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I.
“Aren’t Cinderella’s shoes supposed to be glass?” Benedict asks as Sophie flits around the living room.
He mostly poses the question to distract himself, because Sophie has not yet put on the princess-themed gown Daphne had let her borrow for the Halloween party, prancing around in one of those thin, satin things that go under fancier dresses, and the sight of that will drive him mad if he lets it.
Sophie stops what she’s doing to plant her hands on her hips and shoot him a very unimpressed glare.
The fabric bundles under her hands, the hem shifting at her legs, and not even her glare can distract him from that.
“And where am I supposed to find glass slippers on such short notice?”
In defense of Daphne’s hosting credit, Sophie had known about the party for months, but she had been putting off agreeing to attend until his sister had apparently cornered her. Benedict was not privy to what exactly had happened, but Sophie ended up coming home with a ridiculously extravagant gown stuffed into a garment bag and asking him if they could go to the party together.
“I could probably get you some,” Benedict answers nonchalantly, as though offering to buy her a croissant from her favourite bakery and not a pair of heels that would cost a fortune to anyone else. He grins at her, “I know people.”
She glares at him again.
Sophie does not like it when Benedict impulsively buys her things.
Which, to Benedict, only makes impulsively buying her things all the more fun.
Her nose will scrunch up in this adorable way, and there will be just the tiniest hint of pink on her cheeks, and she’ll bite her lip as she tries to decide if scolding him for buying her something she doesn’t need is worth it.
She always keeps what he gets her though, be it flowers from the shop on the corner or a book he thinks she’ll enjoy or a mushroom rug he saw on Tiktok and immediately bought because he knew it would perfectly match that little toadstool table lamp she has in her room.
He knows he might make it a little difficult for her to refuse, but if there is anyone in the world who deserves to be spoiled every once in awhile, Benedict is certain that it is Sophie Baek, so he doesn’t feel bad about it.
“Don’t even joke about that,” Sophie grumbles, crossing her arms.
These little underdresses are rather strange, Benedict decides. Falling naturally, it flows just a bit loosely around her hips, flaring as it reaches the hem, but whenever she presses a hand to her hip or crosses her arms, it clings to her curves like a glove. He’s not even quite sure how it works.
(It doesn’t work for him, he tells himself, he just has a curious artist’s gaze.)
“Well, maybe Cinderella doesn’t need glass slippers if she doesn’t require a Prince Charming,” Benedict wonders aloud, thoughtful. He’d like to think he had come to these sort of his epiphanies on his own, that a woman’s worth and value belonged to herself and not whatever drivel society had deemed appropriate, but with having Eloise Bridgerton as a sister, there was really no telling if that was true or if he needed the reminder every now and then. “You certainly don’t need a Prince Charming to be a lovely princess.”
He’d really just meant it as a musing, but when Sophie doesn’t respond, he feels a little bubble of anxiety kick up in his chest, hoping he hadn’t said the wrong thing. It is that little bubble that makes him add, “Unless you want one?”
She’d just been staring at him, completely unreadable, but when he blurts out the last part, her lips part just a little, and then her gaze rakes over him and he swears he can feel it, her dark gaze making his skin tingle wherever she looks.
“You don’t really look like Prince Charming,” Sophie tells him after a moment, and it’s true, he managed to scramble together a bit of a Three Muskateers ensemble, which is not very close to Prince Charming at all.
He didn’t mean to make it sound like he was offering, honestly. But, detecting a flush on her cheeks even as she critically assesses him, he thinks there’s no harm in it.
“I probably have a tailcoat in my wardrobe,” he responds, one corner of his mouth tilting up in a lazy grin.
“Of course you do,” Sophie groans while simultaneously rolling her eyes, and it makes Benedict laugh, something light and warm fluttering around in his stomach.
“Well Prince Charming or no, I think we should stop arguing about if I’d make a good enough prince for you and get ready, because if we show up late to Daph’s party she just might turn into a Disney Villain on us.”
Sophie giggles, like he knew she would, and then agrees, assuring him she’ll be ready in under ten minutes before she heads back to her room. His eyes catch on the glint of her silver shoes and he smiles.
Benedict still needs to collect his mask and hat from his room, but just as he’s about to stand up from the couch, he’s interrupted by Sophie returning, her curling hair bouncing around her shoulders as she pops back around the corner.
