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“Oh god, this feels so good…” you shudder, dragging yourself up and down in his lap forcefully, climbing towards orgasm.
“Fuck, I know….” he moans in your ear, hands wrapped around your bum cheeks, encouraging your bouncing, the vein in his neck pulsing hard as he, too, skates close to coming.
You didn't even make it off his sofa tonight; you both just tugged off your trousers, perhaps a touch inelegantly in your tipsy state, deciding to ride him right here.
You look down to watch his cock disappear between your legs, and he growls when he realises what you are doing. Unfortunately, the noise he makes has you snapping your head up just as he leans in…. And your noggin smacks hard into his face.
Benedict cries out and collapses back into the sofa cushions, his hands flying up to his face as he hisses.
“Shiiitttt! I'm so sorry! Are you alright?!?” you fret, stilling your movements, unsure what to do.
What is the correct etiquette here? Is it impolite for one to climb off a cock mid-fuck? Or is it more impolite to keep going after such a faux pas?
“I'm fine, I'm fine,” he assures, muffled behind his hands cupped over his mouth and nose.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.. please don't stop,” he implores, surging his hips up to indicate he wants you to keep going, even as he doesn’t remove his hands.
You start to move slowly, holding his shoulders, your brow knitted in concern.
“Show me,” you request quietly when his face looks oddly contorted, slowing your moves to a stop.
“Please, please don't stop. I really want this. So much,” Benedict campaigns again, almost whiny.
“I want this too, but…” you reach forward and pull away his hands, shrieking slightly in surprise.
His lip is spilt, and his nose is bleeding, his hands are covered in blood.
“Fuck Benedict! We need to get that seen to! You might need stitches!” you fret and start to climb off.
“No!!” he gruffs, grabbing your hips. “I'm fine, just please, please. We can go to A&E… later,” he pulls you back down onto his cock, still impressively rock hard.
“Later?!” you echo in disbelief.
“Yes, look… fuck I want to come so bad, please…. just please…” he beseeches, pouting in a way that would look adorable, were it not the cause of another pulse of blood to appear.
“Benedict… I can't fuck a bleeding man…” you sigh, even as he attempts to do it himself, rocking his hips.
“Yes, you can!” he cries desperately, “just okay, look, wait….” He twists and reaches to the side table and grabs a box of tissues, quickly stuffing one up each nostril and jamming one between his lips. “There, all better…” he argues, muffled, even as they turn pink.
“Ben…” he looks utterly ridiculous, and you can't help the tipsy giggle that bubbles up at the absurdity of the situation.
“Ha! See?! You can see the funny side,” he contends, waggling a finger at you even as he rocks into you. You just stare at him with fond exasperation. “Please, y/n, pretty pretty please. I can't go to A&E with an erection and a bloodied face. That will just cause all sorts of questions. I don't want to be a doctor's anecdote. Think about it; you are actually doing me a favour here…” he wheedles, pulling that puppy-dog expression.
He has a point.
You shake your head affectionately, then start to move. He crows triumphantly, and his hands grab your bottom, smearing traces of blood onto your shirt where it hangs low.
“You don't think they will have questions that I have bloody handprints over my bum?” you point out sardonically with a groan, his cock so good, you are already right back to pleasure.
“You have a great arse; they will just assume I grabbed it to deal with the anxiety of my injuries,” he ripostes with panted breath.
“My arse is not a stress toy, Bridgerton!” you dispute, gusting each word as you climb towards ecstasy.
“It's a bloody fantastic one,” he lobbies back cheekily, “quite literally tonight…” he adds drolly, raising a comedic eyebrow.
You can’t help another giggle even as you ride harder, both of you groaning loudly now as you slam onto his cock, both so eager to come.
—
Half an hour later, the triage nurse raises an eyebrow as she clocks the large bloody handprints on the shirt-tails hanging over your bum and the blissed-out look on Benedict’s face. In hindsight, perhaps giving him some leftover codeine you found in his bathroom cabinet before you ordered the taxi to come here was not such a good idea after all.
He’s now high as a damn kite.
“I use her arse as a stress toy,” he offers sincerely by way of explanation to the nurse, then lolls his head and shoots you a goofy grin.
“Clearly…” she deadpans.
“She’s so lovely; she made sure I didn’t have an erection, too,” he continues, confessional on the mix of alcohol and painkillers.
You slump your head into your hands as he reaches out and pats your shoulder haphazardly.
Yeah… Great way to avoid being an anecdote, Bridgerton.