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The olive was too salty and she ate it anyway.
The bar was three deep. The party had that eleven-thirty energy where the playlist had shifted from background to intention and the lighting had dimmed past flattering into permissive. Some Shoreditch studio, exposed brick, too many neon signs, the kitchen island doubling as a drinks station. Posy was also on her second gin martini, talking with her hands.
"He's looking fit tonight. Like, objectively."
Sophie didn't need to ask who. Benedict Bridgerton was across the room in a dark green shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, laughing with his head thrown back at something a woman in a micromini had said. His forearms were flexed. His hair was doing the bedhead thing.
"He always looks fit. That's not news."
"So why don't you—"
"No."
"Sophie."
"He's too posh." The martini was cold and good and she drank half of it in one go. "He's got that Eton-Cambridge thing where he's been bred to be polite and it's impossible to tell whether he actually likes you or he's just been trained."
"He likes you. Everyone can see he likes you."
"He's too soft, Pose. He's an artist. He writes poetry. He once told me the light where I was standing had the quality of a Vermeer and I didn't know what to do with that information."
"That's romantic."
"It's impractical. He's a good person. Like, genuinely, annoyingly good. And I don't—" She swirled the glass. The clear liquid caught the candlelight. "My picker doesn't work like that."
Posy's face did the thing it did, the scrunched concern, the sisterly worry that wasn't supposed to be there because Posy was younger by five years and softer by a decade and had never met a man she couldn't see clearly from the start.
"Your picker likes arseholes."
"My picker likes men who look like they'd fight someone outside a pub."
"That's not a type, that's daddy issues and a cry for help."
"It's straightforward. You know what you're getting. The rugged ones don't pretend to be tender. They don't write you sonnets and then forget to text back. They're upfront about being shit."
"Robbie wasn't straightforward. Robbie was a liar."
Sophie's jaw tightened on his name. Robbie, who'd been charming in that blunt, East London way, who'd been broad-shouldered and sharp-tongued and had made her feel chosen until he'd chosen someone else, twice, while still sleeping in her bed. Robbie, who everybody had warned her about and she'd stayed because some rotten little part of her brain had whispered this is the love you deserve.
"Robbie's done."
"Obviously Robbie's done. But you're doing the self-sabotage thing again. You're looking at an actual good man and finding reasons to disqualify him because you don't think you're allowed to have—"
"It's not about allowed, it's just—" Sophie put the glass down. "Benedict Bridgerton is the kind of man who holds doors and means it and I wouldn't know what to do with that. I'd break it. I'd find a way to convince myself it was fake and I'd ruin it."
Posy opened her mouth.
"She wouldn't," said a voice behind Sophie's left shoulder, "but it's interesting that she thinks so."
Sophie's blood went cold.
Benedict was standing five feet away with an empty glass in his hand, his posture easy, his expression unreadable. Close enough to have heard everything. His eyes, that infuriating blue-green, held Sophie's with a steadiness that made her stomach drop through the floor.
"How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough."
"Benedict—"
"Too posh. Too soft. Too good." He set his glass on the bar with a careful click. "You missed too handsome, but I'll give you that one for free."
"I didn't mean—"
"You did mean it. You meant all of it. And the truly spectacular part is that you'd rather date another Robbie — Robbie, Sophie, who shagged a pilates instructor in your bed while you were at work and then told you it was your fault for never being home — you'd rather go through that again than let someone decent take you to dinner."
"That's not fair."
"It's perfectly fair. It's the most accurate thing anyone's said in this room all night."
Posy was already reaching for her bag. "I'm going to go find — someone. Anyone. Over there." She squeezed Sophie's arm once, a small pressure that meant you're on your own and I love you, and dissolved into the crowd.
Sophie's chest was tight. The music had shifted to something bass-heavy and dark and Benedict was still looking at her with that expression, the one that had no charm in it at all, just clarity.
"You don't know anything about Robbie."
"I know everything about Robbie. Everyone does. He wasn't complicated, Sophie, he was predictable. He was easy to predict because he did exactly what men like him always do, which is take advantage of someone too proud to admit she's being taken advantage of."