“Ben?” She calls, voice light and melodic and so very princess-like.
“Yeah?” He asks, looking up at her and catching the way a smile slowly grows over her lips.
“I just want you to know you’re more than good enough to be my prince.”
Benedict blinks.
And then, without another word, she just leaves.
This time when Benedict grins, it is not fleeting, but rather it stays on his lips all night.
II.
Of all the things Benedict expects to find coming out of the men’s washroom just outside the hall where Anthony and Kate’s wedding reception is taking place, Sophie Baek is rather low on the list.
She is one of Kate’s bridesmaids, and he is Anthony’s best man, so it’s not last on the list, just pretty far down.
“Ben!” Sophie exclaims, lighting up at the sight of him, waving her silver clutch at him to get his attention as if he is not already looking at her.
(His pounding heart probably has to do more with that glass of champagne he had an hour ago than with the bright smile she directs solely at him.)
She hobbles over to him from the women’s room, the hem of her purple bridesmaid gown dragging just slightly on the floor. And even in her heels, he still manages to tower over her when she stops in front of him.
She holds out a hand when she teeters a bit, her fingers faintly grazing across his stomach, right above his belt.
She blinks and he swallows roughly.
“Hi,” she greets him again, this time gazing up at him instead of from across the hall, her face softening once more.
“Hi,” he echoes back, resisting the urge to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear.
(Deep down, he’s probably resisting much more than that.)
They just look at each other for a couple moments, and then Sophie’s expression changes, her eyes going wide.
“Oh wait, I wanted to give you something!” She exclaims, clearly just remembering something. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but then she’s shoving her little silver clutch at him, barely giving him time to grasp it in his hands. “Hold this for a second,” she mumbles belatedly, struggling with the bejeweled clasp at the top of it.
Clearly this thing is made more for fashion than it is for convenience.
After a few long moments, the clutch falls open and she lets out an adorable little shout of victory.
She dips her hand into the clutch as Benedict makes sure to hold onto the satin material extra carefully, rummaging around for a second before wrapping her fingers around something and then pulls it out.
Benedict’s brows furrow.
It looks like a napkin.
Sophie opens up her hand and it is, in fact, a napkin.
Despite himself, Benedict finds himself grinning. “You shouldn’t have.”
Sophie looks at it for a moment, then she must see what he’s seeing (a napkin) because she rolls her eyes.
She unravels the napkin and there is actually something inside of it.
The grin slowly slips from his lips when he sees the small rock in her palm.
“I know you’ve been busy with Anthony and the wedding preparations today, and I saw this when I went for a walk earlier and I thought you might like it.” Sophie explains as he reaches out to take the pebble from her hand. It is mostly different shades of grey, but there is this one streak through it that almost looks like it matches his tie and pocket square.
“I cleaned it off in the loo before I put it in here, so it shouldn’t get your suit dirty. Or your hands, for that matter,” Sophie adds when he doesn’t say anything, forgetting about her lipstick and chewing on her bottom lip as she studies him. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” Benedict whispers, not even bothering to hide the emotion in his voice.
So much had happened before the wedding that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was Anthony’s wedding and he never even considered looking out for a token to remind him of this special day. And yet Sophie had thought of it for him. Sophie had gone looking. Sophie found the perfect pebble to commemorate this day. Sophie has even gone and washed it off and wrapped it up for safe keeping in her little handbag.
No one had ever done anything like this for him.
“Good,” she smiles, pleased. “Should we get back then?”
Benedict slowly wraps his hand around the pebble, slipping it carefully into his pocket, and only when he makes sure it’s safe does he shoot her a grin, offering her his arm. “We shall.”
Benedict didn’t get to walk down the aisle with her today, but when she slips her arm through his and they start heading toward the sound of laughter and romantic songs drifting down the corridor, he decides this feels just as nice as that would have.
When they return to the party, Benedict sets her clutch down on the table in front of the chair next to his, Sophie smiles and sits down next to him. The placecard resting behind where her clutch now is says Colin, but his brother has basically been joined at the hip with Penelope all night, so Benedict figures the seat is pretty much free for the taking.
(As much as he would like to see those two finally stop dancing around each other, Benedict kind of hopes it’s not tonight, because the rest of the siblings have a betting pool going and Benedict really does not want to have to deal with Gregory’s endless gloating if he wins.)
