken of, not directly, and yet the memory of it seemed to linger quietly within these walls, as though that night had drawn an invisible boundary around her, one no one now wished to cross. Perhaps it was because it had become understood, without needing to be said, that she stood under Benedict’s protection.
And yet, what unsettled her most was not the protection itself, but what it seemed to allow. Because this place existed apart from everything she had known before. Here, propriety did not hold the same weight; it softened at the edges, dissolved in the warmth of conversation, in the ease of laughter, in the way glances were allowed to linger just a second too long and bodies, at times, drifted closer than society would ever permit elsewhere. And still, no one crossed that line with her. No careless word, no unwelcome attention, no presumption disguised as familiarity. It was not fear that held them back, she realised, but something far more subtle recognition.
Here, she was not a maid. She was simply Emma, and for the first time, it was neither her position nor the judgment of others that shaped the way she was seen, but something far more intimate: her thoughts, the way she observed the world, the way she understood art and allowed herself to feel it without restraint. And in that quiet shift, almost imperceptible yet deeply profound, she found herself standing in a place she had never known she longed for—a space where she was allowed to exist as she was, and nothing less.
She felt lighter now. Not entirely free, not entirely at peace but lighter, in a way she had not expected, as though speaking of George had loosened something that had long remained too tightly held within her. She had never wished to hide anything from Benedict. That had never been the issue. And yet, the more her feelings for him had grown—quietly at first, then with a force she could no longer deny—the more she had begun to feel as though she were, somehow, letting George slip further away. And that thought had unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Even if she had not loved him as a wife ought to love her husband, even if their bond had never carried that consuming, overwhelming intensity she now knew she could feel… George had been one of the most important people in her life. A presence steady and kind, a part of her past she had never wished to diminish.
She had accepted his death long ago, or at least she had convinced herself that she had. But she had never imagined—never truly allowed herself to consider—that she might one day love someone. That her heart was capable to feel and endure this feeling.
And what unsettled her most was not simply the feeling itself, not the intensity of it nor the way it seemed to take root within her without asking permission, but the contrast it revealed. Because Benedict and George could not have been more different: beyond the obvious divide of class, beyond the lives that had shaped them into who they were, beyond everything that should have made them impossible to compare.
And yet, there was a bond they shared—elusive, difficult to name, yet felt with unmistakable certainty: a way of being alive.
Not in the same manner but with the same underlying conviction—that life held more than what was given at first glance, that there was always something beyond reach, something to seek, something to feel more deeply, even when it unsettled. And somewhere between the two, Emma found herself standing, not torn between them as she might once have feared, but drawn forward—her heart no longer anchored in what had been, but reaching, almost despite herself, toward something she had never thought she would allow herself to want.
Her gaze drifted across the room. Figures moved in a kind of beautiful disorder—artists with paint-stained hands, women in loosely structured gowns, men deep in animated conversation… or entwined without hesitation. Time had slipped entirely from her grasp. How long had she been here? What hour was it now?
At last, she gently slipped from Benedict’s embrace. The loss of his warmth was immediate replaced by the sudden awareness of her own heated skin. She made her way toward the room where she had left her things, slipping on her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck. Outside, winter had begun to make itself known.
She had just reached the door when she was stopped. Benedict stood there, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, a knowing smile playing upon his lips.
“I am not even granted a farewell now?” he said lightly.
Emma rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips.
“Don’t be absurd. I was coming back to take my leave properly.”
“A leave, is it?” he echoed, amused. “How very formal.”
“One month without seeing one another,” she replied. “I believe that warrants something of the sort.”
At that, he stepped closer. Without a word, he adjusted the green scarf at her throat, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Then, gathering both ends in his hands, he gave a gentle pull, drawing her toward him.
Their lips met, soft, unhurried.
When he pulled back, his eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.
“You cannot bear to be parted from me, you admitted it” he murmured.
“I would not make such declarations, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, though her arms had already found their way around his neck.
He tilted his head slightly.
“Would you come and stay the night?”
“To sleep… or something less innocent?”
He raised his hands in mock surrender.
“I said nothing of the sort. That was entirely your suggestion.”
“You would not let me sleep, I’m quite certain. And I have a great deal of rest to recover.”
He leaned closer, his voice dropping.
“I give you my word… after midnight, my lips shall not touch any part of you.”
“Mm,” she hummed, unconvinced, brushing her lips against his again.
He smiled against her mouth.
“I have, however, made no such promise regarding my hands…”
“Very well,” he relented with theatrical grace. “We shall behave most respectably… and recover our sleep together.”
With that, he reached past her to gather her things.
And though she knew perfectly well what such promises were worth, she followed him anyway.
The night air struck her skin the moment they stepped outside.
It was sharp, almost bracing after the suffocating warmth of the apartment. Emma drew her coat closer around her, though the chill did little to quiet the heat still lingering beneath her skin. Beside her, Benedict seemed entirely unaffected.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The distant hum of the city stretched around the: carriages passing, faint laughter escaping from windows, the muted rhythm of a world that continued, indifferent to their presence.
Benedict cast a discreet glance around them, over his shoulder, the satisfied, or at least momentarily reassured, he returned his attention to Emma. In a gesture both instinctive and tender, he slipped his fingers through hers, as if the simple act of holding on might anchor him more firmly to the world they were trying so carefully to inhabit together. Emma looked up at him then, her eyes alight with that unmistakable spark of mischief that so often undid him. A smile curved upon her lips as she stepped imperceptibly closer.
If one were to observe them from a detached point of view, one might have seen nothing more remarkable than two young people returning home together; an ordinary scene, the sort that would pass without comment in any drawing room or upon any London street.
And yet such a conclusion would have been deceptively simple. For beneath the outward ease of their steps lay an almost imperceptible tension, a shared, unspoken awareness that made their fingers tighten ever so slightly where they were joined. It was not fear, precisely, but something more delicate and far more perilous: persistent awareness that such a gesture might nevertheless be noticed. Still, neither of them let go.
Benedict broke the silence first, his voice contemplative.
Emma did not look at him at once. Her attention remained fixed on the uneven cobblestones beneath their feet. After a brief pause, she gave only a soft, indistinct sound of agreement.
“That is a remarkably long time.”
