#paradiselostwrites

She did not want him to know the details of what Araminta had done to her.

She had an inkling that Anthony had been looking for a way into the Penwood mob without wanting to resort to marriage or violence and it was taking some time. She also knew he could use her as a pawn and there’s nothing she could do about it.

Right now, standing in the courtyard of this delightful afternoon party hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, all Sophie could think about was keeping her hands from trembling. And occupied with something. So she was listening to Hyacinth talk excitedly about the decor and the people — there were a couple of sporting personalities present at this party — busied herself with a glass of champagne and tried to participate in her joy of attending her first party.

“Do you not think the way Daphne has everything arranged is so beautiful?” asked Hyacinth animatedly.

Behind her, Eloise gave a faint scoff and muttered, “She took those banal classes on keeping a house and flower arranging for years on end, I’d be surprised if she didn’t make it faintly attractive.”

Hyacinth stared at Eloise, face crestfallen.

Sophie stepped in before they got into a fight at a work party. “She is very good at it, I agree, Hyacinth,” she said, drawing Hyacinth’s attention to her, gently placing a hand on her arm. Hyacinth’s bright eyes focused back on her. “The key is to not make it ostentatious but should you look a little closer, you’d be able to see where the attention is designed to be drawn.”

Hyacinth began looking at the courtyard through new eyes, tiff with Eloise momentarily forgotten, while Sophie took a sip from her champagne and inadvertently locked eyes with Araminta across the space.

Araminta stuck to wearing deeper mourning colours even now, even though Sophie’s father had been dead for nearly a decade. The cut of her dress was formal and yet informal enough for this little gathering and she played the role of amicable guest so well, yet everytime Sophie saw her across the room, she was momentarily thrown back into that house at the edge of London.

The house she grew up in. She could still feel the faint raised edges around her waist from where her bullwhip would strike her repeatedly.

Araminta had been careful in her abuse. No marks on Sophie’s face, or along her neck or her decolletage. None where they’d be exposed along her back.

Sophie broke out of her reverie to look at Araminta’s entourage. It was just Rosamund today. Surprisingly, Rosamund looked vaguely uncomfortable standing beside her fiance, Jason Stotter. His family wasn’t titled but he was part of the Featherington syndicate, meaning there was greater issues within the Penwood House than Araminta had let known.

Sophie ran a hand down her outfit self-consciously — she was in a fitted navy blue dress with short ruffled sleeves that ended below her knees. Her hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, looking uncomplicated for the many twists she knows she put it into.

She was today a companion to Hyacinth and Eloise, so she had dressed accordingly. Benedict didn’t need her at the moment, engrossed in conversation with Viscount Lumley on the other side of the room.

She looked back up and Araminta’s cold gaze pierced her once again. She knew she couldn’t do anything to her here, right in the Bridgertons’ lair, standing with them and undoubtedly exposed. But she could stare straight at Sophie, cold and unflinching and remind her of what she could still do to her, if given the opportunity.

Sophie felt a chill go down her spine. She needed a moment to collect herself. She made some random excuse to Hyacinth, put down her glass at a nearby table and walked out of the garden and inside Hastings House as quick as she could.

The house was vast but she knew where Daphne’s private library was. She’d spent a lot of time in there with her, where Daphne had also shoved a desk to make it her makeshift home office. She worked better surrounded by books, she claimed, and Sophie found herself in agreement with that sentiment.

She made her way upstairs, to the second floor, heels quietly clicking into the carpeted corridor. Staff were stationed at every floor, keeping a watchful eye. She nodded towards one of the footmen, James — who nodded back in return — and started walking towards her library, she could hear familiar, steady footfalls behind her. She didn’t hasten her pace.

She got into the library and closed the door, leaned against the wall opposite and closed her eyes, taking in a deep breath.

The door opened again, closed quietly and she found herself pressed into the wall by Benedict wrapping his arms around her, gently putting his chin over her head. She shoved her face in his neck, the heels giving her added height, pulled her arms around his waist tight and started breathing him in.

“One of these days you are going to tell me in detail what that woman did to you,” murmured Benedict, voice vibrating through her head, down her body.

“Nothing,” came her voice, muffled against the starch collar of his shirt, “I just needed a moment.”

Gentle fingers pried her chin up so she could meet his eyes. Even in tall heels, she was so much shorter than him. Her hands came up to wind around his neck while he captured her lips in his. Ran his hands down the front of her dress, pressing slightly against her nipples. Her breath hitched for completely different reasons now.

She’d woken up this morning in her own bed and with Benedict in it. He already had two fingers inside her, stroking languidly, while he laved and bit down alternatively on her nipples. The torture continued for the better part of an hour while she lost her mind to his clever hands — the same hands she’d seen pull the trigger and put a bullet through the skull of a thieving subordinate the night before.

(She’d flinched the first time she saw him do it. She still couldn’t stop the bodily reaction but someone would now usually shield her against the actual act — either one of the Johns.)

And now she was sore. He grinned against her mouth while she put her hands on top of his, stilling them.

“Sore?” he asked, mouth still attached to hers.

She let out a shuddering breath while she nodded.

“Good,” he growled out, pressing back down on her boobs and sliding down to her ass, squeezing her firmly.

“We should head back,” Sophie whispered, breaking their kiss. She had given up trying to stay away from him and his addictive touch. His hands had made their way down the length of her dress and rucked it up —

only to find her wearing tights.

He pressed his forehead against hers and let out a frustrated groan. She giggled.

“One of these days,” he said, voice still gravelly, “I am going to take you like this. And then we will head back out to whatever event we are at, my come dripping out of you,” he finished, eyes locked on, chin in his grasp once more.

They hadn’t had actual penetrative sex yet. He was going at her pace. But by heavens if that didn’t send a shiver up her spine and flood her panties once again — held up against the wall by him, fucked by whatever pace he set and just taking it. She wanted to be owned that publicly by him.

He liked whatever he saw in her face because he grinned that lopsided crooked smile she loved so much and pressed a quick kiss before stepping back and arranging her clothes so she looked presentable again.

Her lipstain was probably nonexistent but he didn’t touch her hair so she probably looked alright nontheless.

She looked at him again — when he dressed up for formal events like these, he always looked incredible. But there was quite something about a double breasted blazer stretched across his wide shoulders that made her pussy throb. He looked powerful and sinful.

He opened the door and gestured her to pass first before shutting it firmly behind him and following at her heels, hand coming to rest possessively low at her waist.

.

.

.

“You know you don’t have to drive me home every night, don’t you, Joe?” said Sophie exasperated, as she stepped out of the Bridgerton Group headquarters and moved towards the waiting car.

Joe chuckled. “Mr. Bridgerton would have my head, Ms. Baek. I’d rather not.”

Sophie huffed as she got into the passenger seat and buckled in, as Joe did the same and started the car, slowly moving out of the car park and making way to Grosvenor Square.

Joe had been assigned to Sophie in the past couple of years as her primary driver when she was not in the same car as Benedict. He’d become ever more stringent with her security ever since they’d started this unnamed thing between them.

Last night - after - had been them having dinner at her place. She’d cooked, he’d cleaned and it had been oddly domestic. They’d gotten ready for bed together, slipping to each other’s arms in bed like they had been doing this forever.

She sometimes thought back to his past lovers, a lot of whom she encountered over the years. Tilley, Paul, Louis. Tilley in particular had been sharp-eyed at seeing her beside Benedict, despite her having only been working for him for a year at that point. It was as if she could sense something between them.

She’d not missed the way she’d forcibly brushed past her, almost knocking her off balance that one time.

He had looked at none of them in public the way he had looked at her. In either the privacy and comfort of their flats or at events and gatherings. People were starting to notice how Benedict Bridgerton, number 2 in the Bridgerton hierarchy, kept his assistant uncommonly close to him at all times. A hand on the crook of her elbow, sometimes standing so close she could feel the heat from his body against her back.

Seeing Araminta the other day had unnerved her. The car she was travelling in was bulletproof, like most of the Bridgertons’ fleet, but she’d been assigned this particular BMW just this week.

They stopped at a traffic light while a motorcycle pulled up beside them. Ducati, one of the older models. Fast. The rider was clad in all black. Sophie noticed — like she noticed everything — that he glanced once towards her and Joe and then turned away. Quick enough to have been just another biker, checking out the cars beside him, but her gut was saying something else.

She looked out the back of the car in her seat. Two cars and then another security vehicle of theirs.

The light turned yellow and the biker pulled out a concealed handgun, silencer attached, and fired at the driver’s side. Joe hit the steering wheel and Sophie ducked when the gun inevitably fired at her side. She could feel the honking of the cars behind her. The car slowly started moving.

The windshield shattered, the car moved uncontrollably until it hit something else. Sophie got jerked back in her seat, the airbags deploying.

It had been hectic for the past few weeks, with Violet deciding to throw a soiree with Kate, in what was her first party as a hostess since marrying Anthony. Sophie had been busy organizing the minutiae of the event — seating charts, the menu, the catering company, flower arrangements. Seating plans were of the utmost importance given the Bridgerton ballroom often saw entire Cabinets, including Prime Ministers of the past, hobnobbing with the elite, or whoever refused to see past the veneer of the elite and into the complex world of power beneath.

She’d been seated beside Benedict the night before. She remembered finalizing the seating chart with Violet and having put herself across from Benedict, in a junior seat at the table. She was his personal assistant, his manager, yes, but she didn’t need to be beside him all the time. It was becoming difficult to resist his charms on a regular basis.

He was always in her personal space, touches lingering a little too long, holding her a little too close. Anticipating her every need. It wasn’t by magic that she’d discovered her wallet had been fraying at the edges and suddenly there was a replacement sent to her flat. Saic Firenze, bespoke leatherwork, durable. She protested it once and Benedict gently told her that he had taken her practicality into account while picking the wallet for her. It was fine craftsmanship (which she couldn’t deny) and would last her years.

