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With a practiced care, Benedict quietly opened the door to their bedchamber and stepped inside, then closed it behind him until he heard a gentle click. The room was steeped in shadow, thick velvet curtains blocking out much of the bright mid-day sun. Even so, there was enough light to see the outlines of paintings on the walls and all the furniture, including the carved four-poster bed where his wife was currently in the midst of her afternoon nap.
Over the last few months, she had taken to bed more frequently, to rest either from the growing burden of her pregnancy or from the strains of the birth itself. Almost three weeks ago, their daughter had been born in this bed, a day that would live indelibly in Benedict’s memory for all it brought feelings of helpless terror and unimaginable joy. The physician had claimed that Sophie’s labor had been unremarkable in terms of duration and difficulty, but it had been hard to believe that. Benedict had only heard the screams, a sound that had struck so deeply and wrenchingly within him that he had nearly broken down the door in some vain attempt to take the worst of her pain on himself.
At last, the screams ended, replaced by a noise equally as shattering: a child’s cries.
Only once both mother and child had been cleaned and properly clothed was he allowed entrance into the room. Sophie looked exhausted, but happy, while the warm bundle in her arms was gazing out at the world with a tentative curiosity. He had only just met this small being, but Benedict was astonished at the overwhelming feelings of love and protectiveness he suddenly felt for her, perhaps only equaled to what he felt for her mother. They named her Violet, with the hope that she would carry all the qualities of her namesake.
Before the birth, they had tasked Mrs. Crabtree with finding a suitable wet nurse from the village, and once the baby was born, the woman—a bricklayer’s wife—was brought to My Cottage and installed in a room right next to the nursery. Sophie’s recovery had been more gradual. After remaining two days in bed, she announced herself ready to resume her duties as lady of the house, and yet, he noted, she wisely did not stop herself from taking rest when she needed it. Benedict had no objection: he would have been happy to have her spend the whole day in bed if she so chose.
As he stepped closer to the bed he saw that Sophie had fallen asleep on her side. Still, she had somehow managed to kick the bed clothes down past her knees, leaving her in just her thin linen night gown. Thinking only that she might be cold, Benedict reached down to pull the sheet and counterpane over her—only to have a hand emerge and catch him around the wrist. It gently tugged him towards her, making it clear what she wanted, however wordlessly.
Benedict shucked off his boots and lay down beside her, nestling his clothed body against hers and letting his arm curl over her waist. Perhaps she simply wanted the comfort of his body as she slept, and to that he had no objection.
But his wife did not seem entirely asleep. Instead, she shifted in place, pressing her hips back against his in a way that, had it not been for her acknowledged state of recovery, he would have taken as an open invitation. Perhaps she was dreaming, he thought, her mind recalling nights when she had lain with him just like this, without the barrier of night gowns and breeches, the two of them taking great pleasure from one another.
The memory of such occasions was enough to catch a spark, and Benedict could feel his body growing warmer, a state unaided by the fact that her body continued to push up against that part of him that was by now the warmest. It was hard to ignore, but he had to—he would not satisfy his needs on his wife while she was still in the midst of healing.
What he could not ignore were her continued motions, the rolling of her hips indicating that she had definite needs of her own.
“Sophie,” he finally whispered, squeezing her gently so as to put a pause to her wriggling. “What are you doing?”
She let out a rough sigh. “I don’t know. I want you, but... I don’t think I am ready.”
“There’s no need to hurry. We’ll wait for as long as you need.”
The last time they had lain together had been a few weeks before the birth. By that time, Sophie’s belly had grown so round that definite thought had to be made about where she might position herself to avoid putting pressure on the child. It had been incredible—it always was with Sophie—but after that night she claimed it had simply become too uncomfortable to continue. This had been the longest they had gone without the act of love since their wedding night, which, while unfortunate, he understood as entirely necessary.
“I don’t want to wait,” she said, her voice taking on a low, uncharacteristic whine as she turned around to face him.
Benedict ran his hand along her back, making soft, rhythmic motions to settle her. “But you said you don’t feel ready.”
“I know.” She pressed closer to him, tucking her head against the crook of his neck. “I’m just... frustrated.”
“Oh.”