At last, Emma looked up at him. A faint, almost teasing laugh escaped her as she finally broke her silence.
“I suppose a gentleman such as you must have no shortage of ways to occupy himself during a month apart, right?”
Benedict huffed a soft, reluctant breath—something between amusement and resignation.
“That is true… though family gatherings are always… well…” He hesitated, searching for a word that might soften the truth. “A source of anxiety.”
It was not entirely honest, and yet not entirely false either. He had always adored those gatherings : the noise, the chaos, the endless teasing, the warmth of being surrounded by his siblings, each louder and more unbearable than the last in their own cherished way. And yet, lately, something had shifted. Since his brothers and sisters had begun to marry, one after another, the laughter had begun to feel different. Less like a tide that carried him, and more like something he stood besides, observing. As though parts of his family were slowly turning toward a quieter, more serious world—one he understood perfectly and yet could not quite claim as his own.
Emma said nothing, but her fingers tightened gently around his, a silent gesture of understanding that needed no explanation. Then, with deliberate lightness she tilted her head.
“Would you prefer to remain in grey, empty London instead?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Benedict’s mouth. He didn’t hesitate.
“I would prefer,” he said simply, candid as ever, “that you were with me.”
This time, it was entirely honest. If Benedict closed his eyes, he could see her there with a clarity that unsettled him more than any argument ever could. He could imagine her seated at the great dining table in Aubrey Hall, her presence fitting there so naturally it seemed she had always belonged. He could picture her as well by the fire, the light of the flames softening her features, his young nephews gathered around her. He could even imagine her in conversation with Eloise, engaged in some long, animated exchange about art and listen to Colin's travel stories. He could imagine, too, the more private moments. The ease of having her in his arms without hesitation, without the weight of consequence. The simple, unguarded act of holding her close in his own room, with no fear of interruption or reproach. The softness of waking on Christmas morning to find her still there beside him, as though the world beyond Aubrey Hall had never once threatened to pull her away.
And for a brief, uncharacteristic moment, Benedict understood with painful clarity that it was not merely imagination. It was real desire.
Beside him, Emma fell silent. Too long, perhaps. Then she stopped walking. Gently, she drew him closer. Her other hand found his, and she wove her fingers through his.
“Listen…” she began, her voice softer now, stripped of its earlier playfulness. “As much as I want to be with you, you know that is… impossible.”
Benedict’s mouth parted slightly, an instinctive protest already forming—something impulsive, something beautifully unreasonable, as was often his way when reality displeased him. But she knew him too well. Emma did not allow him the chance.
“January 6th,” she said quickly, as if anchoring herself to the date might make it more real. “I’ll be back then, and we can celebrate Christmas properly. Just you and me. Alright?”
Benedict rolled his eyes heavenward, placing a hand dramatically over his chest as though addressing himself.
“I already know it will be my favourite gift,” he declared.
Emma let out a soft laugh, her eyes narrowing with playful suspicion.
“If you are fortunate,” she replied, lifting her chin ever so slightly. “You may even receive two.”
A spark of amusement lit his gaze.
“Two?” he echoed, stepping a fraction closer. “Now you tempt me beyond reason, Miss Watts.”
She smiled—just enough to suggest she knew precisely what she was doing.
“Well then,” she said lightly, “I suppose it will depend entirely on how well you behave until then.”
At that, Benedict released one of Emma’s hands quite suddenly and, with a boyish burst of energy, took off down the grey London pavement.
“Come along!” he called over his shoulder, laughter in his voice. “Let us hurry home… purely for the sake of sleep, of course!”
Emma barely had time to protest.
A surprised laugh escaped her as she gathered her skirts and hurried after him, her steps quick and light against the cold stone. He glanced back at her, eyes bright with mischief, slowing just enough to catch her hand again and pull her along.
Emma had not run like that in years, perhaps not since childhood. By the time they reached Benedict’s apartment, her heart was racing wildly in her chest, her cheeks flushed with colour, her breath uneven and light. The sudden warmth of the room wrapped around her like a second skin, and she hastily pulled off her scarf, letting it fall carelessly over the back of a nearby chair.
Benedict had already shrugged off his coat. Without a word, he handed her a glass of water. She took it, her fingers brushing his, and drank it in a single breath—never once taking her eyes off him.
Something restless stirred within her. A sudden, exhilarating burst of energy—born, perhaps, from their reckless run through the cold night. She set the glass aside. And before she could reconsider, she crossed the distance between them in an instant. She threw herself toward him, as though drawn by something far stronger than reason—her pulse still racing, her whole body alight. Benedict didn’t protest and glass slipped from his hand, falling onto the carpet without breaking. Emma reached for him with no hesitation and captured his lips with a fervour that surprised even herself.
She had to rise onto her toes to meet him, her hands sliding up around his neck, drawing him down toward her as though she could not bear even an inch of distance between them.
He answered her just as fiercely. His hands came up to frame her face, holding her there. The room fell silent but for the faint, breathless sounds that escaped between them. The fervour of her kiss startled even herself. It was nothing like her usual gentleness; there was a kind of urgency in it, almost a desperation, as though she had thrown herself headlong into some battle. And yet, far from displeasing him, it stirred something deeper in Benedict, something impossible to resist.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, she drew back.
Her hands pressed flat against his chest, holding him at a distance, while her eyes—wide, her pupils dark and trembling—betrayed a rising panic that had not been there a moment before.
“I am sorry… I don’t know what came over me,” she murmured, her fingers lifting instinctively to her lips, as though she had committed some grave impropriety.
Benedict could not help but smile, though a flicker of surprise crossed his features. There was something in her reaction—so abrupt, so unlike the boldness she had just displayed—that piqued his curiosity. His brow furrowed slightly as he reached for her, his hands settling gently upon her arms, just above her shoulders.
“There is nothing for which you must apologise,” he said softly, his voice low with reassurance.
He leaned forward, intending to reclaim the moment, to close the distance she had so suddenly created, but Emma retreated before he could. She turned away from him and crossed the room in a few uncertain steps.
Though their acquaintance had not spanned years, Benedict had come to recognise this in her, the quiet onset of unease, the storm that gathered inside her. He did not follow. Instead, he stepped back and seated himself at the edge of the bed, his hands loosely clasped before him, his posture patient. He knew what would come next. In mere moments, many words would pour from her, and he would listen, as he always did, and endeavour, with all the steadiness he could muster, to soothe her and guide her gently back from whatever troubled her mind.