She wished he would give her something more run-of-the-mill. Coach maybe. She wished he’d give her nothing at all, not see through her at every opportunity.

She’d accepted a lot of things from the Bridgertons, because they’d ensured her continued safety and she’d swore her loyalty to them. Apparently that included gifts of exorbitant proportions, in addition to her salary, like the walk-in closet full of evening gowns, cocktail dresses, backless suits, a truly pathologically insane collection of shoes she never thought she’d need, but Violet had insisted because they did host an event every month, and she needed to be styled accordingly.

She’d turned down Violet’s standing offer for a stylist, so Francesca and Daphne, the fashion consultants of the family — yet another cover for the Bridgertons’ involvement in the fashion circles — had picked things out for her. There were an alarming number of dresses in the closet that were backless. It meant she’d have to forego a bra. It meant, tantalizingly, Benedict’s warm, wide, calloused palm rubbing soothingly down her back throughout the evening. She’d often end up so wet by the time the evening was over she was in half a mind to beg him to get her off, but she curbed those urges.

No good would come of being so wanton. As if her mother’s life hadn’t been a strong enough lesson for her.

Her mother had been respectable; she taught primary school. But she was from a common background and not nobility. Her father, the Earl of Penwood, much like the Bridgertons, relied on his noble heritage to conduct much more darker and sinister schemes away from the spotlight. Of course, no one could quite touch the Bridgertons with regards to their wealth, influence and power. But people like her father still tried.

That pursuit of power led her father to keep her mother and her cared for, but never with the full status and protection that marriage would’ve granted her.

It wasn’t the regency era, they didn’t need to be married in order for Sophie to move through the world, but it would have helped regardless.

Richard decided to marry Araminta Li of the Li clan, thus cementing an alliance that brought the vestiges of a great house into Penwood House. It also involved moving Sophie’s mother to more modest logdings with more modest staff who monitored her every step. Sophie was requested to stay with her father at his house, at his request. She refused.

Then her father died from a car accident. Her mother from a short illness. And her world fell apart.

Araminta made her the maid of all work. She became the housekeeper and house manager for no pay, while deeply understanding everything that went on. She’d have been glad to have had a roof over her head, yet no way out but to wait until she was 20 so that she could walk out with the inheritance her father had bequeathed her.

2 million pounds. Life-changing money. She’d never need anything else.

So she tolerated Araminta’s verbal abuse. The physical abuse too. She never went up to the attics of Bridgerton House, closed spaces still made her hyperventilate.

It was nothing short of a miracle to have been able to leave as she did, to have found the Bridgertons’ protection as she did, for the simple act of doing nothing but saving someone’s life. She’d have saved them anyway. But she was glad it was Eloise. She was glad for Eloise’s generosity towards her, for introducing her to her family, to have gained their support as she did.

She did not consider herself to be part of the family, but they still treated her as one. Benedict treated her with something close to reverence, and it scared the absolute daylights out of her.

Her parents’ relationship had not always been fraught and hostile — it had once been rooted in affection and love. It didn’t last, so why should this?

Albiet, the love and loyalty this family had towards each other, she’d never seen such mutual love. She was touch-starved, starved of affection and kindness. She accepted what was given greedily, and yet was never made to feel less than for asking for it.

Benedict scared her. He was soft and gentle with her, a side his younger siblings and his mother saw, his enemy would’ve begged to see. She knew of his reputation as a playboy — heartbreaker. Unattached. Did not form romantic connections. Though she suspected it was by design that that particular rumour floated about. It wouldn’t do to have a visible target painted for someone else to shoot at.

So his affection in the little things and his single-minded attention on her unnerved her. What was to stop him from abandoning her when she became inconvenient? Nothing. She doubted she’d be allowed to walk away scot-free.

But the unhealed child inside her craved his touch. His focus and his attention. He’d pull her down to sit on his lap and not let her move when they’d be finalizing or going over his schedule for the day. Interestingly, neither one of his siblings made a comment on it if they happened to be in the room with him.

His hands would wander, but always in a soothing motion. His very presence calmed her soul.

She’d patched him up too frequently and slept beside him in his bed one too many times to resist him. But she still tried to put distance between them. She always moved his hands when they ventured somewhere she didn’t like and he never put them there again.

She felt safe with him. Being with him was like sitting underneath the shade of a massive tree. Protected, calm, cool and safe.

The dress she wore to the soiree had his attention within minutes of her stepping foot into the room. Dark red with thin straps, no back to speak of, slit on the side so high she’d have a wardrobe malfunction if she wasn’t careful. Sideswept hair, secured in place with bejwelled clips. She checked her watch — a Vacheron Constantin, another gift. On time.

His hand curled inside her dress, around her back. When they’d been seated for dinner and Fran exchanged their place cards so she sat next to him, his hand wandered up, cupping the side of her breast and squeezing gently once. She’d inhaled sharply. The lighting was dim, few people could tell what was going on.

She felt like she’d been served on a platter and yet. She couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

She met Fran’s eyes across the table where she calmly sipped her wine. The hint was unmistakeable: she was Benedict’s to do with as he pleased.

This is what it meant to belong to someone else.

She should’ve known his control would snap sooner rather than later.

She still knew she had the upper hand. If she objected he’d stop. But she wasn’t sure she wanted him to stop. She so desperately wanted to give in.

His hands trailed down her back slowly, making her aware of every inch of his hand, the warmth making her shiver. He was so nonchalant about it too. He was in conversation with the gentleman seated to his other side, not even looking at her. But his hand - big enough to cover her back when splayed wide - caressed down her side before sliding up her thigh and settling there.

And then he moved his hand again. This time, he cupped her, warm palm fully holding her clothed cunt.

She really shouldn't. But she couldn't help herself. She was only human, and he was wearing her down. So she pushed forward in her seat so that he could settle his palm around her better.

The rest of the evening went that way. A hyper awareness of him, that cologne of his, his warm hand tucked so intimately between her legs. At some point he leaned towards her and whispered in her ear, voice deep and scratchy, “You good, baby?”

Baby. That one was new. She looked at him. His pupils were blown out. She gulped down the water she was drinking and whispered back, “Yeah.”

Now, she just stared up at him. She got to see this side of him a lot of the times now, but she wished she wouldn’t see it on account of him being injured and not letting her get back to her flat.

(Her flat, two floors below his in a converted Victorian building, paid for by the family. A security system that Benedict had overseen the installation of. Just a precaution, he’d said at the time.)

His hair was tousled in the morning light, face looking so young and at peace.

She didn’t know pleasure felt like that. Her feeble attempts at using her own hands were abysmal at best. If he felt that good with just his fingers, how good was he going to feel when he finally fucked her?

How was she going to take him, was a bigger question. She was already sore, a little deliciously so. And that was just his fingers.

He stirred, groaned and then pulled her into him, the smallest of spaces between them disappearing. Sophie closed her eyes and breathed him in, tucking her face into his neck.

“I want to keep you here forever,” he confessed, voice low, scratchy with sleep.

She stilled. That didn’t sound like someone who felt she was a convenience.

Sophie sat up and crossed her legs beneath her. Started first and laid it out for him — she felt he deserved the honesty. That she was incredibly grateful for a job, for their protection of her, for how safe she felt against her travesty of a stepmother and how much she adored Benedict. But that she was unsure if he meant for her to stick around long-term because she was aware of how these families worked and how much remained unspoken.

“I also know I will never be able to leave, if something goes wrong,” she finished quietly, indicating the space between them.

Benedict listened to her in silence, still lying back on the bed, arms braced on his elbows. “You are never going to be unsafe with me, Sophie,” he said, quietly. “This life is what it is. There’s also things you haven’t told me about Araminta Gun that I want to know, because I see how your hands tremble when she is in the same room as you.”

Her head shot up. She didn’t think she had been transparent.

“But,” he continued, “this isn’t a passing fancy for me. You see me, and you know me, and you choose to stay anyway.” He slowly reached for her and pulled her into his arms. She looked into his face and just saw him. Earnest and open, the way he’d been with her these past few years. She quickly reached up and pressed a kiss to his lips before she lost her nerve, and he took the chance to deepen it, leaving her reeling. He continued pressing kisses down her throat and then down her chest and murmured, “You never have to worry about a single thing that is now plaguing you if you are to be with me.”

She swallowed. It was a big thing for him to promise her.

“Think about it?” he implored, green eyes looking up at her.

(Not that Francesca or Eloise weren’t refined, it was just customary for the both of them, their interests lying elsewhere — Francesca’s in the pianoforte and Eloise’s in books. She might have hope for Hyacinth yet.

Better yet, Hyacinth could shadow Sophie and learn from the best.)

“That is quite an accomplishment for someone who has been cut off from finishing lessons at a young age,” Violet said mildly, voice probing.

Sophie stilled for a moment and then continued stirring her tea. She took a sip, place the cup on her lap and responded, “I have always been observant, my lady, because finishing lessons were of great interest to me, even if I was not allowed to take them.”

“Violet, please. What age did you last take your lessons?”

“Fourteen. My reading and writing tutorials continued till I was sixteen but they were few and far between.”

Her lessons should’ve been managed till she debuted, even after that, especially dance and music, thought Violet.

“Did your father not fight for your corner?” asked Violet, irritated on her behalf. Especially for someone who had such potential and was able to exude such grace with so little training.

Sophie sighed. “He did not want to fight my stepmother on every single thing. She discontinued my dance lessons when I was ten and he said he would resolve it but they didn’t resume.”

Violet looked at Benedict over the rim of her cup. He looked incensed, though he said nothing.

She couldn’t believe a man of nobility such as an Earl, would willingly take on the burden of educating a young girl and then abandon her mid-way. It didn’t make any sense.

“Did you learn French or Latin while you were still being tutored?”

Sophie brightened at that. “I learnt both. I also learnt Korean and can speak it fluently. It was my parents’ native tongue.”

She looked down at her lap, somber at once. “Though my father and I only continued to speak in Korean when it was just the both of us. My stepmother did not appreciate us speaking a language she couldn’t understand.”