Benedict looks out toward the dance floor, noting not only Colin and Penelope, but a handful or so of his other siblings. Anthony is of course completely besotted with Kate and probably wouldn’t even notice if a lorry crashed into the building. Daphne is swaying with Simon, a smile so blissfully content on his little sister’s face it makes his chest ache. (Sometimes he still can’t believe she’s not still playing with dolls and forcing Colin to sit on the floor so she can braid his too short hair.) Gregory is trying to teach Fran a dance that doesn’t even remotely go with the slow song that’s playing. Hyacinth is suspiciously absent (something he’ll have to look into soon) and Eloise is being swept around by Michaela.
Benedict can’t help smiling at how even when she’s dancing with Michaela — and he can’t quite tell if she willingly agreed or if Michaela charmed her into it after Gregory took over her dance with Fran — Eloise is still sending daggers over at Colin, as though miffed that he’s stolen her best friend.
His smile doesn’t falter as he keeps watching, content to observe quietly. Aside from Eloise’s glares, it’s not every day he gets to see his family like this, all together and so carefree.
He hears a sigh from beside him, and when Sophie’s voice pulls his attention away from the dance floor, she says the last thing he was ever expecting to hear.
“Do you want to get married?”
His lips part as he looks over at her, her expression wide-eyed and soft, and for the first time since he met her, Benedict lets himself want.
Oh, he’s allowed it in passive ways before. How her legs look in her short, floral sundresses. How adorable she is when she stumbles out of her room in the morning, hair twisted into a knot on her head and blinking softly in the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window. How that one shade of red lipstick she owns drives him to distraction whenever she wears it.
But he has never let himself want like this. He has never let himself hope.
“It’d be nice, right?” She asks quietly, just over the music, and he’s never seen that expression on her face before, doesn’t even know how to decipher it, but it makes his breath catch.
Benedict can’t seem to find his voice, so he lets out a hum that he hopes sounds encouraging.
“Not just the wedding or the honeymoon,” she blushes a little when she says honeymoon, and try as he might, Benedict can not stop the thought of her wrapped up in bed, her hair loose in sheets and her whole body flush, wearing nothing but a matching engagement ring and wedding band around her finger.
He’s trying to blink the image away when she continues, “Just, you know, to have someone that’s there at the end of the day, whether it’s a good or bad one. Someone that still loves you even when it’s not so easy. Someone that will listen when you need to talk and just hug you when you don’t want to speak at all. Someone that believes in you so much that forever doesn’t sound so unattainable. Someone that’s just… yours.”
By the time her voice, soft and beautiful, trails off, his face feels warm and his thoughts are racing.
It’s got to be the champagne that has him thinking like this. It has to be.
He can’t be thinking about how that sounds so much like what they have.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“ Sophie starts to mumble an apology, and Benedict can’t bear the way the passion and longing in her eyes begins to morph into embarrassment as she avoids his gaze.
“No!” He rushes to say, and he doesn’t know why but something in his chest is telling him to not let her regret opening up to him like this. She lifts her chin and meets his eyes again, shy with a little glimmer of hope, and his heart feels like it’s in his throat when he adds, “That sounds nice. Really nice.”
She gives him a small smile and something in his heart shifts, like a puzzle piece slotting into place.
III.
“Ben?”
Benedict has been lounging on the sofa for almost ten minutes when he hears Sophie’s soft voice drift into the front of the flat.
He is not quite used to being ready so soon before her, but tonight they are attending one of his mother’s charity events, and while the duty to attend has become second nature to him at this point, he knows that it makes Sophie nervous.
He can’t blame her, even as someone who was raised up into it, the uncomfortable formal wear and the classical music and the small talk and the dodging mothers who want him to meet their frankly too young to be on his radar daughters can be exceptionally exhausting and he has mastered the art of slipping out when no one is watching.
Except this time the event is to raise money for single mothers raising their children, and Benedict knows he will not be slipping out halfway into the night.
(Curse his soft heart and his love for his mother.)
“Soph?” Benedict calls back sweetly, tilting his head to hang off the back of the sofa to see if she is shuffling down the corridor after getting ready.
She isn’t, but her voice does float through their flat again.
“Could you come here?”
He raises a brow even though she can’t see him do it, his interest immediately piqued.
Well, whatever it is, he thinks as he gets up, it’s bound to be more interesting than staring off into space for ten minutes.