She brought the palm of her hand to her forehead, pressing it there as though the situation itself had become unbearable, as though something inside her had reached a point she could no longer contain. Then she turned back to him, abruptly, and began to speak—her words tumbling over each other, disjointed, almost incoherent, a reflection not of what she wished to say, but of what she could no longer hold inside.
Benedict tried, as best he could, to follow.
“It’s just that…” she began, before stopping herself, her frustration rising almost instantly, sharpening her tone. “I don’t think properly when you’re here. I can’t. My body feels—wrong. Too warm. My heart won’t slow down, it feels like it’s going to break out of my chest, and there’s this…this heat, low in my stomach, like something is burning under my skin and you…” she stopped again, her breath uneven, and pointed at him as though accusing him of something undeniable, “you are the only one who seems capable of stopping it.”
Her hand trembled slightly before falling back to her side, but her gaze did not waver.
“It’s your fault,” she added, with a kind of helpless indignation, “with your stupid hair, and your stupid blues eyes, and that smile of yours—”
Benedict frowned faintly, as though unsure whether he had just been insulted or praised, his confusion flickering across his features for the briefest moment. He opened his mouth, perhaps to answer, perhaps to defend himself—but she did not give him the chance.
“I feel ridiculous,” she went on, her voice tightening, her gaze dropping as she began to pace in front of him, her steps restless, uneven, as though movement itself might help her outrun the thoughts she was struggling to articulate. “Completely ridiculous. Every night I find myself wishing it were your fingers instead of mine, and—”
Benedict smiled, almost despite himself, something warm and involuntary in the expression—but she caught it instantly.
“Don’t smile like that,” she snapped, though there was more embarrassment than anger in her voice. “I’m serious. I must be mad. I have never felt anything like this before. Of course I’ve…” she hesitated, visibly flustered now, her words catching as she forced herself to continue, “I’ve been with someone before—but never in a way that made me want to return to it like this. Never in a way that stayed. And now… now I cannot stand next to you without… without thinking things I should not be thinking.”
She stopped again, her breath faltering, her thoughts tangling faster than she could speak them.
“I’m ashamed of it,” she added more quietly, though the words seemed no less urgent. “No one ever tells you it feels like this. No one warns you that it—”
Her voice failed her. Emma hardly recognised herself anymore. She could not tell whether it was the lingering warmth of the evening, the breathless rush from the short distance she had crossed to reach his apartment, or simply the fact that every time Benedict was in the same room as her, she felt an almost irrepressible urge to close the distance between them—to reach for him, to lose whatever fragile control she still possessed.
It was a sensation entirely foreign to her. Just like love. She felt like she had to learn everything about herself all over again. There was, within her, a strange and constant contradiction. Since his confession, since the moment she had finally faced what she felt for him, a quiet sense of calm had settled somewhere deep inside her—a kind of certainty she had never known before. And yet, at the very same time, she felt as though she had become something else entirely. Something brighter. Something more dangerous.
Like a sun burning too fiercely.
As though whatever lived inside her now could not help but consume everything in its path. Her body betrayed her constantly. There was a warmth that never quite left her, a slow, persistent heat that returned the moment Benedict so much as crossed her thoughts—which was to say, almost always. It was disorienting, this constant awareness of him, this way her body seemed to respond before her mind could even catch up. And she had no one to speak to about it. Emily? Though they had found their way back to one another, Emma knew, without needing to ask, that she would never approve of relationship. Louise? Louise would understand—of course she would. She delighted in matters of the heart, in the intricacies of affection, in the quiet thrill of a love story unfolding. But Emma will never talk about desire or any intimate subject with her before her marriage, even if she has already told her about what happens between a man and a woman on the wedding night. Her mother? The mere thought made her flush with discomfort. She remembered all too clearly the awkward, ill-prepared advice given on the eve of her marriage. A man? Unthinkable. She might not be a lady in the strictest sense of the word, but she had lived long enough within society to know its rules. Intimacy, when spoken of by men, was indulgence, experience, even pride. But for women it was something judged and silenced.
Since she had begun attending those evenings at Benedict’s, she had come to understand that intimacy was not merely an act confined to marital duty. It was something more. She had come to understand it herself with Benedict, despite the risks they or she— were taking.
It could be many things, she realised.
It could be soft, tender, almost intimate in its quietness—something that unfolded slowly between two people who chose each other without urgency. Or it could exist in something far simpler, more immediate: a shared moment of pleasure between two souls who trusted one another enough to let go, even briefly, of everything else. It could be light, almost effortless. Or it could be overwhelming, intense, consuming, burning through her with a force that left little room for reason. And perhaps it could be something experimental and something she had never truly allowed herself to explore before, never quite dared to touch.
With Benedict, she felt that intimacy did not belong to a single form.
She liked to think that she could meet him in all the ways that truly mattered. Emotionally, where everything within her seemed to quiet in his presence, as though he understood what she could not always put into words.
Intellectually, where their thoughts seemed to move in parallel, where conversations did not exhaust her but instead carried her somewhere higher. And creatively, most of all, where they could fully connect and share their gifts for the arts.
In those spaces, she did not feel lesser or uncertain. But physically… that was different.
There, everything felt new again. As though she had to relearn herself entirely—who she was in those moments, what she truly liked, what she feared, what she was willing to give, and perhaps even more frighteningly, what she was ready to receive. And that uncertainty, more than anything, both unsettled her… and drew her in.
For a moment, the silence returned—but it was different now, filled with everything she had not managed to say.
And this time, Benedict stepped in.
A small smile touched his lips, not mocking, but deliberate—gentle enough to soften what she had just confessed, light enough to keep it from breaking under its own weight.
“That’s quite a testament,” he said.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she replied at once, her voice still fragile, though less frantic than before.
He then met her gaze, and his expression took on a more serene yet no less confident air.
“It’s called desire—,” he said softly. “What you’re feeling.”
Emma looked at him for a moment, as though trying to understand how he could stand there so calmly after everything she had just said. He had grown serious again, the faint trace of amusement gone from his features.
He extended his hand toward her.