Violet eyed Mrs. Wilson, who’d been sitting beside her in a chair, sipping her own cup of tea. They’d have their work cut out for them when they eventually headed back to London.

“She has as much knowledge of art as I do, did you know that, mother?” piped up Benedict.

Sophie flushed and sushed him. “What? It is true! Flattering as it was to be compared to Michaelangelo’s skills.”

Sophie laughed outright, twinkling laugh, head thrown back. And then she just beamed at him.

As if they had forgotten they both had company.

Violet eyed her son once more. He looked…..content. In a way she’d never seen him. His scent calm instead of the agitated one she’d scented all throughout the last season and the beginning of this one. Mixed with Sophie’s rosewater and fresh rainfall scent, it set such an inviting environment. As if beckoning people to come and enjoy their company.

.

.

.

After enjoying a nice breakfast tea, Violet took Sophie by the hand and pulled her into her bedroom.

She started gently. “I know the Crabtrees have been chaperoning the both of you but I also know my son. Dearest, you cannot be sharing a bed until the two of you are wed. Or mated. Whichever comes first.”

Sophie pinkened. “Lady Bridgert—”

“Violet. Or mama. Whichever one you prefer.”

Sophie swallowed — what an enormous privilege to be afforded such belief. “Violet.”

Violet smiled and nodded at her to continue.

“We haven’t, that is,” she started and then stopped. She took a deep breath and let it out in one go. “We haven’t done anything aside from simply sleeping on the same bed together. I think we both feel very centered the more time we spend around each other.

It is as if all my anxiety ceases to exist around him. Because he sees me for who I am and I never need to construct a facade around him.”

Violet blinked. Oh.

“I apologize,” Sophie continued, unaware of Violet’s realization, “it was not what we’d intended. It is just…..really hard to stay apart. Even physically.”

Violet took both of her hands in her own.

“You need not apologize,” said Violet. “This is Benedict’s private home and there are no prying eyes. But people talk, especially servants. They keep our secrets but also judge them so you will need to be careful.

She waved in the air. “It will not matter when you’re mated. So just for a little while mor—”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. Now, I have something for you.”

She pulled her to the front of her bed, where Sophie saw a trunk that was definitely not there as she was dressing herself in the morning.

Violet opened the trunk and started taking out some of the items within, while continuing to speak to Sophie. “These are Eloise and Francesca’s from last seasons’ and I made a wild guess that they’d fit you. We might need to hem them because I now think they are both taller than you. But nevertheless I got some things for you so that you wouldn’t have to keep rewearing the one or two dresses.”

Dresses upon dresses. Shoes, more pairs than she could count. Two pelisses, Spencers jackets. And then Violet dug into the bottom and picked out a flat jewellery box. The box was about the size of her palm.

“There aren’t too many pieces in here, just a few pairs of earrings and a couple of bracelets but I thought it’d do before we had some made specifically for you. Here.”

She plucked out a pair of drop earrings. Small, encased in gold, a small diamond on top of each amethyst.

Exactly matching the jewel of her necklace.

Sophie couldn’t even see the jewels properly because of how her eyesight blurred. This was too much. And from a woman she’d met just a few hours ago.

Violet stepped forward and gently threaded the earrings into her ear lobes, one after another.

When she was done, Sophie stepped forward and hugged her, startling her. “Thank you, mama,” she whispered through her tears.

Violet hugged her back. “Oh my darling,” she whispered back, hugging her back and swaying them back and forth. “You need never thank me for anything.”

Benedict stood at the threshold watching the scene as Sophie sniffled into his mother’s shoulder and Violet pressed a kiss to her head.

His heart felt more full than it’d done in a long time.

.

.

.

The letter from Simon arrived two days later in the evening.

Sophie, Benedict and Violet had enjoyed a wonderful dinner today, filled with laughter and with Violet regaling Sophie with Benedict’s antics from when he was younger.

There was a knock on the door and then a conversation with a runner and then Mr. Crabtree was bringing forward a letter to them, addressed jointly to both Benedict and Violet.

Estate of the Duke of Hastings

Clyvedon

August 19th, 1817

Dearest Violet and Benedict,

I am taking the liberty of addressing the both of you in the same letter since the matter concerned is of the utmost urgency.

Matters concerning wills where there’s a dispute in the title would be directed either to me or to one of the Marquesses in the Queen’s council. Since this is in essence an effort to legitimise Miss Baek following the death of her parents — who for all knowable reasons cannot stand in and claim her as their own — the will shall be examined in the Prerogative Court of Canterbury. Typically, a deacon or a vicar can overlook the proceedings but I have asked the Archbishop of Canterbury to look into the matter.

It should also be noted that Lady Penwood would not have thought to lie to Sophie, either by not showing her the will or by falsifying the records, without the help of the local deacon or vicar. They either incorrectly enforced the will — which is my suspcion — or they falsified the will, in return for a sum.

In either case, this would not bode well for the reputation of the Church, which is why the Archbishop, who surmised the same conclusion as me, agreed to set the nearest date and let us know when the examination can take place.

I have suggested to the Archbishop to communicate with you directly and to send a missive to Bridgerton House, so you do not miss out on the communique. I also suggest coming back to London in three days’ time if you do not hear from either of us by then.

I am making my way in to London and shall already be there by the time you are reading this letter so please direct future communications there.

I look forward to seeing my new sister-in-law-to-be in person soon. Please send her my love and best wishes.

Yours Sincerely,

Simon

Benedict slapped his forehead. Of course the queen’s council wouldn’t examine the will because it wasn’t regarding the Earl’s entail. The new Earl was already in place.

“I forgot about the inheritance court examining wills,” said Benedict sheepishly.

Sophie laid a hand on his thigh below the table and rubbed soothingly. “It is quite alright, Benedict.”

“No, I have been dealing with matters of the estate on Anthony’s behalf for a while now. I also managed when he was at Oxford for three years. I knew this then.”

Violet interjected. “You likely didn’t need to mediate on any wills that didn’t involve a title in all that time, did you?”

Benedict sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

“Then it is quite alright. It is alright to not know the answers. That is why we lean on family in times like this.”

Violet held Sophie and Benedict’s hands in each of hers and gave them a squeeze. Sophie smiled tremulously at her.

Benedict looked at Sophie for a long moment. She looked back. Their tranquil time in the country had come to an end.

“We will be back here before you know it,” said Benedict gently, taking one of Sophie’s hands in his own, rubbing soothingly along the back of it. It was as if he knew what she was thinking about.

The depth of the connection was bringing forth all kinds of theories that Violet was suspecting about the two of them but she didn’t want to share it with them just yet.

“We return tomorrow then?” asked Sophie.

Benedict nodded and Violet smiled warmly at her. “Tomorrow it is. The sooner we get this resolved, the sooner the two of you can begin your life together.”

Together.

Sophie tried to raise her right arm and couldn’t help but whimper with the pain that shot up her arm.

“Soph, easy,” came a voice from her side, slightly sluggish like they’d been jerked awake from sleep.

Alfie.

“How long have I been out, Alfie,” croaked Sophie, voice hoarse from disuse, trying to tug the the cannula from her nose. It was suffocating her.

Alfie caught her hand gently, probably guessing she was in pain.

“Just a few hours, Benedict stepped out to speak to the doctors about discharging you.”

Right. She’d been in an accident. Being shot at. Joe.

She suddenly tried to sit up, the enormity of what had passed hitting her. “Is Joe alright? I couldn’t do anything —”

“He is in surgery, Soph. They said the bullet passed too close to his carotid, but they’re doing their best,” urged Alfie, now holding both her wrists in his hands. “Please lie back down. Do you want some water?”

Sophie’s eyes filled with tears. This was her fault. That hitman was targeting her.

Rapid footsteps sounded as they rounded the corner of her bed and sat down beside her.

“Sophie,” came Benedict’s voice. Her face was in his hands but she could barely see him through her tears. He pressed kisses to her face as she kept crying and apologizing.

“What are you apologizing for? You almost died!”

“It is-is my fault Joe is in such bad shap—”

“No,” said Benedict, cutting her off firmly. “Not yours. You did nothing wrong. You did good signalling the car behind you.”

Fragments of that scene at the traffic light came back to her.

“Wasn’t the other car further behind ours?”

A ghost of a smile greeted his face, as if her question endeared him. “You didn’t think you had just another car for security, did you? The three cars behind you were ours.”

Its too much. He was making her security the same level as the rest of his siblings. She said as much to him.

He cupped her face gently with one hand and murmured, “Always worth it to me, baby.”

She was so tired, her whole body was aching, likely an aftereffect from the crash. She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. Cocooned in his embrace, she forgot she was in a hospital room, even if for a moment.

“I spoke to the doctor,” Benedict said quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace in the room, “and he said he can release you now into Dr. Carerra’s care. So you can rest at home.”

“At the flat?” asked Sophie, just as quietly.

“No, sweetheart, Bridgerton House,” said Benedict gently, “Mum wants you to recuperate there.”

Violet was an absolute saint. Bathed in blood, but a saint regardless.

Sophie looked up and gently pressed a kiss to his lips, holding on to his shirt collar tightly. Benedict returned the kiss with equal reverence and held her like spun glass. Like she’d shatter if he held her too tight.

.

.

A check-up later, during which she’d been cleared to go home and be kept under observation for a further twenty-four hours, Benedict helped her in to fresh clothes. The joggers were hers but the soft and worn tee was his, as was the zip-up fleece hoodie. He carefully put on socks for her, because she was always cold, and then laced up her sneakers.

It was so little and yet so much she wanted to start crying again.

Her body was aching and she was so tired and she wanted to eat something, perhaps something spicy, but she had to wait a few more hours before she could have something substantial. Right now, holding onto his hand felt like a balm.

Her hands were so small, she never realized it. Benedict’s completely covered her own. Any other time, her brain would have short-circuited. Now she was just grateful to have had a soft place to land. A place where she felt safe and secure.

