Moments: One-Shots || Benedict Bridgerton

Moments: A Ladder Interlude

"You missed a spot," you point out smugly from the bottom of the tall A-frame ladder, signalling to a streak of paint on the glass ceiling right above his head.

He looks up, sighs, purses his lips and reaches to wipe it away.

"How about you spend some time up the ladder, darling?" He suggests, somewhat deadpan, looking down at you.

"Happily," you raise a challenging eyebrow at him.

He descends with an enviably athletic gait, back at floor level quickly.

"Be my guest," he signals sardonically.

You climb up with considerably more trepidation than him.

"Pass me the cloth," you ask, holding your hand down expectantly.

Your eyes drop when nothing is passed to you. A knowing little smile passes your lips. He's not paying attention to you—correction to your words. His gaze is fixed up your dress.

"Husband?" You call pointedly.

"Did you not wear stockings and underwear just to tease me?" his voice is thick.

"The stockings got covered in paint earlier," you point out.

"And the underwear...?"

"I wasn't wearing any," you confess in a whisper.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and then a warm hand encircles your ankle, pulling gently.

"Get back down here," he intones, a gravelly undercurrent that instantly has your insides melting.

"There is a little more paint," you argue teasingly, your inclination to clean the last pane rapidly decreasing as the hand around your ankle trails higher up your leg.

"Later." There is a whole universe of meaning in how he says that one word.

You edge slowly down the ladder, intentionally snagging your hem onto a rung under your hand, so your dress rides higher with every step, wanting to tease him so much.

He growls as your bare bottom is exposed at his waist height, your foot on the lowest rung.

"You little vixen."

There's an echo around the room as his hand spanks your left cheek. You moan and pitch against the ladder, the wood biting into your hipbone.

"Again," you murmur.

He chuckles darkly, bounding up onto a step and pressing the length of his body against your back. You gasp his name as his hand descends to your bare bottom and spanks you again. Then it slips down to run between your legs from behind.

"I love how you are always so ready for me," he exhales as his fingers quest against your folds, already slick with desire. You were the minute he looked up at you just so. Even after all these years, one heated expression on his face can have you flooded and wanton.

"Should I take you right here, from behind? His voice is low, and you can't help but push back against him and rub yourself on him unashamedly. "I'll take that as a yes," he laughs richly, roughly yanking open the buttons on his trousers.

You haven't even kissed when he surges into your body. The force of his invasion makes the ladder creak, and you cry out.

"Always, always so good... fuck," he stutters, one hand gripping around your waist, the other the rung above your head.

"Don't be a gentleman," you say through gritted teeth. That's your long-established shorthand for him to go hard and rough—often lasting a shorter amount of time but explosively satisfying.