Emma hesitated—only briefly—before stepping toward him. There was something slower in her movements now, as though she were no longer trying to escape herself, but instead learning, reluctantly, to face what she felt. She placed her hand in his, her fingers curling around his almost instinctively, as if they already knew their place there.
He drew her closer without urgency, guiding her until she stood between his knees, while he remained seated at the edge of the bed.
For a moment, he said nothing. Benedict lowered his gaze to their joined hands and began to move his fingers against hers, slowly, absentmindedly. He traced the lines of her knuckles, then slipped his fingers between hers.
“You are not foolish,” he said at last, his voice low, steady. “Or mad. And if you are… then I fear that makes two of us.”
Emma pressed her lips together at that, something in his words catching her off guard—not entirely unpleasant, but enough to unsettle her still. It was easier, somehow, to believe herself alone in this, to think of it as something irrational, something she could dismiss.
Benedict noticed the shift in her expression at once. One of his brows lifted slightly, his head tilting back just enough to study her face more closely, a flicker of curiosity—and perhaps mild disbelief—crossing his features.
“What?” he asked, a faint note of incredulity slipping into his voice. “You cannot possibly believe that I feel nothing of the sort.”
Emma opened her mouth, but no words came.
“I…” she began, uncertain, as though even the possibility of it unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
His thumb brushing lightly against the back of her hand, a small, grounding motion.
“I feel it too,” he continued, more quietly now. “The same thing. The same… loss of composure when you are near. The same thoughts, the same—”
He hesitated, just for a second, as though searching for a word he would not regret giving aloud.
“But I hold myself back,” he finished at last, his gaze lifting to meet hers again. “Out of respect for you. Because I’m afraid that, if I don’t… it might become too much.”
Emma felt herself settle, if only slightly, as the warmth of his hand remained wrapped around hers. It was not enough to quiet everything—not entirely—but it softened the sharpest edges of what had been building inside her, as though his touch alone gave her something to hold onto when her thoughts threatened to scatter.
Slowly, almost without thinking, she lifted her free hand and placed it against his cheek. Her fingers rested there for a moment, hesitant at first, before settling more firmly, as though she needed to be certain he was real, that he was truly there in front of her.
“You are never too much,” she said softly, her voice steadier than she felt, her thumb brushing lightly against his skin. “Never.”
Benedict’s expression shifted at once, something warmer breaking through, something that softened the lines of his face. A small smile curved at his lips.
“Neither are you,” he replied, just as gently.
She withdrew her hand from his cheek, her fingers curling slightly as if unsure where to rest now.
“I…” she began, her brows drawing together faintly, her voice catching before she could steady it. She exhaled, frustrated with herself. “You know how to… how to make me feel things, how to… please me, and I cannot even seem to understand myself properly. I cannot contain it, I cannot name it, I cannot even ask for what I want or claim what I want…” she stopped, shaking her head slightly, her gaze dropping for a moment.
“Oh, I believe you have already proven quite the opposite,” he said, a soft laugh slipping into his voice. “Particularly when you made such… effective use of my lips only moments ago.”
Emma’s head lifted at once, her eyes widening slightly, caught between embarrassment and disbelief.
Benedict noticed it at once—the way her gaze shifted, the faint flush rising to her cheeks, the way her shoulders drew in just slightly, as though she wished, if only for a second, to make herself smaller beneath the weight of what she had just admitted.
Before she could retreat any further into it, he reached for her.
His hands came to her face with a quiet certainty, framing it gently but firmly enough to bring her back to him, to anchor her where she stood. His thumbs brushed lightly along her cheeks, not to wipe anything away, but simply to remind her that she did not need to hide.
“Hey…” he said softly, his voice lower now, stripped of all teasing, leaving only something warm and steady. “You don’t have to feel embarrassed. Or ashamed.”
He held her gaze, not allowing her to look away this time, not out of insistence, but out of care—because he could see, plainly, the way she was already trying to retreat from what she felt.
“I think intimacy,” he continued, more quietly, choosing his words with a kind of thoughtful precision, “is, perhaps, one of the few places where we are allowed to be entirely vulnerable. Not perfect, not composed but just honest.”
His thumbs moved again, almost absentmindedly, tracing slow, reassuring movements against her skin.
“And we can learn,” he added, a faint, softer smile returning to his lips, though it no longer carried any mockery. “Both of us. We can take the time to understand each other… to discover what we like, what we need without any rush.”
There was a brief pause, his gaze softening further as he looked at her, as though trying to make her see herself the way he did.
“You don’t have to already know,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to find your way there.”
A faint smile appeared on her lips—barely there, almost hesitant—as though she did not quite trust it to stay. Benedict’s hands were still framing her face.
She let out a soft breath, her gaze lifting to meet his, a flicker of irony passing through her expression, gentle but unmistakable.
“Mmh… I don’t believe you have much to learn in that field,” she said, her tone light, though something in her voice still carried the remnants of her earlier unease, softened now into something more intimate, more playful.
For the first time since their conversation had begun, it was Benedict who seemed unsettled. His gaze dropped, almost involuntarily, not out of indifference but out of something far more uncertain. His fingers moved absently against the fabric of her dress, tracing its folds without thought, as though the simple motion might steady him long enough to find the words he was struggling to form.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before, touched with something unfamiliar—something that felt dangerously close to hesitation.
“May I confess something to you?”
Emma smiled at once, though it was not a teasing smile this time, nor one meant to lighten the moment. It was softer and reassuring. She slipped one of her hands from around his neck and placed it over his, her fingers wrapping gently around his, smaller, but steady, as though she meant to return him the calm he had offered her moments ago.
“You know you can,” she said softly.
Benedict let out a faint breath, almost a smile, though it seemed directed more at himself than at her.
“I have…” he began, before faltering, his gaze still lowered, his thoughts visibly searching for the right way to take shape. “I have shared my bed with many women, and—”
Emma cut him off with a light laugh, unable to help herself.
“If that is your great revelation,” she said, a hint of amusement slipping into her voice, “I believe I was already aware.”
But Benedict did not smile.
And that alone was enough to make her laughter fade.
He lifted his eyes to hers then, and whatever she found there—whatever tension, whatever quiet strain—was enough to still her entirely. There was no playfulness in his expression now, only something serious, almost guarded, as though what he had yet to say mattered more than he knew how to express.