"Careful."
"I'm past careful. You stood in the same room as me and told your sister I'm too soft to be worth your time while you're still protecting the reputation of a man who made you cry outside a pub. I watched that happen. I was there."
Her throat ached. "You weren't supposed to see that."
"I know. That's why I'm angry."
"You're not angry."
"I'm furious. I've been furious for months. You just can't tell because I'm too polite."
The word landed like a slap. He was close enough now that she could smell him — clean laundry, gin, the mineral note of the perfume that sat close to his skin. His jaw was set. His eyes hadn't moved from hers. The green shirt pulled across his shoulders when he breathed and something in her stomach turned over, hot, involuntary.
"Benedict."
"Sophie."
"Are you taking me home?"
The question surprised her as much as it surprised him. His chin lifted. The muscle in his jaw twitched once.
"I thought I was too much of a good boy for you."
"Maybe I want to find out if I'm wrong."
He held the door of the cab open for her. She hated him for it. She hated the way his hand found the small of her back as she climbed in, light, not possessive, just present. She hated how his thigh pressed against hers in the back seat. He kissed her in the cab. His hand wrapped around her jaw and tilted her head back and his mouth came down on hers with a focused, unhurried intent that pressed every breath out of her. She gripped the front of his shirt. Twelve minutes of traffic noise and his thumb tracing slow circles on her throat and she arrived at her own door with her lipstick ruined and her brain offline.
Her flat was small and cold and smelled of the jasmine candle she'd left burning when she had gotten ready. She barely got the door locked before his hand wrapped around her wrist.
"Turn around."
She turned. He was taller than she'd let herself properly register, the difference absurd in her narrow hallway, his shoulders taking up the width of the corridor. He looked at her the way he'd looked at the painting she'd watched him study at the Barbican last spring — with total, disassembling focus.
"Here's what's going to happen." His voice was low. No charm or melody; just a stripped-back register she'd never heard from him. "You said I was soft. So I'm going to show you what soft looks like. And you're going to take it. And if at any point you want to stop, you say stop and I stop. Clear?"
Her pulse was in her ears. "Clear."
"Bedroom."
She walked. He followed. Her bedroom was a mess — duvet bunched, books on the nightstand, a mug from this morning. It wasn't it's usual state, but she was in a haste getting ready for the party. And the apology was at the tip of her tongue ready to be deployed, but he didn't look at any of it. He looked at her.
"Dress off."
She pulled the little black dress over her head. Black bra, black knickers, bare feet on cold floorboards. His gaze tracked down her body with a slowness that made her skin prickle, clinical, appraising, like he was composing a study.
"You're shaking."
"I'm cold."
"You're not cold." He stepped forward and put his hand flat on her sternum, between her breasts, over her heartbeat. "You're terrified because someone's paying attention and you don't know what to do with it."
"Don't psychoanalyse me."
"I'm not. I'm just looking." His thumb dragged along the edge of her bra, over the swell of her left breast, and her nipple hardened under the fabric and he smiled, not warmly. "Kneel."
The word hit her between the legs. She knelt. The floorboards were cold and hard under her knees and he stood over her, one hand in her hair, tilting her face up. His thumb traced her lower lip.
"Good girl."
"Don't—"
"Don't what? Don't praise you?" He crouched down to her level, his face close, his breath warm. "You spent two years with a man who never once told you you were extraordinary. So yes, I'm going to praise you. And you're going to sit there and take it."
He stood and guided her up by the jaw. Led her to the edge of the bed. "Bend over."
She bent, forearms on the duvet, her arse in the air, her face burning. His hand rested on the small of her back, warm, and then slid down over the curve of her arse and squeezed, hard enough that her hips pushed forward.
"How many times did Robbie make you come?"
"That's none of your—"
The first spank landed on her right cheek, sharp, a clean crack that jolted her forward and left heat blooming under the lace. She gasped.
"How many times?"
"Not — not enough."
"How many."