Benedict understood frustration—in the time before their marriage, when Sophie had been employed at Bridgerton House, he had felt it all the time. Seeing her and not being able to kiss her, or to touch her, not until that moment of shared passion on the staircase when he had—
—when he had only used his fingers.
“Then why don’t I help you,” he murmured, “to ease some of that… frustration?”
He lowered his head and began softly pressing his lips to the side of her neck, letting them follow a line from her jaw to the edge of her clavicle. Sophie said nothing, only letting out a shaky breath and arching her neck to give him greater access. His lips parted just a touch, enough to let the tip of his tongue flick against her skin.
She curled her hand around his upper arm, clutching tight.
“Is this supposed to be making me feel less frustrated?” she breathed.
Benedict grinned. “My apologies. Let us set that to rights.”
He rolled her onto her back and let his head dip lower, his mouth tracing down the center of her chest, while his fingers tugged at the front of her night gown to reveal her breasts. During pregnancy, they had grown larger, enough for her to lament about no longer fitting into her shifts, but now they had returned to their previous shape. Benedict loved them regardless of size, for Sophie’s were acutely sensitive, a condition he had often exploited—and planned to once more.
Looking up, he caught her eye, and then with little warning dragged the edge of his tongue against the tiny pink tip of her nipple. She gasped, her chest expanding with a momentary waver, and he felt a small squeeze as the muscles in her thighs contracted around his. Benedict was not a vain main, but it stirred his pride to think that he had been responsible for such a reaction. Who could blame him, then, when he moved to taste her a second time, and then a third, slowly laving her with the flat of his tongue, swirling it around her in an unending spiral? He pulled away for a moment, nuzzling against the soft cream of her skin, and then pursed his lips and blew directly on the glistening tip. She shuddered under him, her nipple hardening, puckering, as if awaiting his return.
This time he took her fully into his mouth, pressing against her with his lips, stroking her with his tongue, finding that gentle hold as he nipped at her with his teeth. Knowing he was in danger of neglecting its twin, he shifted to her other breast, lavishing enough attention on it in turn that she began to whine.
“Benedict...”
Her breath was ragged, her ribcage beginning to expand and contract more wildly. Glancing up once more, he found himself caught in her dark gaze, caught in the heat and the pull of the connection between them; the sensation ricocheted throughout his body, reverberating tightly in his groin.
“Yes, Sophie?”
“I need... I need... Please.”
She was beyond articulating what she needed, but he knew—and he would be more than happy to give it to her.
Moving down the length of her body, he kneeled between her legs and with teasing slowness began to ruck her night gown upwards until the hem skimmed along the tops of her thighs, finally revealing her bare hips and the small roundness of her belly.
He knew she had grown self-conscious of the changes pregnancy had made to her body, occasionally voicing dissatisfaction about how large she was growing and the stretch marks appearing on her skin. But it made little difference to him; to Benedict, she would always be lovely. Lowering himself down into the cradle of her thighs, he pressed a tender kiss to a spot just below her navel. Perhaps that small gesture would be enough to convey his appreciation—as well as his gratitude for the sacrifice she had made to bring their child into the world.
Slowly, patiently, his lips began to migrate, to her hipbone and the crease of her leg. Her breath hitched as he kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh. Perhaps it was to remind her of the first time he had ever loved her this way, that night before they were married when he perched her atop aside his bedside table and kneeled before her, if only to offer her the kind of pleasure that could be given with his mouth.
He wanted nothing more than to offer it again.
Careful of her body and not wanting to handle her too roughly, he gently lifted up one thigh and rested it atop his shoulder.
A quick lift of his gaze caught her eyes, grown even darker with desire and anticipation. Her cheeks were flushed, hair in gorgeous disarray along her shoulders, bare breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath. It was difficult to imagine a sight more arousing.
With all the care and gentleness he possessed, he leaned down to taste her.
Sophie’s head fell back with a soft moan as he ran his tongue along her folds, already slick with desire. She was so responsive, her calf tightening against his back and pulling him closer, her hands threading through his hair, and he found himself pressing a touch harder if only to heighten her reaction. With a satisfied grin, Benedict flattened his tongue and licked a wide stripe all the way up her.
Hands fisted around his hair. “Oh— oh, god...”