There was no sharpness in his tone, but there was something firm enough to make her fall silent at once.
The movement was abrupt enough to break whatever fragile stillness had settled between them, forcing Emma to rise as well before she slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. Benedict remained standing for a moment, one hand resting on his hip while the other moved to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly as he paced a half-step, searching—not for courage, perhaps, but for the right way to be understood.
“I have shared my bed with women,” he said again, more slowly this time, “but also… with men.”
The words lingered in the air between them.
“I did not mean to hide it from you, Emma,” he continued, his voice quieter now, more introspective, though he still had not met her gaze. “I simply did not know how it would be received. And…”
Not because he lacked conviction—but because, for the first time, he seemed unsure of her.
“I am not ashamed of it,” he added, more firmly now, though his eyes remained fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “Quite the opposite, in truth. And perhaps… perhaps it is why I understand what you were saying earlier. That confusion. That sense of being… lost, when it comes to desire.”
Emma did not answer at once. Instead, she watched him—really watched him—waiting for him to lift his head, to meet her eyes. There was something almost tender in the patience of it, in the way she seemed to give him the time he needed to come back to her.
And when he finally did, she was already smiling.
“Did you truly think I did not already know?”
Benedict blinked, caught off guard.
“I—pardon? How could you possibly—”
She laughed lightly then, not unkindly, a quiet amusement threading through her voice as she rose from the bed and stepped toward him.
She stopped just in front of him. And when her eyes met his—those same blue eyes that had unsettled her from the very beginning—it was as though something in her faltered again, just for a second.
“Benedict Bridgerton,” she said, a faint smile returning to her lips, “even a blind person would notice the way people turn when you enter a room.”
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving his.
“At every one of your gatherings… it is not only the women who watch you.”
There was something softer in her voice now, though no less certain.
“And I may not know everything,” she added, a quiet hint of teasing returning, “but I am not entirely blind to what passes between people. Some looks… are not merely looks.”
Benedict’s hand came to his brow, his thumb brushing lightly against it as though he did not quite know what to do with himself under her gaze, a faint trace of embarrassment finally finding its way through.
It was he who seemed disarmed.
He brushed his brow with his thumb, a faint, almost boyish gesture that betrayed his embarrassment more than he likely intended.
Emma noticed it immediately.
Before he could retreat any further into himself, she reached for his hand again, her fingers wrapping around his with a quiet certainty, grounding him the same way he had done for her only moments before.
“I did not want to speak of it,” she said softly, her voice gentler now, stripped of any teasing, “because I did not wish for you to feel as you do now… uncomfortable or exposed, before me.”
Benedict let out a small breath, though whether it was relief or lingering tension, even he did not seem to know.
“Do you not find it…” he began, hesitating, the words catching slightly as though he were testing them before letting them exist between them.
But Emma did not let him finish.
“Unnatural?” she said, her gaze steady, though not unkind. “Disturbing? Horrifying?”
There was no mockery in her tone. “If that is what you were about to say, then no… I cannot pretend I have asked myself the same questions about women…,” she admitted, her voice softening, her honesty unguarded in a way that felt new even to her. “I’m not certain I would feel at ease with the idea of…” she paused briefly, searching for a word that would not betray her own fluster, “well… being intimate with a woman...”
A faint, almost self-conscious smile touched her lips, though it did not last long.
“But I believe,” she continued, more quietly now, her fingers tightening just slightly around his, “that there are many ways to love in this world. More than we are ever taught. More than we are allowed to speak of.”
Her gaze softened then, something warmer settling into it, something that felt less like thought and more like realisation.
“And when it comes to desire…,” she added, her voice lowering just a fraction, not out of shame, but out of intimacy, “I think I am only just beginning to understand what it truly means...”
Benedict suddenly felt lighter. He looked at her for a moment, almost with a kind of quiet surprise, as if seeing her differently now, and then a slow smile spread across his lips.
Without thinking any further, he pulled her into him.
His arms wrapped around her with a natural softness, yet there was something firm in the way he held her, as though he needed to feel her there—real, present, against him. Emma did not resist. Her body seemed to find its place instinctively, her head coming to rest against his still-warm chest. For a brief moment, she closed her eyes, letting herself be held, letting herself feel.
His scent surrounded her at once—a warm blend of musk, of skin still heated, and something unmistakably his. It was grounding and disarming all at once, something that settled into her senses more deeply than she expected.
Benedict lowered his head gently, his cheek brushing against her hair, and murmured, his voice barely above a whisper:
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner…”
He could not see it, but he felt it immediately—in the way her body softened, in the subtle shift against him. She remained there for a few seconds longer before slowly pulling away, just enough to look at him.
Her hands came to rest flat against his chest, and she lingered there for a moment, still, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palms. It grounded her in a way she could not quite explain.
“Everyone has their own private garden,” she said softly, lifting her gaze to his. “You don’t have to tell me everything.”
Her fingers tightened slightly against his shirt.
“But you can, if you want.”
He looked at her for a long moment, silent, her words had reached somewhere deeper than she intended.
Then he leaned in. His lips met hers in a kiss that was softer than before, more gentler.
His hand rose to her cheek, holding her there, deepening the kiss with a tenderness that felt almost reverent.
But Emma pulled back slightly.
“Do you…” she began, her voice unsteady, her throat tightening despite herself.
She lowered her gaze for a moment, searching for the right words, her fingers tensing faintly against him.
“Do you miss it… being intimate with men?”
The silence stretched between them.
She cleared her throat softly, her words tumbling out with quiet awkwardness.
“I mean… do you want to… do you still—”
Benedict looked at her for a moment, then a soft, almost tender smile touched his lips. He lifted his hand and gently placed a finger beneath her chin, guiding her face back up to his, making her meet his eyes again.
“I don’t want this anymore,” he murmured, his gaze unwavering, deeply anchored in hers. “Because everything I could ever long for… is already here, with me.”
Benedict did not have the time to finish his sentence.
Emma pulled him toward her abruptly, her fingers tightening around the collar of his shirt with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. The gesture was almost clumsy, rushed—as though she feared that, given even a second more, the moment might slip away from her.
Their lips met in a kiss that was unsteady, intense, completely unmeasured.