“Coming!”
Benedict heads down the corridor and steps into her bedroom and is immediately greeted with a sight that is indeed vastly more interesting than staring into space.
Sophie is standing in front of the full length mirror in her room. Her dark hair is done up in a beautiful sort of chignon and the dress she has on is stunning, silver and glittering with every breath she takes.
It is also completely unzipped, her entire back exposed to him as she holds onto the front of it a bit protectively.
The tiny little zipper that is supposed to hold it all together rests only a few centimetres above the curve of her arse and suddenly Benedict’s fingers itch to move towards it.
“Could you help?” He hears her ask as he still stands just inside her room, and he has to blink a few times to focus on the question.
Benedict wants to say a lot of things in that moment, but when he catches her reflection in the mirror and notices the bright flush on her cheeks, he bites all of that back.
“Of course,” he agrees instantly.
He almost turns to shut the door softly behind him until he remembers there is no one else here.
As he steps closer to her and catches sight of her in the mirror again, he notices there is a slit in the dress that goes all the way up to her thigh.
Well if his concentration wasn’t shot before, it certainly was now.
But the last thing he wants is for her to be uncomfortable in her own room. Or any more uncomfortable, at least. Surely if he had a similar issue he would not be feeling very confident either.
So he does his best to remain respectful and normal as he steps behind her, his hands hovering over her hips as he looks back up to her face in the mirror.
She bites her lip, looking back at him shyly.
Normal, he reminds himself.
“I think it’s just a little stuck,” she explains. “It fit perfectly when I was dress shopping with Daphne.”
Of course she was with Daphne. He’s starting to think she is somehow orchestrating these half-dressed moments between him and Sophie, surely some form of vengeance for something he did during their childhood, like some sort of evil mastermind.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he soothes, pleased when he notices some of the tension in her shoulders drop.
He gives her a lazy smile in the mirror and she gives him a small, thankful one back.
He drops his gaze to her hips, ignoring the way his heart seems to jump in his chest as he puts his hands to work, wiggling the small zipper. It does give him some resistance, but just as he’s starting to worry about being too rough with it, it breaks free from whatever had snagged it and begins sliding up her lower back smoothly.
They both let out a breath of air at the same time. He meets her gaze and grins.
“Told you,” he murmurs into her ear.
(Was that a shiver he detected, or just hopeful thinking on his part?)
He concentrates on the zipper again instead of getting distracted, one hand still grasping the zipper while the other keeps the fabric on her dress smooth and straight so he can complete the task.
The pad of his thumb brushes her back a few times, her skin warm and soft beneath it.
They don’t talk for this part, the only sounds in the room are the zip of the zipper and Sophie’s breathing.
He doesn’t concentrate on how smooth her skin is or on the ridges of her spine or on the wisps of hair brushing the nape of her neck.
He concentrates simply on his task, and he manages a fine job, getting her into the dress with relative ease, until he finishes and runs his hand across her shoulder and he realises how close they are standing.
His nose is nearly brushing her ear and her backside is much closer to him than he remembered it being when he stepped up behind her.
“Done,” Benedict whispers in her ear, the rasp to his voice so fucking obvious.
He should step back. He should give her space. He should leave before he does something he is not supposed to.
He should, but he can’t.
Sophie lifts her chin, and when their eyes meet in the mirror, Benedict could swear time stops.
Him, with his dark suit and Bridgerton blue tie. Her, shimmering in this beautiful silvery dress like it was made for her.
Looking at her, at them, he realises he has never wanted anything more.
(He wants to drag his hands over her waist and stop at her hips. He wants to pull her backwards until her back is pressed to his chest. He wants to press his mouth to her neck and mark her. He wants to inhale until there is nothing but that soft scent of hers. He wants dip his hand into the slit of her dress. He wants to hear the sound she makes when he does.)
“What do you think?” Sophie whispers to him, and it should be enough to break whatever spell she must have him under, but the breathy quality of her voice just seems to drag him further into the depths of it, into her. “Is it good enough for your mother’s gala?”
It’s good enough to marry you in, Benedict can’t help thinking.
It’s been like this ever since Anthony and Kate’s wedding. Ever since she asked him if he wanted to marry. Ever since she made him start thinking.
Benedict never thought he was the type of person to think about marriage all that much, least of all when he wasn’t even seeing anyone.
