Benedict Bridgerton Modern AU Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Party Favour

You are in a spare bedroom at Kate and Ant's place during a house party. If they find you, they will probably kill you both. Doesn't seem to be enough of a deterrent, though, seeing as you've been making out for the last twenty minutes. And now his long, strangely elegant fingers are shoved down your jeans and, well, inside you.

You feel the curve of his smile on your neck. "I want to know something you're intrigued by but never experienced before," he murmurs. "Because I want to give it to you right now, right here."

"Ben, I don't know," you demure.

"My fingers are literally inside you; why are you being shy?" he teases gently, kissing your clavicle. "I guess I'll just have to ask questions to find out then, hmmm?"

"That works," you exhale, your eyes still closed under his assault.

"Hmm, let me see. Have you ever tasted yourself?"

"Of course," you admit, breath hitching as his knuckles catch on your walls.

"Excellent. I assume you've had an orgasm by someone going down on you?" That question is served as his teeth graze the swell of your breast, peaking out of your top.

"Ben, please." you disdain as if you'd be happy getting to your age without that happening.

He chuckles against your breastbone. "How about squirting? Have you ever done that?" He queries so nonchalantly.

You go quiet. You know your cheeks have gone red.

"I umm... no... I don't think I can do that," you say quietly.

Not many have tried, to be fair, but those that have didn't seem able to make it work for you. You assumed it was to do with you, your body. There's a rich chuckle, and the fingers inside you flex.

He tilts his head up to look at you, and there is that dangerous crooked smile, his eyes dancing with something decadent and fiery.

"Oh yes, you fucking can," he declares, staring you down.

You've never heard anything hotter.

"Strip. Right now. No arguments," he orders, removing his fingers from inside you and sucking them into his mouth with an obscene groan.

"Ben, I..." for some reason, you are faltering.

"Get. Naked. Now." Each word is a sentence, and you are astonished by just how attractive you find him being bossy. Fucking hell, is it working for you. You do as best you can, wiggling on the mattress to remove your jeans and underwear. He doesn't argue when you leave on your top and bra. For some reason, a speck of modesty is helping with your slight sense of mortification.

He reaches over and grabs a towel from a pile on a nearby chair. "So convenient, Kate is such a hostess," he chuckles casually, placing it between your legs. "Open wider," he lectures, tapping your bare knee.

And you do, one heel sliding to the edge of the bed, the other brushing his ankle. You breathe uneasily, staring at the ceiling as he arranges the towel between your legs. You want this so much, but you also sort of want the ground to swallow you up right now. This is the first time your flirty dynamic has gone this far, yet, he's so achingly informal about everything as if you are regular lovers with an established shorthand and months of shared intimate knowledge.

"This is very nice," his compliment breezy as he runs his little finger over your trimmed patch of hair. Again, you find yourself lacking a response. What exactly should one say in response to praise of your pubic hair?

But there is no time to dwell on it as he smirks, plunging his fingers back into you.

"Now," he begins quietly, "the secret to squirting is all about strength, hitting the right spot and treating this little pussy here like it's not made of glass; it can take some intense treatment," he tutors, so conversational, as two fingers slide heavily over your front wall and pause over a spot.

"I think this might be it," he smiles against your temple and curls his body around you, his socked feet encasing your ankle to hold you open. You can feel his cock hard on your hip through his jeans; it feels sizeable and delicious.

Suddenly those fingers massage the spot he identified, and a bloom of pleasure hits you. Your eyes go wide as you gasp out a loud ohhhhhh.

"Oh yes, that's the spot," he preens.

Then he is rocking with his whole arm, spearing hard onto that spot at such a fast pace. It's like a rocket ship of sensation has looped you Into its orbit and is hurtling into space. All you can do is cling to his arm and whine his name; he just chuckles and keeps going. There is something hot and intense, like a pressure building up so blindingly fast. Nothing you or anyone else has done to you before is anything remotely like this. You gulp for air.

"That's it comes on," he encourages, whispering into your hairline right above your ear, his tone at once both soothing and utterly filthy.

"Ben... I... fucking hell...." your words morph into a series of high pitch squeals, but he clamps his other hand over your mouth to muffle it, desperate to keep this secret from the other party guests.

You can't fathom what is happening. Your whole core is pushing. Your clit burns so much to be touched, but he doesn't.

"Yes, yes, yes," he cries, "you're close now; I can feel it. Look at me," he orders.

And you do. Squirming against his fingers, gusting hot breaths into the palm that is gagging your noises, feeling something tidal about to hit you, his eyes burn into yours.

"What do you want?" he demands, releasing the hand that gags you temporarily, sensing you have words bubbling inside you.

"I want you to fuck me," you confess, panting.

"Happily," he growls, and then the hand is back over your mouth and he redoubles his efforts.

And suddenly, something inside you gives way. You scream loudly as a tide of pressure releases; it's not the same as a regular orgasm, but it's intense. Eyes fluttering closed, you feel his hip holding your pelvis onto the bed as you cry and convulse. You can hear him praising you, but it's distant, as if through cotton wool.

After a few moments, his hand releases your mouth, and you pant hard, opening your eyes as he kisses your cheek.

"My good girl," he gusts, "you made a beautiful mess."

The possessive language would usually make you wince, but something reverential in his tone just makes it blisteringly hot. Or maybe just because it's him.

"Ben, what the fuck...." you shake your head slowly as if disbelieving what he has just done to you. And so quickly too.

"I told you you could squirt," he smiles affectionately.

You look down and are shocked by what you can see. His forearm is drenched, and so is the towel beneath it—a large pool of darker stain.

"Oh my god?!" You can barely believe your eyes.

"That was something special, wasn't it?"

He smiles as he wipes down his arm and softly cleanses your legs before scrunching up and throwing the towel across the room.

"Now I do believe you said something about fucking," he smirks, already unbuttoning his jeans.

Kate and Anthony are definitely going to kill you. And yet, as he climbs over you, you just can't muster the energy to give one single damn about that.