There was a flicker of surprise in Benedict—brief, almost imperceptible—before he answered her with equal intensity, as though her sudden boldness had awakened something in him, he had no desire to restrain.
Emma slid one of her hands into his hair, her fingers tangling in it without gentleness, pulling him closer still. She wanted more—more of him, more of this feeling, more of the dizzying loss of control that made everything else fade.
Her breath was already uneven.
Benedict’s hands moved down her back, slowly at first, as though reacquainting himself with her, tracing the lines of her body with growing certainty. Then his touch shifted—firmer now, more assured—his hands settling low against her, drawing her closer against him with a quiet, unmistakable intent.
Her body responded before she could think. Their lips parted only slightly, just enough to catch their breath, but Emma did not pull away. Instead, her mouth left his, drifting along the line of his jaw in a movement that felt both instinctive and searching, as though she were discovering something she had never known how to name before.
Her breath warmed his skin.
Then her lips found his neck.
A shiver ran through Benedict, immediate and unbidden.
Between two unsteady breaths, still pressed against him, Emma murmured, her voice low, shaken by what she was feeling, almost disbelieving:
“God… I hate you for being so irresistible.”
But there was no hatred in her words.
And the quiet surrender to a feeling she was no longer trying to resist.
At his words, Benedict drew her back toward the bed behind her. She felt, for a moment, the carved wood of the four-poster against her back, soon replaced by the warmth of his body pressing her gently against it, his hands moving over her in a way she could not quite follow—everywhere and nowhere at once. One of them came to rest at the nape of her neck, holding her there, while his lips hovered close to her ear.
“Tell me what you want…” he added between kisses, his words brushing against her skin as his hands loosened her corset, his touch lingering with growing intensity.
But she could not think, not anymore. It felt like a point of no return—the moment where reason slipped away entirely. What did she want? The answer was no longer a thought, but a certainty that filled her whole being.
She wanted to be with him, inside him, everywhere at once, as long as it was him. Only him.
“I want…” she began, though the words faltered, dissolving into a breath.
She tried again, her voice trembling but true.
“I want you…” she whispered, before finally finding the courage to say it fully, “I want to make love to you.”
Benedict stilled, his touch lingering for only a heartbeat before he slowly drew back, his lips rising to the hollow just beneath her ear.
“Then… I’m all yours,” he murmured.
He stepped away from her, just enough to break the contact, a faint, knowing smile playing at his lips. The sudden absence of him was almost as striking as his presence had been—his hands gone, his warmth no longer surrounding her, and yet he remained close enough that she could still feel his breath against her skin.
“Tell me what you want me to do.” he said softly.
Emma stood there, her cheeks flushed, her breath already unsteady, watching him for a moment as her thoughts struggled to settle. And then she understood.
He was leaving the choice to her. Not guiding her. Not deciding for her.
But asking her to claim what she wanted.
Her gaze lifted, steady now, though still burning with everything she felt.
“Undress,” she said quietly.
Benedict remained close to her and without breaking her gaze for a single moment, he removed his boots first, carelessly casting them aside, then reached for his shirt, drawing it over his head in one smooth motion and revealing his bare chest to her.
“Completely,” she said, her voice quieter now, but steady.
A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. Without looking away, he moved to the fastening of his breeches, undoing them slowly, deliberately, before letting the fabric fall and discarding it beside his boots.
Emma’s breath caught. Her gaze moved over him without hesitation, without shame, drawn by something far too honest to conceal. She bit her lower lip unconsciously, only realising it when she met his eyes again, her cheeks flushing deeper under the intensity of his gaze, which only seemed to amuse him further.
He obeyed without question, clearly enjoying the moment, stretching out upon the bed with an ease that bordered on indulgence. He rested his head against the pillow, his hands slipping behind it, as though entirely at leisure, though his eyes never left her.
“Now… you will watch me.”
She took her place at the foot of the bed, standing before him, and began to undress. Unlike him, her movements were slower, more deliberate, as though she were discovering the power of them as she went. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, and she let it fall without haste, her gaze locked with his all the while. She did not look away.
And she saw the change in him. Subtle, but undeniable. The way his stillness sharpened, the way his composure began to strain beneath the surface. She continued, unhurried, perhaps even too slow, fully aware now of the effect she had on him.
When she finally straightened, there was a brief silence between them, thick with unspoken tension, as their eyes traced one another freely, without restraint. Emma felt no shame. The way he looked at her—so openly, so entirely—only deepened her certainty, anchoring her in a confidence she had never known before.
As her gaze wandered over him, she found herself wondering, once again, how such a thing could be possible, and how the man before her could seem as though he had been shaped by the hands of the gods themselves.
She moved toward him then and climbed onto the bed, advancing slowly until she settled over him, her legs on either side of his, her body aligning with his in a way that made his breath shift, however subtly.
She placed her hands against his chest and said nothing. Instead, she let her fingertips wander slowly, tracing idle paths across his skin, her movements light yet deliberate. She could feel him beneath her. The smallest shift of her hips followed, controlled, intentional, as though she were testing just how far she could push him.
Benedict did not move but he was no longer at ease. Emma watched him for a moment, noticing the effort it took him to remain still, and something in that made her lean forward, slowly, until the space between them nearly disappeared.
Her hand rose to his face, her fingers brushing along his cheek, and he looked at her with that same intensity—unable, unwilling, to look away.
One brow lifted slightly.
“Now?” he asked again, his voice lower, tighter.
Emma’s thumb brushed slowly across his lips, her gaze steady, her smile soft but certain.
“Now… play with my body,” she murmured.
A quiet satisfaction crossed his expression.
“I was hoping you would say that.”
“Good… Then get to work.”
No sooner had the words left her lips than his hands returned to her, moving with a quiet urgency, tracing her as though he meant to remember her entirely, as though each movement carried both intention and restraint, even as it threatened to lose both. Emma let out a soft sound she could not hold back, caught between surprise and pleasure, her breath faltering as the sensation spread through her faster than she could follow.
His lips left hers only to travel along the curve of her jaw and down her neck, lingering just enough to make her fingers tighten in his hair as she drew him closer, no longer hesitating, no longer questioning the instinct that guided her. There was something new in the way she moved now, steadier and more deliberate, as though she had begun to understand the effect she had on him, and more than that—how to shape it.