She leaned against him in the elevator, closing her eyes. Alfie was on the other side, holding a bag containing her things from the crashed car.

As the elevator opened into the ground floor, one of the orderlies came forward with a wheelchair, saying that it was hospital policy for her to not exit by walking out hours after an accident.

Sophie looked at Benedict and then at Alfie, both of whom looked annoyed but agreed. As Sophie sat down gingerly into the wheelchair, she noticed the underlings milling about. Plainclothes, armed beneath their jackets and blending into the A&E crowd. More or less.

Benedict indicated to one of his lieutenants, Hiscox, who nodded to everyone else and they slowly closed ranks around the three of them while they exited the hospital.

Benedict thanked the orderly for placing her inside the car and then leaned in to buckle her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He shut the door and rounded the car to slide in beside her. He caught her hands in his own and squeezed reassuringly.

As the cars filed out of the hospital, Sophie counted the ones she could see in the rearview mirror without straining her neck. Atleast eight.

Benedict had brought a battalion just to escort her out of the hospital.

.

.

When she entered Bridgerton House, Violet was already standing in the foyer. She quickened her steps and hugged Sophie, mindful of her injuries. “We have set up a room for you upstairs, my darling.”

Sophie found herself crying for the umpteenth time. Little Sophie would have died to have this affection.

“Thank you, Violet.”

“Uh uh,” tutted Violet quietly in her ear, “what did we agree upon, darling?”

Sophie felt herself flushing. She couldn’t even look at Benedict, who was standing beside her. “Thank you, mama," she whispered.

Violet beamed at her and pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead. “Alright, upstairs, and I will send up something for you to munch on.”

Violet had assigned her the room opposite Benedict’s old bedroom — surely not a coincidence. Upon entering the room, she was greeted by Edwina, who had insisted on looking after her even though it was her day off-duty.

Sophie ate some seolleongtang that Mrs. Gibbons had sent up, convinced that the bone broth would give her strength. Edwina sat in the chair, monitoring her vitals and checking her eyes. Benedict came in, changed out of his clothing into a softer tee and joggers, and slipped into the bed beside her.

Edwina hooked her up to the monitors and said to them both, “Get some sleep, I will keep an eye out.”

Sleeping with her friend watching over her, and her boyfriend attached to her back, this was some of the best sleep she’d had in a long time.

.

.

.

“I noticed some things when examining Ms. Baek, Mr. Bridgerton. I did not put them down in her official report, but I made a note of it,” said Dr. King, the senior physician supervising Sophie's case.

Sophie was sleeping well in her hospital room, he'd left Alfie to keep an eye on her. She'd escaped the brunt of the attack, the airbags doing their job. She only needed to wear a soft collar to brace her neck while her bruising healed and she'd a mild concussion that rest and time would heal.

The car behind had taken off in hot pursuit of the assassin while the one behind got her and Joe out of the wreckage and into the hospital. He thanked God for telling his mother earlier that week about Sophie and listening to her about increasing her security. He shuddered to think of what would've happened had a passerby waited to call an ambulance, given the shooting.

Benedict sat down and asked her to start.

“She has multiple healed keloid scars consistent with being struck with a whip, either a bullwhip or something more severe, all across her thighs and her glutes. They're also old, so given she's now 25, she received them approximately eight or nine years ago? And they likely continued for four more years, by my estimate. Of course I cannot be sure because scarring and healing is different for every body.”

Dr. King handed him the detailed notes she's observed - handwritten. He perused them while trying to keep a lid on his temper.

He had a feeling Araminta would be behind this. And she'd tortured Sophie. To the point where her hands shook when she saw her from across the room at an event.

Where she's once seen him beat the life out of someone and immediately avoided him for the next two days, scurrying whenever he attempted to keep her near him for longer than five minutes.

(She'd later apologised and confessed to him that it'd unnerved her seeing him do that to someone, even if they deserved it. He's held her hands gently and told her to talk to him next time. He'd already started to fall for her then.)

She'd always look uncomfortable in elevators and try to take the stairs whenever possible. In taller buildings, she's stick closer to him, breathing a little fast, holding on to the back of his jacket or Alfie’s if she could, as if the enclosure couldn't move down fast enough.

He needed to talk to Alfie.

.

.

.

As Sophie’s breathing deepened, Benedict slowly untangled himself from her and pressed a kiss to the unmarred skin of her forehead, where it wasn’t covered with bandages. He looked at Edwina, who was adjusting the bedside drip and she nodded at him. He slipped out of the bedroom, closed the door softly and made his way to Anthony’s office.

Alfie, Violet and Colin were sitting there, waiting for him, Anthony behind the desk, looking grim. Kate was looking out of the window.

“Alfie,” said Benedict, clasping his hand, “I cannot thank you enough for today.”

Alfie shook his head. He looked worn out. Sophie had been his childhood friend, and he’d tried to keep her from harm. Alfie had also been the person to vouch for Sophie to Anthony and Violet, though Sophie hadn’t known that.

“I am sorry I couldn’t get there fast enough, Mr. Bridgerton,” said Alfie, “people wouldn’t move out of the way for some godforsaken reason.”

“We need to solve the problem with the Penwood clan now, Benedict,” said Anthony.

Benedict looked at him and then at his mother and then at Alfie and directed the next question at him. “How long did Araminta abuse Sophie, Alfie?”

Violet’s expression turned stormy.

Alfie inhaled sharply. “From when her parents died till she could legally emancipate herself, taking her inheritance from Richard Gun’s will — about six years.”

Six years. She’d been tortured for six years.

“She used to lock her up,” swallowed Alfie nervously, his face indicating he was remembering something from those days. “Either in a broom closet or in a walk-in closet. Anywhere that didn’t get a lot of light.”

The tension in the room was thick enough to be cut with a knife.

“I used to find her and let her go and Araminta would give me a stern talking to but not do anything else. But then she started locking her up in places where I couldn’t find her fast enough. Sometimes it would be up to a day.”

Benedict’s hand was enclosed on the back of a nearby chair. His hand tightened. It seemed hell wasn’t enough for Araminta.

Alfie let out a deep sigh. “And then I had the first chance to leave and I did. I don’t know what happened in the two years that I wasn’t there. Though I think Posy would be able to tell you.”

“Posy?”

“She is Mrs. Barnaby now. Araminta’s youngest daughter. She was close to Sophie. I think that is why her mother got her married as soon as she could, so that she could isolate Sophie.”

Baroness Barnaby, that is who Alfie was referring to, Benedict realized. Well, one less person to get rid of.

“We need to take their organization down now, Alfie,” said Violet calmly. “If they think they can get away with attempted murder the first time then they will attempt to finish the job.”

Alfie turned around. “Lady Bridgerton, we are still confirming if it was the—”

“It was them, Alfie,” Kate cut him off, speaking for the first time. “There was no one else in the car aside from her. I checked the cameras within and outside the doorframe of the car. The shooter saw who was in there before he pulled the gun out.”

Anthony let out a deep breath. “Alfie, could you leave us for a while?”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Colin looked straight at Anthony and said, “We start with their shipping business?”

“Yes,” affirmed Anthony. “We will move in for the kill once their assets are inaccessible.”

“There has to be no one surviving from that family, Anthony,” said Benedict, voice low.

“We need to ask Cressida and Jonathan, Bene-”

“Do that,” he cut him off. “And let me know what your plan is. I am going to erase Araminta’s entire bloodline regardless.”

“Not Posy,” chipped in Kate, firmly. “She is not involved. What is more, I have a feeling she might have been abused the same way Sophie was.”

“I cannot operate on a feeling, Kate,” snapped Benedict.

“You will watch your tone when you speak to my wife, brother,” said Anthony, voice rising.

Benedict buried his face in his hands. “I apologize, sister.”

“It is alright,” came Kate’s clipped voice. “I will find out and let you know. I have already asked Mrs. Wilson to set up a lunch tomorrow with Mrs. Barnaby.”

Benedict now looked straight at Kate. She looked tired. He would wager he didn’t look any better. “Sorry, Kate.”

Kate softened and crossed the room to speak to him quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Its okay, our nerves are frayed. Go get some sleep. I bet Sophie wouldn’t mind the company.”

.

.

There was some debate on how they’d approach dismantling their operations but Benedict didn’t stick around for it.

He’d been tense since the moment Alfie had called him to tell him about the crash and that he was taking her and Joe to the hospital.

Benedict slipped into his office and sat down behind the desk to collect his thoughts.

He’d fallen in love with Sophie very shortly after she’d started working for him. He liked how she didn’t flinch at most things, so he’d been surprised that she’d reacted that way after she watched him murder someone in front of her. She tried to stay away — but then one day, when she’d tried to leave after going through his schedule instead of sitting and talking like she usually did, he cornered her. Held her hands and gently pulled her to him and wouldn’t let go till she answered him.

He’d been surprised to say the least, and he told her he wanted her to talk to him if she felt that way again, but he made sure he assigned either his brother-in-law John or his trusted lieutenant John to block her view during the act. He could tell something had gone wrong when she was at Penwood House, but she never told him the whole story. Eloise knew some parts, but she didn’t want to open it up so he didn’t push her.

It didn’t stop him from trying to be as physically close to her as possible. Pulling her into his lap and keeping her there when they were having conversations with other lieutenants or the heads of the other families. Women as property was a concept not absurd in this world they inhabited. He never felt that way about her, but he used it as a cover for keeping her close.

She’d always squirm deliciously when kept there too long, and he’d hook his chin above her shoulder to keep her in place.

Everyone knew she was his. And that she was not to be touched.

And yet it seemed Araminta Gun thought she could resurrect an old one-sided feud with a child under her care and get away with it.

They got closer than he had initially accounted for. She was....mesmerising. She managed his schedule with a ruthless efficiency, one so effective she now assisted his mother and sometimes Anthony too. Her efficiency belied her age; she was Eloise's age, soa decade younger than him. If anything though, she was driven to prove herself and he noticed. As did Anthony.

