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Sophie Gun, née Baek, now Bridgerton, is no stranger to desire. She is no stranger to want. She is in fact an expert at it; all her life, she’s wanted, wanted so badly she sometimes felt like bursting out of her skin with it. A mother, a father who loved her, a life outside of the burning cage the Dowager Lady Penwood forced her into out of jealousy and fear. Sophie is no stranger to longing and wishing for things that, at the time, seemed so unattainable she sooner would’ve had much more success in reaching for the stars. But it did not stop her from wanting, wanting, wanting until her limbs trembled and her chest caved with it.
No, want and desire aren’t the problem. The problem lies with Sophie’s hesitance to take what she wants, when she wants it. Meeting Benedict Bridgerton at his mother’s masquerade ball was a catalyst to it; she still cannot understand what possessed her to kiss him, what pulled her to him so violently and fervently as to share this simple touch which promised so much more. Perhaps it was desperation, perhaps it was desire, one of greater force than she’d ever experienced. Perhaps it was the reminder that this night was never meant to last, the short time it lasted borrowed in secret just like the dress and the shoes she was wearing. But even afterwards, during their intimate encounters, Sophie held back. A million excuses sprang forth in her mind, most of them boiling down to the fact that they could not get caught, could not be seen breaking every rule of propriety Lady Bridgerton insisted they respect during their engagement period.
Now that they were married, living in Our Cottage, with only the Crabtrees scarcely around, Sophie could enjoy every affection Benedict bestowed upon her. And they were numerous; it seemed he could not go a single hour without touching her, from a slight brush of his fingers on her arm to multiple fervent kisses as he held her in a passionate embrace, in whichever corner of the large mansion they found themselves in. Sophie was certain she would be aware of every nook and cranny of the house in less than a year, if her husband intended to keep this up. The last thing on her mind would be complaining.
But the central problem remains: Sophie is not accustomed to getting what she wants. She is not used to taking with no need for permission or approval. She is not used to possessing, to have anything for herself, that is solely hers. She is not used to another person, a man, willingly giving everything of himself to her, trusting her to keep his heart, his soul and his body safe in her small, battered hands. Therefore, she lets Benedict take the lead, lets him initiate their intimacy, and only takes a smidgen of control when she’s lost in the throes of passion and cannot think rationally. It doesn’t stop her from wanting her husband, catching herself dreaming of his skin and body against hers in moments of idleness, exacerbated when he is away on business at the Viscount’s estate. Sophie readily admits it to herself, she desires her husband, every minute, of every hour, of every day. But her shortcomings and anxieties stop her from taking what she wants, from possessing him completely.
Just as the beginning of their relationship, it simply needs a catalyst. And what better catalyst than Benedict himself ?
________
It is an unusually warm day in the countryside. Sophie has just spent the better part of the morning walking along the lake’s shore, enjoying the sun beating down on her skin. Now she is back at the house, just in time for a rather late lunch. She heads down to the kitchen, where she finds Mrs. Crabtree sat in a chair, enjoying a cup of tea.
“Good day, Mrs. Bridgerton.”
Sophie has stopped correcting her whenever she calls her by her married name, but she cannot help the little heatless glare she sends Mrs. Crabtree whenever it happens. It has become sort of a game, where Mrs. Crabtree responds with a glare of her own, but there is always the hint of a smile pulling at her face, as if she enjoys embarrassing Sophie by calling her by her given title. Sophie is somehow glad her husband is a second son. She doesn’t think she could stomach being referred to as Viscountess. That title suits her sister in law much better.
“It is a beautiful day, Mrs. Crabtree,” Sophie says, taking a seat next to the old maid, pouring herself a cup of tea to enjoy. “What are you doing cooped up in the kitchen ? I know Mr. Crabtree would relish your company whilst he gardens.”
“He most certainly would, the old rascal,” Mrs. Crabtree says with a laugh. “However, my knees are not as sprite as they used to be. I was looking for a bit of rest before getting started on preparing lunch.”
Sophie feels a slight pinch in her heart. She narrows her eyes at the woman, trying her best to look stern.
“Mrs. Crabtree, need I remind you that I used to be a maid ?”