The rhythm between them shifted, gradually but unmistakably, losing its earlier gentleness and becoming something deeper, more consuming, neither of them wished to slow, or to return to anything resembling distance or thought. Emma closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the moment, her body responding before her mind could follow. After working meticulously on her chest, without mercy, Benedict placed his mouth beneath her right breast and sucked her skin for a long minute. Once finished, he looked Emma in the eyes, his hair tousled, his eyes full of lust. When he looked at her, it was no longer with lightness, nor even with curiosity, but with an intensity that felt almost claiming, as though, in that moment, there was nowhere else he wished to be—and no part of her he had not already chosen.
He spoke softly, brushing a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering just enough to make her shiver.
“A little reminder of me… when you are away.”
Emma sat up slightly, lowering her gaze, her fingers brushing against the hickey he had left just moments earlier. A faint smile played on her lips.
“Something like that,” he replied, his voice unmistakable mischief.
She held his gaze a moment longer, something playful awakening in her expression as she leaned closer, her lips hovering near his neck.
“Then… allow me to do the same on you,” she murmured in a softer, calmer voice. “But I should like it to be seen.”
He did not answer, but the way he tilted his head back, offering himself to her without resistance, was answer enough. A breath escaped him—low, unguarded—when she followed through, and when she finally drew back, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile, her eyes lingering on her work of art.
“It suits you,” she said quietly, a hint of pride in her voice. “My love.”
The words came naturally, almost without thought. It was the first time she’d called him like that. It was the first time either of them had used a term of endearment, but in Emma’s mind it seemed only natural; he really was her lover. Even more so with her mark on her neck. Benedict placed his hand flat between her breasts and let it glide across it, never taking his eyes off hers. He slid his hand up towards her neck, then down to her jaw and finally resting his middle and ring fingers on her mouth; he didn’t even need to ask her to open her mouth – Emma had already wrapped her tongue around his fingers and taken them inside. She sucked on his fingers for a few moments, then he withdrew them to trace the path back down her body, letting his fingers wander over her chest, leaving a trail of saliva on her skin. He gently approached the path of hairs and her slit and Emma let out a moan of anticipation, then of surprise as his two fingers sank into her. The first back-and-forth movement already sent her reeling, her back arching beneath his touch. Emma placed both hands on either side of Benedict’s head and closed her eyes to savour the moment. His face was just a few centimetres from hers; he could feel her ragged, hot breath on his skin. He slid his free hand over her cheek, resting it naturally beneath her chin.
“Oh… Benedict…” were the only words she managed to utter, her voice breaking softly between unsteady breaths.
She felt the precision of his touch, the way his movements seemed to reach parts of her she couldn't reach herself, as though he were guiding her toward something she had yet to discover within herself.
“I want more of you,” he murmured, his lips barely a breath away from hers before he closed the distance entirely.
“So do I,” she answered in return, her voice quiet, almost lost between their kisses.
She sat up and placed her hand on his chest to stop him from moving. From the start of the evening, Benedict had, of course, wanted her to get to know herself, to take control of her body and, by extension, his, but he’d thought she’d give in more quickly than he’d anticipated. Her hand rested on his heart, where he in turn wrapped his much larger hand around it. At that moment, he felt that he was discovering, at the same time as she was, a new side to her, and he was far from disliking it. Emma gently lifted her bottom backwards and Benedict realised he had to release his fingers, which he did. Emma felt incredibly empty in that very moment, but that feeling was forgotten the instant Benedict wiped his fingers on her mouth, tasting her in the process. To this scene was added the sound he made, delightful to her ears, and his gaze, which challenged her directly. Accepting his gaze, she took his cock in her hand and placed him directly at her entrance. The contact was even more pleasurable than his fingers, and she slid gently onto it. She closed her eyes and threw her head back in pleasure, a soft moan escaping her lips.
Sex with Benedict had been divine, but she had never tried this position before in her life and felt completely filled by him. It was a sensation she certainly didn’t mind. She remained still for a few moments, caught off guard by the unfamiliar sensation. Then she began to do what felt best for her, gently undulating on top of him, her hand still resting on his heart. Her movements had an immediate effect on Benedict, who had so far been less vocal than she was; his moans gave her even more confidence in her movements, which were becoming faster. Emma could no longer make sense of anything; the sensations flooded her, overwhelming every one of her senses at once. She hadn’t even realised when her hand had risen, almost of its own accord, to rest against her breast, her fingers lingering there in a slow, absent caress, whilst her other hand was on her clit, which she was also massaging more frantically than ever.
She hadn't even realised that she was using Benedict for her own pleasure. But he didn't seem to mind either, captivated by what lay before him. He had never seen anything so sinful and wonderful at the same time. Of course, he’d been with many women and men in his life, but unfolding before him was a spectacle far more extraordinary than words could describe. Emma’s body undulated against him, enveloping him completely, her hair cascading down his chest, her hand cupping her breast with her nipple caught between her fingers. He almost felt out of place in this scene, yet at the same time he couldn’t take his eyes off her body.
“God, Emma… you are unbearably beautiful like this,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, as though the sight before him had momentarily stolen even his breath.
After a few minutes, her rhythm began to falter, no longer steady but carried by something more instinctive, more difficult to control. There was a subtle shift in her movements, a loss of precision replaced by something more urgent, more revealing.
Benedict noticed it immediately. And instead of holding back, he chose to meet her there. His hands came to her hips, firm but careful, grounding her in a way that felt both steadying and consuming at once. For a brief moment, he simply held her, as though aligning himself with her pace, with her breath, with everything she was struggling to contain.
Then, slowly, he moved with her. Emma felt it instantly -the shift and the way he adjusted to her - and something within her gave way just a little more. She felt an immediate wave of pleasure. The kind of pleasure she had experienced before, but this time it seemed stronger and uncontrollable. And like a tsunami, it swept her away completely, leaving her speechless. She felt her body stiffen and convulse slightly for a few seconds, then felt only Benedict’s hands holding her firmly against him. Then nothing: just her, her warm, damp chest lying against Benedict’s, her breath coming in gasps, one of his hands moved gently through her hair, his fingers threading slowly through the strands in a soothing rhythm, while the other held her close against him.