Anthony begrudgingly agreed how instrumental she was to their family. He had clocked Benedict's affection and obsession from the beginning. As long as Sophie was in Bridgerton hands, he said to Benedict, he didn't mind.

Benedict made sure she never heard of him phrasing it like that. He slowly understood why she was so skittish to his advances - she was afraid of being in the same position as her mother, left to fend for herself. Benedict wouldn't do that to her. He would keep her safe and sound. If preferable in his bed.

Breaking down her walls one by one was a challenge he relished. He showered her with gifts, but in a manner she'd accept. Worn shoes? Two new pairs of the latest ASICS, so she could walk fast while running errands. Comfortable flats. Something practical she wouldn't refuse. Attending the parties that Kate and Violet threw for business partners, where the government officials accepted the excesses as was their due? A walk-in closet full of evening wear, designer, made-to-measure, comfortable heels she could walk in. Jewelry small enough she'd like to wear them, ostentatious enough that it showed who her benefactors were.

One arm always on her back. He loved it when she wore the backless numbers - creamy expanse of her back exposed to his touch. Sometimes she'd wear the long evening gowns that had an indecently cut high slit. He'd slip a hand through there and hold her thigh to him possessively throughout the night, when they'd be sitting down for dinner.

One memorable evening was when he'd cupped her over her panties. Did nothing else but hold her throughout the night, snug and warm, while she squirmed from time to time. At the end of the evening, he dragged her into his bedroom at Bridgerton house instead of his flat across the square because he couldn't wait, despite her feeble protests. Pushed her panties to the side and plunged three fingers in, pressing her against the door because he couldn't wait to get her to the bed.

Hot, warm as fuck, and so snug that it made him pause. He pulled his face away from where he'd been pressing kisses to her neck and looked at her face. Her eyes were glazed over in lust. She wanted this just as much as he did, but she had not had a lover before.

Good, he wanted all of her firsts.

The ferocity of that thought should have given him pause, but it renewed his vigor. Alternating between his thumb and the heel of his palm, he brought her to three shattering orgasms before he pulled her to the bed.

"Benedict, please," she begged, for what he doubted even he could tell.

He kissed her gently at first, harder when she opened her mouth to him. An armful of Sophie in his lap. He could die happy like this.

She'd started trailing her hands down his chest to his pants. He stopped her. He didn't need reciprocation, he told her as much. "I want to," she said, voice firm and quiet in the stillness of his room.

He undid his suit trousers and she trailed her hand down, down, until she grasped him, a little too tight. He showed her the pressure he wanted, "like this, sweetheart."

He couldn't help but touch her while she brought him to a blistering orgasm, small hands on his considerable length; sucked on her beautiful tits and bit down on the nipple while she cried out as hers caught her without warning.

He kissed her again, bringing them both down from the high, undressed with the intimacy of a couple who had known each other for a longer time than they did. He pulled a soft and worn tee from the armoire and pulled it over her head. She looked like salvation to him - makeup half smudged and hair mussed, looking like an angel. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxers and he pulled her to the bed.

She fit so beautifully in his arms.

"Talk in the morning?" he asked, voice quiet and vulnerable, when they were beneath the covers.

Sophie could read him like a book now. "Yes. Please." Something soft, walls crumbling behind her eyes.

He wouldn't push her for more, though he wanted to do nothing more than to claim her as wholly as possible. He would go at her pace.

He could be intense. His past partners had trouble keeping up with his voracious appetites He would teach her everything. Learn the little ways she could be pleasured and she'd learn that there would be nothing better than having her brains fucked out by him.

Having her cockwarm him for hours, coming inside her whenever he'd choose, while discussing business with Anthony and Colin on Anthony's office settee. So many places he could take her - in front of the fireplace on all fours being a recurring dream of his; a tiny plug in her ass and her snug little cunt would be even tighter around him. Nipple clamps connected to her sweet clit and tugged on during sex; she'd lose her mind.

He wouldn't mind if they had a little one through this. They'd both be safe with him. But he knew she'd run away, skittish as she was now, so he'd venture that part later.

He'd possess her body and soul. She'd know and want nothing but him.

Benedict. He had done what she should’ve expected he’d do once he knew in detail what had happened to her under Araminta’s care. But she still didn’t expect him to do it.

The Bridgertons had dealings with her cousin, the current Earl, Jonathan Gun. She and Jonathan were distantly related and barely knew each other.

His wife, Cressida, had been an old friend of Eloise’s. Apparently they had a falling out, but when she greeted Sophie as her husband’s cousin, she bore no malice or ill-intent.

She was networking, and Sophie let her do it.

She stood at the back of Araminta and Rosamund’s funeral, hand held firmly in Benedict’s grip. If there was a sentiment that she’d been in the Bridgerton’s employ before, now there was no doubt that she was a part of them.

Rosamund had been fished out of the Thames two days after Araminta’s death was reported within their circles. There were signs of strangulation but most evidence was washed away as the body bloated. Jonathan requested Scotland Yard close the investigation and turn over the body so they could give them proper burials.

Sophie eyed Posy, who stood in the front of the queue, alongside Jonathan and Cressida and her husband Hugh, receiving condolences. Face stoic, for the most part. When she and Benedict reached the front of the line, Posy hugged her tightly, unmindful of her injuries and whispered in her ear fiercely, “We are free, Sophie.”

Sophie gripped her just as tightly. It was like a band had loosened around her chest.

Benedict kept the details of the murders to himself till she asked him for it. He told her and then she finally gave him the entire gory detail of her abuse under Araminta. He had killed for her, he deserved to know everything.

In return, he told her about her getting cheated out of her trust fund, which had been larger than she’d been intially been led to believe. As compensation, Jonathan, who’d been unaware of her trickery, gave her an additional percentage of profits from the business.

She looked up the solicitor who’d told her of the will. It turned out, soon after Araminta’s death, he’d applied for voluntary erasure with the governing board, closed down his practice and left for the countryside permanently. He had not been seen in London or in his country home in Essex since.

Violet had suggested she take a trip along with Eloise to Aubrey Hall, their country seat in Kent. She’d spent one week there before Benedict had lured her to his private country home which he’d called my cottage. She, stupidly, thought it was a cottage.

It was probably only slightly smaller than Aubrey Hall in expanse. This man was an idiot.

Her idiot.

He’d gone to London yesterday and was supposed to be back today. The Crabtrees were to leave on a trip for the next two weeks. They would have security, spread throughout the vast property, just not within the house.

He wanted privacy for a little while, just the two of them.

She could read between the lines.

.

.

She was in the library looking through the collection of books — first editions of Austen and Hardy — when she heard the car pull into the driveway. She stepped out and made her way to the expansive living area as Benedict came in.

He was dressed in a light blue shirt and complimentary jeans, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he looked so good she wanted to jump him. He greeted Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree who made their way out the front door.

They’d be alone for the next several days.

He stopped near the fireplace when he saw her and opened his arms. Sophie speed-walked into him and hugged him tight.

“I have missed you,” said Sophie blearily. She was tired from the gardening. She was tired of waiting for him.

“I have missed you too, baby,” his voice came, low and vibrating through her body from where he’d tucked her beneath his chin.

“I thought you’d be here earlier.”

“So did I, but Anthony wanted me to go over a few things before this break so it took a while.”

“Do you think it is a good idea to be away right now,” asked Sophie, fretting. Much as she wanted time for them both — and be fucked into the mattress by him, if she was being real — she didn’t know if they should be away during a time of upheaval.

Benedict murdering Araminta and Rosamund had some far-reaching repercussions.

The Featheringtons had abided by what Violet told them to, but were still caught off-guard when Araminta was killed. A prominent leader being killed by another influential leader invited a lot of chatter and unease. The Stotters had abided by Anthony’s request and put on a farce to get their son’s engagement broken. The Guns simply said that they’d pruned their tree to keep it in better health.

But the Featheringtons, who had eventually formed a working relationship with Araminta were not consulted for Araminta’s premeditated murder beforehand and they were furious. They had resorted to the social culling — uninviting the Bridgertons from their events and not allowing even Penelope, who had been a close friend of Colin and Eloise’s. to speak with them.

The Wangs and Lis had reached out to Anthony seeking a clearer explanation of what had happened and why it had happened. Anthony was trying to be upfront while reserving details, especially with two family-owned conglomerates who could potentially be an in into the Chinese markets for them.

It had been his idea for Benedict and Sophie to leave London for a few weeks, separately, then spend some time together and remain outside of the chaos.

Sophie, who’d been given a clean bill of health by Dr. Carrera, agreed to it when Anthony told her and Benedict together.

She had some discolouration on account of the car’s impact against the light pole but aside from that, she felt as good as new.

Benedict took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up so she’d meet his eyes. “No better time than the present, Sophie.”

He slowly lowered his face to hers, eyes tracing every movement, and gently kissed her. She ran a hand down his back and kissed him back, opening her mouth to give him better access.

He ran his hands all over her body, up to hold her neck the way he liked so he could kiss her the way he wanted, other hand gently squeezing her breasts and then tugging on her nipples. She moaned breathily into his mouth and he chuckled as he spoke into her mouth, “Oh, we are going to have so much fun, sweetheart.”

He broke the kiss to bend down and pick her up. She wrapped herself around him and kissed his face while he carried her to the bedroom.

Clothes came off with ruthless efficiency, the sight of her small hands helping take off his jeans a startling one. He gently pushed her back to lie on the bed, kissing her throughout, and then he made his way down her body.

Licked and bit his way down her plush breasts and down her stomach and then removed her panties which stuck to her wetly, baring her to his gaze. He eyed her hungrily and then met her eyes.

His usual green eyes were a darker hue now, consumed with want for her.

She nodded her acquiescence. As if she could ever properly tell him no.

He placed a sweet kiss to her pubic bone and to the insides of her thighs and then breathed directly over her entrance. “Please, Ben,” she begged.

Benedict chuckled while he took her clit in his mouth and started sucking.