“You remind me of that every day, Mrs. Bridgerton.”
Sophie nods. “Then you are certainly aware that I can prepare my own lunch ?”
Before Mrs. Crabtree can even muster a disapproving huff, Sophie raises her hand. “I know my way around a kitchen. That is not something I wish to forget. It is just us three here at the moment. No guests to feed and entertain. I urge you to go and rest, if it is what you wish. I will manage perfectly on my own.”
For a minute, Mrs. Crabtree looks as if she will get up and start cooking, purely out of spite. However, a single raised eyebrow persuades her. She huffs nonetheless, earning a quiet laugh from Sophie.
“Very well.” Mrs. Crabtree carefully puts her cup of tea down on the table, and even lets Sophie help her get to her feet. She gives her a small nod as she exits the kitchen, no doubt heading to her and Mr. Crabtree’s quarters.
As Sophie busies herself preparing her lunch, her mind drifts back to the last few months spent in the cottage. She cannot help her smile as she recalls the short week she first spent here, thinking it would be just another bubble of happiness she could escape to in her darkest hours. Now, happiness floods her being every single day, to the point where she sometimes feels like it’ll spill out of her, overflowing from the love and tranquility this new life offers her.
Naturally, her thoughts drift back to Benedict. Her husband had left early in the morning, to take care of affairs at the family home, and promised to be back by sundown. Sophie would have gladly accompanied him, but truth be told, she was feeling tired, and did not have the energy to make the journey back and forth. Another component of her new life she isn’t accustomed to: she does not have to bear her own fatigue and constantly move about, if she does not wish to. Benedict makes sure to remind her of that every day, and in fact had insisted she stay home and rest, enjoy herself on her own. True to herself, Sophie could not stay idle in bed for long, much like her husband could not sit still during their first week here together in spite of his injury, and quickly looked for ways to distract herself after a short nap.
The rest of her afternoon is spent more or less idly. At one point, Sophie decides to join Mr. Crabtree in the garden, borrowing one of Mrs. Crabtree’s aprons in order to help him take out weeds and shovel dirt without dirtying her dress. She makes a mental note to visit the modiste and have some more practical outerwear made, as she greatly enjoys gardening for pleasure rather than work. Perhaps she could get some made for Benedict as well. She would greatly enjoy seeing her husband knee-deep in the dirt, digging out weeds and planting seeds.
By the time sunset shyly peeks in, Sophie has long since changed out of her moderately dirty dress, and has opted for a light gown and one of Benedict’s outrageously luxurious robes. She decides to spend the rest of the evening in the study library, pouring herself some tea, enjoying the small meal she’s prepared herself again -she’d sent Mr. Crabtree to inform his wife that she could rest for the rest of the evening- and enjoys a quiet moment of lounging, skimming through the countless books filling the small space, smiling at the sight of a familiar French grammar volume.
Sophie is engrossed in a particularly interesting romance novel, full of brave knights and gracious ladies, when the sound of a large door being opened, followed by the echo of footsteps in the halls catch her attention.
“Sophie ?”
She cannot help the small smile stretching across her face. No one has ever called her name with as much tenderness and love as Benedict has, save for perhaps her father. She will never tire of hearing those two syllables tumble softly from her husband’s lips. She lets him call her name one more time, his voice coming closer down the hall.
“Library, dear !” She calls back, giggling when the footsteps turn quick and hurried, Benedict clearly running down the hall in spite of Mrs. Crabtree’s aversion to such a habit.
Sophie is ready to jokingly tell him off for it, but as soon as he reaches her, her mouth goes dry.
Benedict stands at the threshold of the study, out of breath, his hair in a great state of disarray, his shirt and petticoat askew and undone, displaying a thin sheen of sweat on the small patch of skin visible.
But what truly strikes Sophie speechless is the coat he is wearing.
She recognizes that coat. Despite only having seen it once, she could pick it out of a dozen similar garments. She remembers gripping the fabric draping his shoulders with her nails, sinking her face into the surprisingly soft material as she reached a peak of ecstasy she had only rarely managed to get to on her own.