Her hips bucked against him, chasing sensation, and he curled his hands up and around the tops of her thighs to keep her still. Under other circumstances, he would have kept one hand free to have use of his fingers, pressing two or three of them inside her and stoking her pleasure as he moved them in and out in a steady rhythm. But he knew she was still tender there, not yet fully healed from the pains of birth. In time, she would be ready, but for now Benedict would give her what he could.
Keeping his hands in place, he opened his mouth, letting his lips feast upon her while his tongue continued to slide and press.
He could hear her gasps, the sharp stutter of her breath.
“Please,” she begged. “Don’t stop, I can’t— oh, Benedict...”
Benedict had no intention of stopping, not when he was this close to bringing her to her pinnacle. Drawing his tongue upward, he alighted on the tiny nub at the top of her cleft, a spot he had learned in his years of experience to be the seat of women’s pleasure. It was a beautiful mystery why such a thing existed, explosive for all its size, tucked away and hidden like a pearl waiting only to be admired. And unlike his own member, it was capable of achieving heights again and again, if one knew how to attend to it properly.
He lightly circled at first, applying the barest of pressure, but even that was enough to elicit an array of desperate sounds from his wife. Switching from the tip of his tongue to the flat and back again, he drew out her enjoyment, his rhythm turning quick and unrelenting. Her back arched, thighs tightening around his shoulders—a clear sign she was close.
“It’s alright, love,” he said, as he paused for the briefest of moments to breathe. “Let go for me.”
She nodded, lips parted and eyes heavy-lidded with desire.
Benedict returned to the nub and, placing his lips around it, began to softly suckle. Sophie moaned, her whole body growing taut as a bow, her hands fisting tightly in the fabric of the bedsheets. With his mouth still on her, he let his warm tongue flick against the nub, back and forth, again and again—until finally she cried out, saying his name, her body rocking against him as the pleasure overtook her.
Watching her come undone—and helping her through each successive wave—was almost too much to bear, desire for her pooling in his groin and flooding through his veins. But Benedict would set it aside for as long as she had need of him.
Eventually, her groans subsided, her body growing lax. He wiped his mouth on a loose corner of the bed sheet and crawled up beside her, then gathered her up into his arms.
“I pray you are less frustrated now,” he said, barely suppressing a smile.
“Yes,” she replied, her face beautifully pink from exertion. “Thank you, husband.”
For a moment they laid there in the shrouded afternoon light, the room hushed but for the sounds of their breath beginning to slow.
“But what of your frustration?” Sophie asked, nodding towards the not-insignificant bulge at the front of his breeches. “For that looks very frustrating.”
Benedict laughed softly, a shrug his only real acknowledgement of her question. “I will manage,” he eventually conceded. “You are not yet ready, as you said.”
She raised a dark eyebrow, her expression uncharacteristically arch and playful.
“But my hands are certainly ready. And my mouth, if called upon. You are not the only one in this marriage who should have use of such... aids.”
“Sophie,” he protested, unprepared for her response. For all her years in service, she had still been raised genteelly, and as such would know little of the acts that gentlemen received only by paying for them. “That is not anything you need to—”
“But what if I wished to?” Her hands drifted down towards the placket of his breeches, idly toying with the buttons. “What if I wished to give you something like what you have given me?”
“If you wished to?” Benedict’s initial consternation had faded away, replaced by a growing flutter of curiosity. And Sophie’s face, so loving and eager—combined with the motions of her skilled fingers as they began to unfasten buttons—was rapidly changing his mind. “Well, then, I don’t really see how I could object.”
“Good,” she said, soon making quick work of the buttons of his breeches and those of the linen underclothes below.
Her hand found him, wrapping around its length, and he groaned softly, the heat and pressure only adding to the rough ache he felt. She shifted down the bed, her head nearly at the level of his waist, before freeing him from the confines of his clothing. Glancing up at him, her dark eyes managed to convey a host of sentiments—need, trust, surprise, devotion—enough to fill his heart beyond what he had ever thought possible.
“Tell me what you like,” she said.
And then Sophie’s mouth was on him, and Benedict could not speak, nor think, nor breathe, all his words lost in a haze of warm and perfect marital bliss.