With a mum and dad like his, he knew he wanted to eventually. Even looking at his siblings getting married, he knew when he found what they had that he’d want it too. But he never really needed to think about it. It would come to him eventually, and he was fine until that day came.
But then Sophie made him think.
She made him really think about what it would look like. Not the wedding, but the relationship.
And, eventually, Benedict had to admit to himself that he knew what it looked like.
It looks like waking up early on Sunday to make her sweet crepes for breakfast. It looks like her sitting for him so he can paint her when he has hit an art block because he can always paint her. It looks like holding her and rubbing her back when she crawls into his lap after she’s had a bad day. It looks like falling asleep together and waking up with her legs tangled in his.
It looks like the reflection in the mirror in front of them.
It looks like Sophie.
“It’s perfect,” Benedict breathes, the little flyaway hairs at her neck fluttering at his proximity. This close, he can see the pretty shade of her blush perfectly and smell the floral perfume she’s wearing. This close feels like hope and warmth and possibility. “You’re perfect.”
He is so close, in fact, he can feel the gasp she makes without even touching her.
Sophie slowly tilts her chin to the side and his eyes darken when he finally, finally gets to look at her properly.
Her eyes are dark and smoky, her lips are painted in that red that really just might drive him mad, and she is looking at him in a way that truly steals his breath from his lungs.
He has never seen her look at him like this and suddenly he cannot stop wanting.
He wants to brush his lips over her skin until he feels her shiver. He wants to drag his fingers through her hair and absolutely ruin that updo. He wants everything, everything, everything.
“Ben,” she whispers, and it sounds like a plea, like she needs him the same way he needs her.
His gaze flickers to her lips, red and pouty and surely there has never been a mouth more kissable.
He could kiss her. She wants him to kiss her. He is going to kiss her.
Sophie. Sophie. Sophie. It is all he can think as his hand travels across her shoulder and up the back of her neck. It is all he can think as his nose brushes hers. It is all he can think when he leans forward the last centimetre and—
Buzz.
They both pull back at the same time as the sound of Sophie’s phone vibrating loudly against her nightstand breaks the moment, their breaths coming out in pants as they simply stare at each other for a few seconds.
He wants nothing more than to drag her back to him and get his taste of her once and for all, but she speaks before he can.
“That must be Eloise and Francesca.”
His sisters.
They were picking Benedict and Sophie up for the gala.
His mother’s gala.
Reality comes crashing back down on him.
She moves from his embrace and he closes his eyes as the warmth of her nearness slowly fades away, an ache in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with.
No. That’s not right.
He knows what to do with it.
When he opens his eyes and sees Sophie looking down at her phone, Benedict knows exactly what he’s going to do.
IV.
Benedict glances down at his watch for the fourth time in seven minutes.
He knows it’s ridiculous, how nervous he feels. He knows he is entirely to blame.
They live together. What is she going to do, not show up for their first date by eating take away on the couch he literally bought himself three years ago?
He could have avoided the whole thing by just staying home. They could have arrived at the restaurant together.
But no, he insisted on giving her space in their flat. Letting her get ready while he went over to Anthony and Kate’s and allowing his brother to snap at him every time he started rambling about the reservation or his choice of clothing or if he should text her.
Truly, it was an abysmal choice on his part. In what world would Anthony be able to calm his nerves more than Sophie?
(At least Kate and Newton had been on his side, the latter cuddling into his lap as he fretted. Benedict only hopes he managed to get all the dog hair off his trousers before he left.)
But really, he knows why he wanted to meet her at the restaurant. Because she was too much of a distraction. Because he didn’t want her to see how nervous he was. Because he wanted to make this date as good as possible for her. Because he was head over heels for her and he needed tonight to be perfect.
Benedict closes his eyes and groans, willing his heart to calm down.
“Oh, stop being dramatic, I’m only two minutes late.”
He whips around, his eyes opening wide as he takes Sophie in, and his heart stops.
On second thought, he is a very smart man, Benedict decides.
How could he have seen her looking like this and even managed to leave the flat at all? He probably would’ve seen her and blurted out a marriage proposal before he even kissed her. (And, oh, how he would have kissed her. Her mouth, her neck, her arm, anywhere he could reach.)
She looked like an angel, or a Goddess, or maybe both. Is there a Goddess of Angels? If not, there is now.