“There you are,” Benedict wastes no time pulling Sophie into a tender, warm embrace, kissing her temple and running a hand through her hair, letting it cascade down her back. He then tilts her chin up and kisses her lips softly. On instinct, Sophie grasps the lapels of his coat in her hands, but does not let the kiss go further.
“I saw Mr. Crabtree on the way in. He’s told me that you’ve let them both rest for the evening. Have you eaten ?”
It takes Sophie a very long set of seconds to muster a reply, the soft fabric of the coat in her hands more distracting than it should be. “I have. I’ve not forgotten how to cook, Benedict.”
He laughs, kissing her temple again. “I wouldn’t want you to. I just hope you’ve gotten some rest.”
“Oh, I have rested plenty,” Sophie says, trying not to clutch the coat too tightly while focusing on speaking with her husband like a normal woman.
Benedict nods. “I will take your word for it. Mother practically forcefed me some shepherd's pie, so I believe no one will have to bother themselves with dinner preparations tonight.”
“Mh.”
Sophie does not move. Her hands are still clutching Benedict’s coat, her eyes trailing the line of his shoulders down to his chest. She feels the strength of his arms around her waist, the sturdiness of his body against hers, and the scent of his cologne lingering in the very fibers of his clothing invade her nose, making her feel as if she is floating on a cloud of pure desire.
“Sophie ?” Benedict frowns at her, leaning back a little to look at her face. “Are you alright, darling ?”
Sophie is quite alright. More than, in fact. She clutches at the lapels harder, so much that it forces Benedict to lean a little bit closer into her space.
“This is not the first time I see you in this coat,” is all she says, eyes still scanning every inch of her husband’s chest, fingers still clutching at soft fabric.
Confusion colors his face for a fleeting second, before recognition replaces it, quickly followed by unbridled shame and embarrassment. No doubt he recalls the worst of that short, blissful connection they shared in the stairwell of the servants’ quarters, back at Bridgerton House.
“Oh, Sophie, forgive me,” he says, trying to extricate himself from her hold, certainly to take the coat off and hide it somewhere else. “I did not realize-”
Sophie shakes her head, silencing him.
She does remember his dreadful request from back then. For a time, when she could not fathom the happy married life they live now, that request, those three words, were all she could think about whenever their first moment of intimacy crossed her mind. She forced herself to forget everything else, focusing on those words, those words that summed up all the worth a potential relationship between them had in the eyes of society. She refused to indulge in the pleasure of the moment, only because it was tainted by reality, unlike those other pockets of time they shared, the masquerade ball, their kiss by the lake, every single moment spent at what was then My Cottage.
Now, however, Sophie realizes that she wants to indulge. Moreso, she can indulge. She can remember the way his lips felt against her, the tingles in her gut and across her skin when he lifted her up against the wall, the absolute bliss she felt when his fingers finally touched her where she craved it the most. For all the disaster it ended up being, this moment is still engraved in Sophie’s memory as one of the most pleasurable she’s ever experienced.
Not for the first time, Sophie finds herself wanting. She wants her husband so much her skin vibrates with it, her thighs instinctively squeezing together under her thin gown, strategically hidden by the heavy robe she’s wearing.
Sophie realizes, right then and there, that it is time for her to start taking what she wants.
“I wonder,” she says, her voice dropping to a low whisper. She pulls on the coat’s lapels again, forcing Benedict flush against her. “What you were planning, that night.”
Benedict frowns, but his eyes shine with unmistakable desire. “What I was planning ?”
Sophie nods. “Coming up to my room, so late at night. Looking for me.”
She runs her hands higher up his chest, grabbing the coat’s collar and pulling his face down, her lips brushing against his. She feels his trembling breath on her cheeks. Hears the faint whimper escaping his throat.
“Had we been able to continue,” Sophie whispers, clutching at his collar for dear life. “What would you have done to me ?”
Silence falls over the room, so heavy Sophie can barely hear the sound of her own breath. Benedict’s eyes are fixed on her face, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly open. But he does not move. His arms are still wound tight around her waist. For a fleeting second, Sophie thinks she might have gone too far. After all, that moment remains slightly tainted by his final proposal. Perhaps he does not remember it as fondly as she does, even now.