Benedict licked into her with the attitude of a man who had all the time in the world; languid and slow. Sophie could feel her brain melting out of her ears. It felt incredible having him doing this to her. She didn't know pleasure could make her feel this mindless. It's as if she had no pressing worries, none at all.

He slowly pushed in a finger, gently; she clenched around it so hard he had to press down over his cock on the bed, lest he come before he was inside her. A second finger and then crooking them both along the slightly raised ridge inside and she came so hard she screamed.

He didn't let her up. He wanted her loose and relaxed and boneless — he continued his ministrations, coaxing two more orgasms from her before she pushed at his face and pulled at his arms. He could take a hint.

He slowly crawled up her body, pressing kisses back up along her stomach, chest, neck and then finally her lips.

“Ben, please,” she said, voice hoarse.

He wasted no time. He took himself in hand and coated himself in her release and then slowly started to push in, one hand coming up to gently hold both of her wrists above her head.

Sophie bowed off the bed at the sensation.

She was so wet but the stretch would take some getting used to.

He knew he was larger than average, girthy and long, and she was small in size. He'd barely fit three fingers in the first time. He didn't want to hurt her but a part of him wanted her to ache from being empty after he’d pulled out. He wanted to shape her cunt to fit only his cock.

To be the first and only person to ever do this to her? He felt himself getting harder at the thought, as he pushed in further, bottoming out at the hilt.

“Okay?” He asked, both hands now wrapped around each of hers beside her head.

“Mm hmm,” she moaned, the pain-pleasure making her delirious.

He gently pressed kisses to her whole face and then finally her lips and she messily kissed him back. “Move, please,” she begged.

Breathing into her mouth, he started a steady pace and felt her cant her hips up to take him in better. Clever girl. He'd bottom out, grind in a lazy circle, pull out almost completely and then push back in. Repeatedly. It made her delirious.

She shuddered through another orgasm while he kept up his pace, except now he was more forceful with his thrusts, hands on her hips, sitting up, making sure she would take all of him.

She wailed and chanted Ben Ben Ben in a steady litany, while he fucked her hard enough for the 1790s headboard to start banging against the wall.

He didn't care. He'd replace all of the furniture if required. His girl needed to know only his cock. Nothing else in that sweet, overthinking brain of hers.

He pushed a pillow beneath her hips, moments before he came in her and kept them canted up while he set a rough pace even while he was coming in her.

Cervical penetration being an impossibility was a sad thing to consider, else he was pretty sure he'd spill directly inside her womb. He's sure enough, he thought as he came down from the high and kissed her messily, that he's pounded against her cervix this time.

The thought of her being sore the next day from his fucking made more come spill out of his spent cock.

Sophie pulled at his arms and he leaned his whole weight down on her, still inside her. He kissed the side of her face and tucked himself into her neck.

Good god, he could sleep like this. He could also die like this. A deep satisfaction.

He woke up the next day to Sophie kissing his face and then kissing down his body. He stopped her before she could reach his dick.

“You don't have to.”

“You don't want me to?”

“That's not what I said, baby. My size makes it a little difficult to….do that.”

“I wanna try still, will you teach me?” She asked, doe eyes out in full force.

Benedict groaned as she giggled.

“We stop if it gets too much, alright?”

Sophie's eyes twinkled at him. She nodded and said, “I don't think we will but yes. I agree.”

She took him into his mouth, suckling at the head and looking straight at him. He stared at her with hooded eyes and guided her hands to cover what her mouth couldn't fit.

And then she swallowed him whole, slowly, inch by slow inch, right down to his pubic bone, right down her throat.

He let out of a noisy groan. That throat. All her holes were turning out to be perfect for him.

He threaded his hands through her hair on both sides of her head and guided her. After a few more thrusts, his grip on her hair tightened and he took over. He was now setting the pace of how she’d take him. The glint in Sophie's watering eyes was triumphant, this is what she wanted all along.

“Relax that beautiful throat, baby,” he crooned as he fucked her throat slowly, that soon turned rougher and faster.

Sophie held on to his upper thighs and let him use her the way he wanted.

He started grinding whenever he buried himself entirely, balls hitting her chin, making her moan each time. She fondled his balls and squeezed once. In retailiation, he covered her throat with one hand and squeezed gently. She moaned around his cock more loudly and filthily while he chuckled.

“Oh, perfect girl, you wanna be used like this?” He said between thrusts. “Fucked brainless, can't speak?”. Thrust. Harsh grind. Pull out. Thrust. Repeat. “We can do that sweetheart, we certainly can.”

He braces his legs on the bed and fucked her throat relentlessly. Sophie moaned helplessly as she shuddered through her own orgasm, untouched.

Sounds of sex filled the room. The wet squelch of her throat and throaty moans, his grunts and filthy words just for her. He came with a groan and a grunt and held her face still while he buried himself deep. She moaned uncontrollably and swallowed noisily as he came down her throat.

He continued to come for minutes and he prolonged the sensation by fucking her throat in and out. In and out. She squeezed her throat tight around him and his hand in her hair tightened in response.

He loved how she acted on her instincts (rightly) around him.

When he stopped coming, he pulled out of her mouth, slowly. He was still half hard so he pulled her up and slid inside her dripping cunt in one smooth thrust that had him buried balls deep.

She was so wet, she still wailed at his abrupt entrance.

“That wet from just deepthroating me, baby? I'll fuck your throat every morning then,” he said as he fucked into her and set a punishing pace.

Sophie could do little but hold on to his muscled arms and take what he was giving her. A few minutes later, he flipped them around and railed her into the mattress.

“Did you like that,”she asked shyly, voice hoarse from the harsh fucking. He started laughing. “It was perfect. You're perfect. I need to be deepthroated every day now.”

She smiled through her tears, giddy at his agreement and happiness. “I loved doing that. Swallowing you like this.”

He touched her jaw tenderly as he slowed down his pace. “Your jaw will hurt.”

She replied cheekily, “You can get me an appointment for a mandibular massage then,” eyes twinkling, and he could do nothing but chuckle at her obvious pleasure in pleasuring him.

They spent the majority of the two weeks like this. Barely clothed, fucking whenever they could, wherever they could, eating the cold cuts and sandwiches and pies that Mrs. Crabtree had preprepared and frozen for them.

It's like a lid had been blown off. He couldn't stop touching her and neither could she.

Some of the more memorable times were in front of the blazing fireplace, one finger in her lubed asshole while she was on all fours, while he set a punishing pace from behind. She moaned uncontrollably. Each time he filled her pussy he made sure her hips were canted up so she didn't spill anything.

She was too out of it every time to question him. He knew chances of getting her pregnant were slim. Even when everything went right, it took more than a couple of weeks of fucking. He'd have to continue the same pace when they went back to London and the thought of it kept him excited.

Fucking in a shower was tricky in the best of times but Sophie was slight and maneuvering her so one of her legs was draped across the crook of his elbow, opening her up to him, back to the wall, was not much of a problem. The water cascaded on them from the rainfall showerhead above while he set a pace where she could only cling to him while he fucked her the way he preferred — her being unable to do much but be dicked down by him. It was peaceful and quiet save for their combined grunts and moans.

He loved being in control in bed and she readily gave it up to him.

Having her deepthroat him while he was sitting on the showerseat was not part of his plan, but she relished the taste of her cunt around his cock as she swallowed him the best she could. He let her head bob without directing her the first few minutes before he took over, setting a brutal pace again. She relaxed immediately and opened her throat so he could pound to his heart's content.

She loved him taking control, he could tell. A girl this perfect should be fucked whenever possible and kept close all the time.

The day before they were supposed to leave for London, he woke up with her on top of him. He'd fallen asleep still inside her and he'd already fucked her once, mindlessly, in his sleep, in the middle of the night. Now she was still sleeping. Snoring lightly. He gave a small grin while he observed her. What a precious girl. She trusted him so wholly, he never wanted to do anything to break that trust.

He was already half hard thinking about the night before and the way they went at it for hours.

He was sketching her in her red dress at his mother and sister-in-law’s soiree and she was cockwarming him, sitting fully on his lap. And she was doing a bad job of it. She already come twice and been fucked twice when she was supposed to just keep him wet and warm inside her. He let her come as many times as she wanted, sweetest girl, before he finally finished the sketch, placed it beside him on the bedside cabinet and fucked her into the mattress relentlessly.

He slowly started fucking into her. Without waking, Sophie spread her legs so he could have better access. He didn't want her to wake.

She was sore, he knew. She also liked being sore, she told him so when they were done.

Slow, shallow thrusts and her face was soon tucked into the side of his neck. Good god, she felt so right in his arms. So much bloodshed and violence in his life and she’s the only thing that felt safe and right for him.

Sophie slowly stirred, the slow thrusts waking her up. She blearily looked at him and then laid back down, spreading herself further so he could use her as he’d like. He pressed a kiss to her forehead as he quickened his thrusts. She squeezed him once and moaned out as she orgasmed and he followed soon after. He pulled the cover over them both and slowly drifted back to sleep.

“You still sore,” asked Benedict, sitting behind her in the deep, clawfoot tub while gently washing down her front with a loofah. Sophie squirmed a little bit. The water was hot, her boyfriend was warm behind her and she was almost asleep with how relaxed she felt. “A little,” she admitted. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head as she leaned back and pressed her face into his neck, eyes closed.

They had essentially fucked on all surfaces of the house knowing that they weren’t going to run into the caretakers at any point. Alfie was there somewhere on the property, in one of the designated holiday cottages, as was John.

Sophie was pretty sure sex could be mediocre with an inattentive partner, but Benedict was anything but. He had a voracious drive and always wanted to try a new position but ensuring she came first — and multiple times. It was explosive.

Him coming inside her so many times still made her shiver at the thought. Especially when he’d spread her legs and watch his come trickle out and then push it back in with either his fingers or his cock and mutter something about her needing to keep his release inside her warm, wet cunt.