Her hair was swept up, a style that no doubt was quite complicated, but with a few pieces artfully framing her face. Her eyes were even more beautiful, eye makeup that was both smoky and glittery and all together mesmerising. Her lips were glossy and painted the most alluring shade of pink. She had done something with her cheeks that made them look iridescent.
All of these things were beautiful, but really, Sophie was always beautiful. It was not these things that made his heart stop.
It was the metallic silver heels that closed the gap between their height difference quite impressively, even if she was still marginally shorter than him. It was the little silver clutch that he remembered holding for her. It was the glittery dress that he had zipped up for her, the memory of his fingers dragging along the skin of her back taking his breath away.
Sophie was always beautiful, but it was like she dressed like this for him. No, not him. Them. Like she was wrapping herself in these special memories of the two of them. She did it because she knew he would notice, she knew he would remember.
Benedict is in love with her. He’s suspected, was mostly sure, but right now he knows.
He loves her. There is no one else, just Sophie.
“Can I kiss you?” He blurts out, but honestly, it was bound to happen eventually.
Sophie blinks up at him, and he’s too distracted by her — her beauty, her innocence, her heart — that he can’t even bother feeling embarrassed by his request.
Really, if he can be be kissing her, why shouldn’t he?
“We haven’t even sat down to eat yet,” she reasons, which is probably valid because he did ask her out to a nice restaurant. He probably could’ve kissed her at home. If she lets him, he will definitely kiss her at home.
But he simply can’t imagine waiting any longer if he doesn’t have to.
He needs to know what it’s like to kiss her.
“Is that a no?” He asks, because as much as he needs her, is utterly consumed by her, he needs her to need him back just as much.
For a moment, she just watches him, her eyes thoughtful and he knows his emotions must be written all over his face. But then her gaze flickers over him, from his head to his feet and back again, and his heart flutters in his chest.
“No.”
The corners of his mouth pull down and his brows scrunch together. He tells whatever it is that is racing around in his chest to calm down.
“No, it is not a no? Or no, you don’t want me to—“
Sophie huffs, and his bewildered questioning gets cut off as she grasps at the lapels of his jacket, tugging him toward her with an impressive amount of force and authority for someone so small.
“Do you ever shut up?” Sophie grumbles, but her face is soft and her lips are so close and Benedict has to remind himself to breathe for a moment.
But that moment passes and then he is grinning like an utter fool.
“I might if you kiss me,” Benedict answers cheekily, reaching up to tuck one of those loose strands of her dark hair behind her ear.
When he does not pull his hand back, when he instead cups the side of her face with his palm and her eyelids flutter closed at the contact, Benedict feels like he is on top of the world.
And then, right in front of a little Italian restaurant on Grosvenor Street, Sophie Baek finally kisses Benedict Bridgerton.
(He will say later that it was him who kissed her, of course. They will bicker over it for years to come. But, in the end, it does not really matter, because either way it is this kiss that changes both of their lives.)
V.
“Fuck, come on.”
“Do you need some help?” Sophie asks from over her shoulder, the innocence in her question undermined by the look she shoots him, a mixture of mischief and amusement in her eyes.
“No!” His voice cracks even in just that single syllable, face flushed as he tries to concentrate on the task at hand, his heart beating rapidly against his ribcage, cursing his shaky fingers.
(Of all the days to lose his form! He can paint for hours with the steadiest of hands, but here he is, shaking like an anxious puppy.)
“Good, because I’d be no use,” Sophie responds lightly, smiling back at him in that way that makes his heart skip.
He really needs his hands to cooperate. Not kissing her right now feels like a crime.
“Did you have to pick a dress with a corset?” Benedict grumbles, once again turning his attention to the white ribbon criss-crossing over her back. She looks like a present, all wrapped up in soft shades of white, and he would wax poetic about how gorgeous the sight was if not for the fact he had never had a present so maddeningly impossible to open.
“If you would just take your time instead of tying to rip it off,” there’s a little bit of accusation in her voice at the end there, which he probably deserves, but is it really so much to ask that he could undress his wife on their wedding night without trouble? Apparently it was.
He grunts as he gives another tug.
“Ben, baby, breathe,” her tone is a mixture of soothing and commanding, and even through the cloud of frustration it still is able to make his skin buzz with excitement.