Her dreadful thoughts are quickly wiped out of her mind as Benedict blinks, then practically growls as he leans back, winds his arms around her thighs and lifts her up, just as he did that night. Sophie gasps, and it morphs into a giggle as he kicks the door shut and stumbles forward, plopping her down on the nearest flat surface- which happens to be a small table- and grabs her face with both hands, kissing her with fervor.
Just as he did with her own coat that night, he shoves the robe off her shoulders, letting it hang about her arms. His lips trail down her cheeks to her neck, drowning it in open-mouthed, panting kisses.
Sophie moans, louder than she intends, and it seems to spur him on, a guttural groan escaping his throat again as he swipes blindly at the items on the table and lays her down, lifting her legs so she can wrap them around his hips. A hand comes up to her chest, fingers running through the soft, silky material of the robe.
“I must say,” he whispers into her neck, making her tremble. “I quite like seeing you in my clothes.”
Sophie lets out another breathy giggle, threading her fingers into his stupid, stupid hair and pulling him towards her, kissing him again. Their mouths move erratically, not a single lick of synchronisation, both of them too lost in lust and desire to care about softness and delicate touches.
Nevertheless, a flicker of anxiety remains deep in Sophie’s gut. They are not exactly alone.
She pulls on Benedict’s hair again, pulling him away from her. The moan this gesture provokes almost has her forgetting what she was about to say. Almost.
“Benedict, wait,” there is a glaze in his eyes that might just render her insane. “The Crabtrees-”
“Are in their quarters, sleeping, like the lovely old spouses they are,” Benedict replies, the lopsided smile that used to haunt her most inappropriate dreams stretching the corner of his lips. His eyes then take a darker tone, and he grips her thigh and pulls her closer to him, so close that she cannot help but feel the effect she has on him.
“Do not start things you do not hope to finish, Mrs. Bridgerton.”
The use of her married name has the opposite effect of whenever Mrs. Crabtree uses it. Sophie feels a surge of heat from her head to her toes, and her thighs involuntarily tighten around him, causing another growl from him and a surprised moan from herself. Sophie shoves Benedict’s face down, letting him devour her neck once more.
The hand that was gripping her thigh travels up again, landing at her breast this time. Sophie gasps as Benedict starts kneading at it, the way one would work on bread dough, and she pulls his head back up, muffling her moans into his mouth.
They remain in this state for some minutes, Benedict’s hand switching from one breast to the other, somehow locating her nipples under her gown and pinching them, eliciting blissed out yelps from Sophie, whose control of her body has vanished, feeling herself writhe and rub on him. She has a hand in his hair and the other still clutching his coat, the fabric soft under her fingers.
Finally, Benedict lifts his head from her neck, his eyes dark as night as he regards her. Sophie’s body is warm all over. More than that, it is scalding hot, and she feels as if she will burst if he does not do anything.
His hand leaves its place on her chest and Sophie’s skin is run over with pleasured shivers as he lifts up two fingers, slowly bringing them towards his mouth.
Something deep within Sophie urges her to take.
She grabs Benedict’s wrist, smiling at his surprise, and she does not waste a single second as she opens her mouth and delicately takes his fingers. Her tongue runs up the two digits slowly, and Benedict’s eyes roll back, his head dropping onto her chest.
“Sophie,” his voice is almost unrecognizable, deep and quivery with desire.
Sophie keeps licking, up and down, back and forth, and she feels him harden between her legs, which spurs her on even more. She starts sucking, eliciting a wonderfully high-pitched moan from him.
Benedict lets her release his fingers, immediately replaced by his mouth on her. Just as he did that fateful night, he runs the back of his hand down her body slowly, the touch leaving a trail of shivers on her skin. Her gown has already ridden up considerably from her position on the table, so he only has to flick it upwards a little bit. He starts gentle, the pads of his fingers tickling her inner thighs, making her squirm in lustful frustration. The cruel, stupid man only laughs at her, a shaky sigh escaping his lips.
When his fingers sink into her, Sophie moans louder than she’s ever thought possible.