She was so embarrassed now with how wet she was throughout. She’d drip into the floorboards if she wasn’t careful.

But it was also how Benedict made her feel as if her sexual needs were natural and normal. He egged her on and encouraged her in whatever she did and guided her where she didn’t know what to do.

They matched in so many ways.

She should’ve been riding this dick for longer, damn.

Tomorrow, they went back to London, and while she could still spend nights at his flat, if she wanted to, she would be missing the easy domesticity they shared here.

Benedict was surprisingly capable in the kitchen, even if he admitted that more complicated dishes were out of his repertoire. He made her hot drinks and breakfast every day and didn’t let her lift a finger.

She didn’t look at her phone the entire time she’d been here.

She opened her eyes to see him slowly trace her labia, his obscenely large hand under water. She inhaled sharply. Sore as she was, she was not going to stop him. He slipped two fingers in as he pressed a kiss to the side of her temple and she moaned out loud and threw her head back.

It reminded her of his fingers pushing his come back into her pussy. God.

Oh.

Oh shit.

“Ben,” she said, voice tinged with alarm. Benedict leaned forward so he could see her face, “What is it, love?”

“I am not on birth control.”

“I know.”

She stared at him. “We have been having unprotected sex for the past two weeks, Benedict!”

He pulled his lips in in an effort to stop smiling and then helplessly gave her a lopsided smile. A small one. Meant to soothe.

It didn’t soothe.

“This is serious, Benedict. We have only just gotten togeth—”

“—if you leave aside the fact that we’ve been circling each other for the past three years then sure—”

“That is not the point!”

Benedict exhaled and gently turned her to face him. She hooked her legs over his hips, arms around his torso and stared at him.

“When was your last cycle?”

Sophie thought back hard. “I think I am due for my next one in the next few days.”

Silence and then Benedict shrugged. “Alright, there’s a chance then, but I want to say something,” he said and when Sophie went to interrupt him he interjected softly, “Please.”

“Okay, go on.”

“It is not that easy to get pregnant. Even when the fertility of both parties is perfectly intact and all is well and stress levels are low and whatever. Sometimes it is, but most times it is not. It usually takes months of what we’ve been doing the past two weeks.”

Sophie put it together fast. “You wouldn’t mind though.”

“Mind what?”

He was going to make her say it out loud, the bastard. “If we were to find ourselves having a child this early into being together?”

“No. I wouldn’t,” he said, exhaling roughly.

He circled his arms tighter and pulled her closer within the confines of the tub. The mesmerising green of his eyes had her in its grip.

“I wouldn’t mind us having a child right now, because that child would only know our love, magnified. And,” he stopped and looked away for a moment. He then looked back and she could feel how intense his gaze was this time, “it would also mean that you would never be able to leave.”

Sophie softened at that. “I wouldn’t choose to leave even now.”

“I know. But you feared it once.”

“….I did.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Stop worrying about what has yet to happen. Let us cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Sophie squared her shoulders and ran her fingers up, up and intertwined them behind his neck.

“So if I am not pregnant, you wouldn’t object to me getting on some form of birth control, yes?”

Benedict swallowed, pursed his lips and then gave her a grin again, guiltily. He was caught, she thought triumphantly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, hands running down her back. “I wouldn’t mind at all. I do think we can get away with using condoms — if you want to that is.”

“You just wanna knock me up,” she said in mock outrage.

“I think if I say no, I’d be lying, so. Yes, I do,” he shrugged and smiled. “I want to fuck you bare like I did the past few days and I wanna make sure you spill none of my seed and I want that seed to take root. I am a possessive man, especially over you,” he said, voice low and causing her cunt to throb, “and I want to keep you with me at all times till the day both of us depart from this earth,” he finished, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“My beautiful girl,” he said, kissing her again. Water splashed around them as Sophie grasped him lightly, making him hiss, and then guided him inside her again.

She knew that raising a child was no joke and she was still anxious about it but somehow he always managed to turn her brain off with his proximity.

She stopped thinking as Benedict picked up a rapid pace, manhandling her, water spilling out of the bath dangerously.

“You know, you really should be lettin’ me drive,” complained Alfie from the back, face propped up over one fist, arm resting over the open window.

“Oh come on, just let me drive, I barely get to drive anywhere now,” came Benedict’s response from the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other entwined with Sophie’s.

Alfie let out a sigh. “Fine, fine, we are switching after half an hour though. I don’t want a talkin’ to from your mum. She scares the wits out of me.”

Benedict chuckled as did John from the backseat, who snorted.

“What,” asked Alfie, “Violet Bridgerton is scary. No offense, Ben.”

“None taken, she can be scary when she wants to be. She scares me sometimes still.”

“See!”

Sophie laughed outright. It felt so freeing, speeding down the M4, the four of them, this camraderie, its as if their worries were behind them. And most of it was behind them.

She leaned her head on the other window and watched the rolling countryside pass her by.

Her father unilaterally decided to marry Araminta in a deal that saw the Li and Gun clans form a strategic alliance. Her mother didn’t bring anything to the table hence she was discarded as an afterthought.

Sophie — thoughtful, kind, warm-hearted, sharp Sophie — was considered with a level of fondness that Richard decided to dole out behind closed doors but never out in the open. In front of the rest of the crime families, she was acknowledged as his daughter, bore his family name but was kept at a distance.

Sophie understood how little her father cared when her mother was given an eviction notice by him — they’d been having dinner and he announced he was marrying Araminta and that Sophie’s mother, Hae-in, was to make her own living arrangements. He had no trouble reminding her mother of her place in his world, in his life, wrenched away and thrown out of the house she’d spent sixteen years calling a home. Her father had asked Sophie to stay in the Penwood mansion with him and Araminta, and Sophie had refused.

Hae-in had kept on working long after she had Sophie, between bouts of nervous breakdown. She’d managed to save and invest enough to move herself and Sophie into a garden flat she’d purchased — share of freehold, two moderately sized bedrooms, a small shared bathroom, a combined living space with barely enough space outdoors to count as a garden. But it was her own. Hae-in also had the sense to add Sophie to her will and leave her the place in case of her death.

Which eventually came to pass.

To Sophie, moving into the flat with her mother had been a wake-up call. Her father had not bothered to care for her mother and her troubles. She’d been easy to discard, even though her parents had been together up till that point.

It was of no guarantee that she would not be in a similar position for some powerful man down the road.

After her mother died, she cleaned up the flat and rented it out, while she worked under Araminta under the sole guise of getting her inheritance.

All the rental income went into a money saver account that gave her a solid amount to work with. It was better than nothing.

The flat remained in her name even after she married Benedict.

She sat down with him before their wedding and told him about the flat. He said he already knew about it.

Of course he did.

There was little that Benedict Bridgerton wasn’t aware of when it came to her.

He’d suggested that they update the flat into something more modern so that she could charge a better rent for it. Sophie hesitated, given how shitty the London rental market was for the vast majority of renters. Benedict had smiled at her, eyes crinkling at her innocence. And she was promptly reminded of the property magnates that the Bridgertons were legally.

In the end, they’d compromised and done minor upgrades — changing out the steel knobs and handles for brass ones, the sink tap for a boiling hot water one, repainting the door, repainting the walls and ceilings in Tailor Tack and the trim and skirting in Rangwali — and re-listed the flat at a higher rent than before, something Sophie felt comfortable charging without wondering where her investment was going to be recouped from or whether the new tenant would feel ripped off.

The care he put into every single thing never failed to remind her of how deeply she loved him and he her, in the one and half years that they’d been married.

Sophie paced languidly in their living room, waiting for Benedict to get home, little Violet tucked against her shoulder, milk-drunk and fast asleep, snoring quietly in her ear.

The feel of her daughter against her shoulder made her feel warm and calm and more centered than anything else in her life.

Motherhood was no walk in the park, but with full-time staff and two night nurses, she was better off than most people who had children and had to manage on their own.

Little Violet had ended up becoming so spoiled, showered in affection by her aunts and uncles, two of whom were sitting in the living room with her today.

“My turn,” said Michaela, who walked up to her and gently took Violet from her and rested her head on her shoulder. Francesca made grabby motions at Sophie and pulled her down beside her on the expansive sofa. Sophie rested her head on Fran’s shoulder, while Fran wrapped her hands around hers.

Francesca and her wife, Michaela, had both been clamouring for some time alone with Violet so Benedict and Sophie had asked them to spend a few nights over at their place. Michaela and Francesca had taken turns of getting up for the nighttime feeds. Sophie would pump the milk and have it ready and handy for them to feed Violet with while she and Benedict had finally started feeling like human beings instead of shells that resembled them.

Posy had dropped by every week and relieved Sophie while she spent time with her niece.

They’d been more than fortunate to have family nearby. Family who wanted to be around and who dropped things at a moment’s notice to come and see what they’d need.

She and Benedict had also started to get intimate but hadn’t gone back to penetration yet.

He had been exceptionally slow and gentle with her. He’d also been mindful because the birth had been taxing on her body.

The relative ease with which she gave birth — in labour and delivered in under eight hours — had not been reflected in her recovery, which had been long and slow. She’d been cleared for physical intimacy and exercise a month back but Benedict had been cautious.

He’d gently rubbed her back while hugging her during one tearful breakdown where she felt he didn’t feel attracted to her anymore.

“I can barely hold myself back, Sophie, how can you even think that,” he’d groaned in despair, during that particular conversation.

“Truly?” she’d asked.

He’d then looked at her with the kind of hunger that had gotten her pregnant in the first place. They had been mindless enough to have sex wherever they wanted. His face told her if he could, he would resort to the same thing again.

“Slow, Sophie,” he said, bringing their foreheads together in a gentle manner. “We will go slow.”

.

.

It took another hour for Benedict to get home, and the first thing he did was press a kiss to Sophie’s head and blow one to Violet and his sisters and go take a shower. “No outside mess around the baby,” had been their motto since day one.

Fifteen minutes later, he’d spread out on the sofa seated between Sophie and his sisters, Violet still napping away, now on his shoulder.