(He always does love it when she bosses him around a little.)
He does as she says, and then he is surrounded by her scent, warmth flooding over him at the familiar smell, sweet and flowery and Sophie.
When he looks back down at her back, it’s like everything is a little bit clearer, and he begins making headway with her corset almost immediately.
“Good boy,” Sophie says softly, voice so sweet and sultry that of course it disrupts his concentration again. Is she trying to drive him mad?
“Fuck, Soph, really?” Benedict groans, resisting about seven different urges to just forget about the blasted corset altogether.
No. No. It is their wedding night. He can be good and patient. He can.
“What?” She responds sweetly, all faux innocence that makes his head swim and if not for him making significant progress with her dress, all that patience would’ve snapped.
“I’d fuck you in this dress if I wasn’t worried about you passing out from lack of oxygen.”
Alright, maybe some of that patience snapped. Just a bit.
“Ben!” Sophie gasps, but it feathers out into a laugh and Benedict can’t fight back the smile on his face.
It’s not perfect, but as he gets down to the few last criss-crosses of ribbon, he knows he wouldn’t change it for anything.
“Sorry, make love to you. It is our wedding night.”
“Benedict.” Sophie huffs, but he can still hear the smile in her voice, and his heart gives an extra pronounced beat at the exact same moment that white ribbon drops from his fingers and flutters softly to the ground.
And he itches to undress her, to use his hands to reveal her smooth skin inch by inch, so tantalisingly slow that she’s begging for him to hurry up, but Sophie apparently has other plans, clearly fed up with either him or the dress or maybe both, tugging the dress off carefully but (slightly unfortunately) a fair deal quicker than Benedict would’ve done.
He can’t really be too disappointed when she turns around, still every inch a Goddess without the elegant gown on, and Benedict gets his fill of her for the first time tonight.
Still, he can’t help but notice one detail.
“No bra?” He asks gruffly, which is probably a very stupid question, but he had at least been expecting those little sticky silicone things she wore with her other strapless dresses.
“That’s what the corset is for, love,” Sophie tells him, a crooked smile on her lips like she is just realising she has married the most daft man in all of England.
Which is probably true.
He finally, finally gets to invade her space without a mountain of tulle and lace between them, reaching up to cradle her face between his hands, urging her closer until the gap closes, groaning the moment his lips meet hers.
When he pulls away, he mumbles, “Guess it’s not so bad after all,” as he laves kisses across her throat.
She laughs, using her hands to push his jacket off his shoulders and starts undoing the buttons of his white dress shirt. “So unappreciative.”
He nips at her collarbone before straightening back up, shirt half open and eyes dark as he looks down at her.
Her lips are swollen, the flush on her cheeks is not solely due to her wedding makeup anymore, and she is the most beautiful creature on the planet.
“Unappreciative?” He echoes, pressing a large hand to cup the side of her face and watching her eyelashes flutter a couple times before her eyes close. So gorgeous, he thinks, dragging his hand down, fingers grazing over her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, lower and lower until he reaches the outside of her thigh.
“My wife wants to be appreciated, does she?” He whispers, grinning when he feels her shiver when he calls her wife. His other hand reaches for her opposite thigh, his fingers curving reverently until he’s got a handful of each of her thighs, tugging her up so she will wrap her legs around his waist.
He holds her there for a moment, holding onto the moment, a moment he has imagined since she kissed him in front of that restaurant, since he saw her in those silver shoes, since he asked her to move into his extra bedroom, maybe since the very moment he met her.
(Could he have been waiting for this moment his whole life? Sometimes he can’t ever remember wanting anything else but this, Sophie in his arms, beautiful and soft and his forever, just like he is hers.)
He leans in to kiss her again, so gentle and featherlight she sighs into his mouth, her whole body pliant in his arms, draped over him. It is soft and heart melting and the answer to every one of his wishes.
When he pulls back, her expression is hazy and blissful, and he smirks.
“I’ll show you appreciative,“ he breathes, walking her backward (which, luckily, is forward for him) until his legs find the bed and he sets her down on the mattress, the most exquisite picture of beauty sprawled across the white sheets, so beautiful there is not a single painting in the Louvre that could hope to compare.
And when he crawls over her, he vows to spend the next few hours showing her just how appreciative her husband is.
(And when he succeeds at that, he vows to do the very same for the rest of his life.)