Benedict laughs into her neck, pulling her impossibly closer. He starts moving, and Sophie’s thighs wound so tight around him that she fears she’s going to hurt him. Benedict does not seem to care in the slightest, moaning into her skin and kissing down her chest. His free hand pulls at her gown, just like that night, only this time there are no undergarments covering her modesty. She hisses as her breasts are exposed to the cold air in the room, but it turns into a high-pitched cry as Benedict starts kissing her chest all over, lips warm and wet on her skin.
When he pulls a nipple into his mouth, Sophie’s voice breaks on her desperate moan.
His fingers are unrelenting, and so is his mouth, licking and sucking at her skin, his warm breath making her skin tremble. Sophie is swimming in bliss, her mind clouded in desire, her body thrumming with want, with the knowledge that she has this man at her mercy, that he will bend to her every whim and desire by the flick of an eyelash.
Therefore, once again, Sophie allows herself to take.
Her hand flies down to his trousers, fingers fumbling blindly until she finally gets them open. She can feel the smile on his face, though it is still buried in-between her breasts. He drags a hand down to help her, pulling at his trousers until he is free of his confines, hard as a stone against her thigh.
“Do you not wish to retire to our bedroom-”
“No,” Sophie says, firmly, pulling his head up to stare into his eyes, showing him that she cannot wait a second longer. “I want you. Here and now.”
The smile that stretches across Benedict’s face arouses her even more, if such a feat is even possible.
He pulls his fingers out of her, slowly trailing them up her body once more. He winks at her mischievously, before pushing them into his own mouth, closing his eyes in bliss. Sophie moans and pulls him down, kissing him again, sighing in delight at the taste of herself on his tongue.
Benedict grabs her thighs and pulls her towards him again, her backside hanging slightly off the table; she trusts him to keep her upwards. He starts by gently rubbing himself on her, hard and hot and making the heat inside of her flare up, boiling.
When he finally enters her, Sophie wraps an arm around his shoulders and buries her face in his neck, moaning loudly, in sync with his own sounds of pleasure.
Benedict winds his arms around Sophie’s waist, giving her some time to adjust to the intrusion. She quickly becomes desperate, squirming around him, clutching at his coat and his hair desperately.
“Move, please,” she orders, pulling on his hair and eliciting another high-pitched moan.
Benedict immediately obeys, winding his hips slowly, tenderly.
Sophie is not exactly in the mood for tenderness.
She grabs Benedict’s face with both hands, murmuring into his lips. “Faster.”
He obliges, holding her tighter and moving faster, harder. Sophie laughs, laughs and moans, pure bliss coursing through her veins as they have their way with eachother in this small study.
Benedict lays her back down and lifts one of her legs higher. The change in angle makes her arch her back, her moans turning into pure screams of pleasure, reverberating through the entire room, bouncing off the walls and disappearing into the carpet threads.
Benedict’s free arm winds around her waist, pulling her towards him. His face rubs over her stomach, her chest, her neck.
When he pulls her nipple into his mouth again, Sophie’s entire body tightens around him, and she lets out one final scream as she reaches her peak.
Benedict drives into her a few more times before his movements become erratic, and Sophie moans softly as he follows her into the highest form of bliss.
Sophie’s body becomes heavy and sluggish in an instant, the blood in her veins akin to lead as she slumps on the table, her breaths labored and loud, her gown sticking to her sweat-slicked skin.
Benedict looks about as disheveled as she feels when he lifts his head. His eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, his face shiny with sweat also. Sophie raises a hand to cup his cheek, and smiles as he seems to melt into her touch, kissing her palm.
“I shall wear this coat more often, if it gets me such a reward.”
Sophie snorts and flicks Benedict’s nose, but lets him hoist her up into a sitting position. He starts planting soft, tender kisses all over her face, into her hair, and absentmindedly pulls her gown back up, adjusting it over her chest. Sophie wraps her arms around him, leaning on his chest, rejoicing in the simple feeling of being held as he rubs a hand up and down her back.
“As wonderful as this was,” he murmurs into her hair, “I am quite famished now. Fancy a trip to the kitchen ?”
She laughs, shaking her head into his chest. Nevertheless, she lets him lead her down to the kitchen, in search of a late dinner.
As she watches Benedict rifle through the cabinets, his coat now draped across her shoulders, Sophie decides being able to take what she wants is quite the wondrous feeling.