"Sometimes none."
"Mm." The sound was devastated and furious. His hand smoothed over where he'd hit, gentle circles, and then he spanked the other side, harder, and she moaned into the duvet. "Too soft. That's what you said."
"I was wrong—"
Another spank. Her knickers were soaked. She could feel it, the wet fabric clinging to her cunt, and when his hand slid between her thighs and pressed the lace against her she jerked forward.
"You're dripping." He hooked the knickers to the side and ran two fingers through her folds, slow, parting her, and the sound was obscene, a slick slide in the quiet room. "All this for a good boy."
"Ben—"
"No." He pulled his hand away and she whimpered at the loss. "You don't get to rush this. You've been rushing towards the wrong thing for years. Tonight you wait."
He turned her over. Pushed her up the bed until her head hit the pillow and knelt between her legs and looked at her — bra still on, knickers pulled to the side, her cunt exposed and wet and wanting. His shirt was still buttoned. His trousers were still on. The asymmetry was agonising.
"Spread."
She spread her thighs wider and his hand came down between them, a light, sharp slap directly on her cunt, and her whole body arched off the mattress.
"Fuck — "
"Too much?"
"No."
"More?"
"Yes — "
Another slap, lighter, precise, the flat of his fingers against her clit, and the sting blurred into heat and her hand grabbed for his wrist and he caught it and pinned it to the mattress.
"Hands stay." He lowered his mouth to her inner thigh. Kissed the soft skin there, tongue flat, tasting the salt. Moved higher. His breath was hot against her cunt and she could feel it, the proximity, the tease, and she lifted her hips towards his mouth and he pulled back.
"What did I say?"
"Please — "
"What did I say about rushing?"
"Ben, please, I need—"
"You need to learn patience." His tongue dragged, flat and slow, from her opening to her clit. One stroke. She keened. He pulled back again. "You need to learn that someone taking their time with you isn't weakness."
He did it again. One long, slow lick, his tongue parting her, pressing against her clit with a pressure that was almost enough and deliberately wasn't. Her thighs were trembling. Her hands fisted in the duvet. He licked her like he was studying her, finding every nerve and cataloguing it.
"Look at you." His voice was rough against her skin. "Look at how good you are when you stop fighting it."
"I'm going to come—"
"No, you're not." He pulled his mouth away and she nearly sobbed. "Not yet."
"Benedict — "
"When I decide. When I tell you. Not before." He pressed his thumb against her clit and held it there, no movement, just pressure, and she squirmed against his hand and he held her hip down with the other. "You said I was too good for you. Too kind. Too gentle. Do you still think that?"
"No."
"Say it."
"I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong, please — "
"Please what."
"Please let me come."
He dropped his mouth back onto her. No teasing. The full flat of his tongue against her clit, fast, rhythmic, two fingers sliding inside her and curling against her front wall, and the sound of it was wet and loud and filthy and his other hand held her hip down as her back arched and her thighs clamped around his head.
"Come," he said, the word vibrating against her clit, and she came so hard her vision whited and her hand grabbed his hair and pulled and she heard herself make a noise she'd never made, guttural, cracked, her cunt pulsing around his fingers while his tongue kept going, through the first wave and the second, until she was shaking and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his forehead.
He stopped. Pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. Rested his chin on her hip and looked up at her with wet lips and dark eyes.
"Still think I'm a good boy?"
She laughed. It came out waterlogged and wrecked. He climbed up the bed and lay beside her and pulled her against his chest and his arms went around her and he pressed his mouth to her forehead. She was still shaking. Her knickers were ruined.
"You alright?"
"Yeah."
"Sure?"
"Mhm."
He kissed her hair. His thumb drew slow circles on her shoulder. Her heart was still hammering but his was steady under her ear, a metronome she hadn't known she needed.
"Soph."
"Mm."
"For the record." His lips moved against her temple. "I am good, and kind, and gentle. And I will be all of those things for you tomorrow morning, and every morning after that, if you let me." His arm tightened around her. "But never tell me I'm soft."