After a few minutes, Benedict shifted, gently rolling onto his side and drawing her with him, as though he could not quite bear to let her go. They came to rest facing one another, their bodies still close, still tangled in the quiet aftermath of the room.
She felt it when he slowly withdrew from her, and the sensation, drew from her a soft, lingering sigh that escaped before she could hold it back. It was not dissatisfaction, quite the opposite. She felt… full. Overflowing with bliss, passion, confidence, warmth, and love.
She felt suddenly tired. A sudden, unexpected wave of tiredness. Not the kind she knew from long days of work but something deeper, more enveloping, like her body, finally unguarded, was allowing itself to rest after holding too much for too long. She wished to speak, yet even that simple effort seemed to require more strength than she possessed.
At last, she drew in a slow breath.
“Thank you…” she murmured.
Her hand rose almost instinctively to the nape of his neck, her fingers slipping into his hair, grazing softly at the roots. Their foreheads remained close, their noses brushing, as though the space between them had ceased to exist, like they were sharing the same breath.
Benedict shifted only slightly, just enough to look at her. Her cheeks were still flushed, her eyes bright, as if touched by unshed tears, and a faint sheen of perspiration lingered at her brow. Yet her lips curved into a smile, wide and unguarded, a contrast so striking it made something in him soften at once. His fingers found a loose strand of her hair, idly playing with it as his gaze lingered on her face, attentive, searching.
A slight furrow touched his brow.
“Are you seriously thanking me for an orgasm?” he asked quietly, his voice teasing.
Emma caught the teasing note in his voice and gave his chest a light, playful tap, her lips already curving into a smile.
“I was raised to be polite,” she replied with equal mischief, tilting her head ever so slightly. “One must always express gratitude when something is given.”
Benedict laughed softly, the sound warm and unrestrained, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
“In that case,” he said in an equally cheerful tone, “I suppose I must thank your parents for raising you to be such a good girl.”
‘Good girl’ was said with such irony and hidden meaning that Emma blushed.
“That is positively dreadful,” she exclaimed, unable to hold back her smile any longer, her voice bright with laughter.
She had shifted slightly, propping herself up on her elbow so she could look at him fully. They had not even thought to draw the sheets over themselves, leaving them both entirely naked, though neither seemed to mind. Emma let her gaze wander slowly over him, from the curve of his shoulder to the length of him, as though she were trying to capture the moment, to preserve it somewhere deep within her—for a time when it might no longer belong to her.
Something in her expression changed then, growing more serious, more hesitant.
Her fingers drifted to his cheek, brushing it lightly before she spoke.
“You haven’t…” she began, though the words faltered, her gaze lowering despite herself.
Benedict followed it at once and, understanding far more quickly than she would have liked, intervened before her embarrassment could take root.
“I’m quite well, I assure you,” he said gently.
She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, his hand rose to her face, his touch warm and steady as he brushed his thumb along her cheek in a quiet attempt to reassure her.
“I found myself rather distracted by what was unfolding before me,” he added, a hint of amusement returning to his voice.
Emma flushed immediately, the colour rising to her cheeks, and Benedict—whether to spare her or to tease her further—shifted suddenly, guiding her back against the mattress as he moved between her legs.
He placed his hands on either side of her shoulders, leaning close, his lips brushing against the hollow of her neck as he murmured softly,
“And besides… you did promise me a second gift soon, did you not?”
When he pulled back, that familiar boyish smile had returned, lighting his features with something both disarming and entirely dangerous.
Emma met his gaze, though a trace of defiance returned to her expression.
“You don’t choose your gifts,” she said, her voice steady despite her unsteady breath. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
Benedict’s smile deepened, his eyes gleaming with quiet mischief.
“I fear,” he said lightly, leaning closer still, “that I was not raised to be particularly proper.”
Emma smiled at him, and before she could reply, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of her nose. The gesture, so unexpectedly gentle, struck her more deeply than anything else he had done.
He drew back slightly, studying her with a quieter expression now.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“I’m good…” she murmured softly “More than good, in truth. I feel… peaceful.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said gently.
His gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, to the place where he had left his mark upon her, and a flicker of something more thoughtful crossed his features.
“I was not too rough with you?” he asked, more quietly this time.
Emma looked back at him at once, her expression soft, certain.
“No,” she replied, her voice steady. “You could not.”
Benedict smiled at her, then rolled onto his side of the bed with an almost boyish ease.
“Well then,” he said lightly, a playful note in his voice, “to bed, young lady. I have already broken my midnight promise.”
He shifted slightly to pull back the covers, making room for her, and Emma slipped beneath them without protest, the softness of the sheets a welcome contrast after the warmth of his skin.
She settled against him at once, resting her head upon his chest, as if it were the most natural place in the world to be. Benedict’s arms came around her gently, enclosing her in a quiet, protective embrace as he drew the covers up over her.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there.
“Kiss me goodbye before you leave in the morning… will you?” he murmured, his voice low, almost hesitant beneath its softness.
Emma did not answer in words. She simply shifted slightly against him, a faint movement of her head that was answer enough, already drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, held safely within the warmth of his arms.
Benedict, however, had no intention of falling asleep just yet. He wished to linger in the quiet, to savour the rare stillness, with Emma resting in his arms as though she belonged there.
His fingers moved gently through her hair, and he felt her breathing gradually soften, deepen—until it became steady enough to tell him she had begun to drift into sleep.
A faint smile curved his lips, almost without him noticing. It caught him off guard. If sex had always been the foundation of his past attachments, a far more subtle feeling had revealed itself with Emma. These moments, quiet and unguarded, when they lay entwined and let the night carry them without expectation or urgency… those had become his favourites. There were times when he could sense her weariness, when she had neither the strength nor the desire for anything beyond rest, and he found that he did not mind in the slightest. On the contrary, he preferred it: having her close like this, feeling the warmth of her against him, the quiet rise and fall of her breath beneath his hand.
A kind he had rarely known.
The familiar tightness that so often settled in his chest, that constant, unspoken restlessness, seemed to dissolve entirely in these moments, leaving behind something softer—something that, for once, felt like enough. And that would be enough to last a lifetime.
By morning, she would be gone, as she always was, and he would not even have felt her lips brush against his when she left.