This version of Benedict was her favourite. A worn shirt and pants, half-wet hair, stubble throughout (it felt divine on her skin), holding their daughter with reverence and love. He loved their daughter so fiercely it made Sophie’s heart swell three sizes too big.

Sophie leaned against Benedict’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She felt him drop a kiss to her head before resuming a conversation with Michaela.

The quiet domesticity of it all caused a phantom ache in Sophie. She’d never dreamed of such happiness, only survival, one foot after another, the next step, how to keep herself safe.

A place to rest, finally. Happier than ever before, if such a thing were possible.

.

.

Long after dinner was finished, Sophie was sat at the antique vanity finishing up her nighttime skincare routine. She was still mindful about not using a retinol cream, given she was breastfeeding, but she was moderately happy with her current routine.

Not that it would matter much because it looked like half her skincare would transfer from her face to the sheets, if the way Benedict was staring at her in the mirror was any indication.

She picked up the hairbrush and slowly ran it through her hair.

Unadulterated hunger. The kind he tempered while he slowly and gently wooed her for years before getting into her personal space and refusing to take no for an answer. Any other man, she’d have kicked to the curb. With Benedict, it was an inevitability.

She’d been on the receiving end of his sexual appetites for years now. Nothing had tamed the fire between them. It’d stoked and been banked till now, but she suspected it wasn’t going to remain that way for long.

She flushed as she remembered the last time they had sex. It was in this very room, their primary suite, and it had been in front of a roaring fire. She’d been eight and half months pregnant, bloated and not feeling very good about herself, given her center of gravity had shifted somewhere beyond her control. They’d had a Christmas Dinner at Bridgerton House, with the entire family, the siblings and their spouses and their children. It had been a chaotic and noisy affair. And so entirely heartwarming for Sophie, who imagined the same thing for next year with a new addition — holding their baby girl in their arms.

Benedict had been eyeing her all evening. Her dress wasn’t quite backless but the back had been…..low. It’d ended somewhere right above her expanded waistline and Benedict had cupped one full breast multiple times throughout the evening, stroking down her back possessively. She’d sat in his lap after dinner — he’d hear no protests about her size or that she’d be heavy — and he’d continued massaging her tits in front of Anthony. Sophie had discreetly reached between them and squeezed his cock, first in warning, the next time in anticipation.

It was like taking a lit match to a powder keg.

She’d ended up on all fours in front of the bedroom fire, belly supported by his hands and by the multitude of cushions dragged from the wingback armchair situated near the arched closed floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows. His grip was firm as he set a maddening pace from behind, and Sophie, in desperation leaned forward on the pillows and held her ass cheeks apart with both hands, so he could fuck her better.

His response was to increase his pace and power and grind everytime he filled her to the hilt.

She’d come on his cock three times before he’d exploded inside her, waited a few minutes and then started to fuck her again.

It was a memorable night.

Sophie in the present set down her hairbrush on the top of the vanity, hair loose and flowing over her shoulders and slowly made her way to Benedict, who’d been waiting for her patiently on the bed. He stretched out a hand and she laid her hand in his as he gently tugged her in.

His eyes roamed over her body, his gaze worshipful.

She was wearing a slip of a nightdress, one destined to end up flung across the room, and an equally thin robe, waiting to be slid down her arms and onto the warm wood floor.

The last few weeks, Benedict would put his mouth on her tits and suck, especially when her breasts felt incredibly heavily despite pumping a lot. It felt erogenous and incredibly intimate and also made them feel closer than ever.

She idly wondered, as she reached for him, if they’d experiment with it tonight too.

She’d purposely not pumped after dinner like usual, just to gauge his reaction. To see if he’d do what she suspected he would.

Benedict trailed his hands over her body and pushed down the silken robe from her shoulders. The wispy material slithered down her arms and onto the floor, as she’d predicted. Her slip came next.

As Benedict’s hands now roved over her naked body and she shifted closer to rub down his shoulders and arms, she wondered why she’d bothered putting on clothes in the first place. Before, almost always she went to bed naked and she woke up naked.

If she did wear an oversized shirt or a slip to bed, in the morning the offending clothing would be bunched at her waist while he situated himself behind her and languidly pushed in, making a home for himself in her body. By the time he’d set a breath-stealing pace, her slip would be bunched underneath her armpits because how dare he be kept from the sight of her beautiful, bountiful, plump breasts bouncing in time with his thrusts?

She kissed him fully, holding his face in both of her hands. With him seated like this, their height difference was minimal. She took advantage of it to deepen the kiss while he smiled into it.

His grip tightened at her back and hips and he pulled her onto the bed. Laid her out like a feast he could never get enough of. He was wearing only a robe and silken sleep pants. The robe dropped behind him, slipping down the edge of the bed to join her robe on the floor. The pants were slung dangerously low and doing nothing to hide the shape of him through the soft material. Rock-hard, thick, long.

Designed to drive her mad.

The last time they had sex in front of the fireplace he’d said she’d still felt as tight as the day he had her for the first time.

She clenched around nothing thinking about how good he would feel after months of not having him inside her.

Benedict in the present pushed down the pyjamas enough to take his cock out and line himself up. The first touch of the head against her clit had her moaning deliriously. She had missed this.

He slowly pushed in. The stretch felt unbelievable. She’d pushed out an eight pound baby and she still felt like she would go mad if he continued to push in so slowly.

When he finally bottomed out, he pressed against her front wall as he shifted slightly and then rested his whole weight on her body. Sophie wrapped her arms tightly around him as she kissed him filthily. “Move,” she begged. Benedict grunted as he complied. Slow pull out, slow push in, light grind as he bottomed out, repeat. The pace got faster. The grind got rougher. She was so wet she was afraid she would soak through the mattress. The squelch was inexplicably loud in the silence of her room, save for the crackling fire at the hearth and their combined grunts and moans.

Benedict adjusted both himself and Sophie as he put his hands underneath her and shifted them both so she laid on the pillows, all without interrupting his pace. He shifted her a little more so her full breasts were lined up to where he could duck and suck on them without straining his neck.

They were leaking already.

Sucking on her tits had been a favourite of his for a while. He’d started doing it when she complained about breast tenderness and heaviness towards the end of her pregnancy and it’d turned them both on so much she’d dry-humped on his thigh to finish while he continued sucking, emptying both of her tits until she was about to come again.

He’d watched her breastfeed their daughter and his heart simultaneously swelled three sizes at the beauty of the bond between them and turned on thinking about sucking on her other breast, the one that Violet wasn’t sucking on.

He’d suggest that on a later date.

For now, he continued his pace — which was getting rougher by the minute — while he closed his lips on her left breast. The milk flowed into his mouth and he moaned. Sweet. Just like his wife.

He couldn’t control himself anymore. He manhandled her tit while he started fucking into her roughly. He could do this his entire life.

He’d make sure she stayed pregnant for the next few years. He never wanted to not drink from her tit for as long as he could help it.

Sophie moaned without restraint. She was already matching his pace, keeping her cunt loose and relaxed for him to plow into. The rippling warmth as she clenched around him, oh he could die like this.

One of her hands was around his back, anchoring him to her, no space for God left between their bodies, the other on his head, threaded through his hair, urging him on.

He drained one breast and switched to the other, sucking deeply as the baby monitor crackled on the bedside table.

Violet let out a whimper that had Sophie stopping, hand still in his hair. “Benedict, wai—”

He didn’t stop. Francesca and Michaela were on baby duty tonight. They could handle Violet while he handled her mother.

Sophie moaned loudly and clenched sharply around him as he bit down on her tit, gently. “They’ve got her, Soph, stop worrying,” he muttered with his mouth full. So good.

Francesca’s voice came through the monitor, softly sushing Violet and asking her if she wants some more milk. Some hiccups later, there was no more noise save for Francesca’s soft singing.

Baby handled and attention now fully on Sophie, he resumed his pace while she came around him, clenching hard. Once. Twice.

Four times.

She was overstimulated and he still asked, “Do you want me to stop?” He ended the question with a rough grind. She whimpered and clenched her eyes and cunt shut. “No,” she whispered.

She wanted to say yes. A part of her did.

But Benedict truly couldn’t get enough.

“You are tighter than before, love. So good, so sweet for me. So giving.” He slowly cupped her jaw and cheek in one hand. “Perfect for me.” Rough thrust, grind. The headboard has been creaking for a while, hitting the wall behind at a steady pace.

“Your tits are perfect,” he panted as he continued fucking her. “I want to suck on one next time when you are feeding her and,” deeper thrust, a wailing sound, a litany of please and Benedict, “I am inside you like this.”

“Yes! Yes please!”

“Whatever I want?” he asked, voice low, hurtling towards his own peak.

Sophie’s eyes were glazed over. Multiple orgasms had wringed her out. She was still clenching around him because she took pride in it, wanting him to find the same pleasure in her as she did in him.

“My body is yours to use as you see fit,” she whispered, voice low and soft in the room.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, groaning loudly and coming inside her — finally — in hot spurts, for long, long minutes.

Sophie tugged at his shoulders and he let his weight slump on her fully. She wrapped her legs above his waist and secured him to her.

She clenched experimentally and Benedict groaned, releasing even more inside her. “Sophie, please.”

She giggled.

She kissed him languidly, slow and syrupy in the feeling.

Benedict met her eyes. The way he looked at her still made her want to flush and hide. And yet.

He raised one eyebrow, questioning, the ask loud and clear. Another round?

She flushed this time, feeling her face go red and nodded quickly. He pressed a quick kiss to her lips and then bent down to press one between her breasts before snuggling in and sinking his face into the soft skin there.

He let out a deep groan of satisfaction, one that reverberated through her body. Her hands kept carding through his hair, pressing him down a little.

The baby monitor remained silent, save for the quiet snoring sounds, undoubtedly from Francesca, who Benedict could already see in his mind’s eye having fallen asleep with Violet on her chest.