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Leaning against the bar, the annual Edmund Bridgerton Charity Foundation Gala circles Michaela in a splash of expensive chandeliers, art, luxury getaways and one of a kind collectables on display set for auction. London’s wealthy peruse, mingling as waiters in black mill about the crowd serving champagne and glasses clink, punctuating conversations amongst them.
Sliding onto an upholstered barstool, the seat rests cool against her bare skin where her dress plunges low in the back. Brown, the color of dark chocolate, clings to her, perfectly matching her smooth skin tone, creating the illusion she wants you to have if you look too quickly; thin, delicate straps cross over her bust, tying behind her neck, leaving her shoulders and elegant collarbones exposed. Her braids are pulled back into a high ponytail that trail down to her waist, swaying dangerously near the curve of her hip.
A bartender appears almost immediately, setting a gin and tonic right in front of her.
“From an admirer,” he says, tipping his head toward the end of the bar. Michaela follows his line of sight.
At the end of the bar is a woman in a mahogany suit, tailored to the nines in a double breasted jacket that hugs her slender frame, buttoned low enough pale cleavage peeks through where the lapels part. A thin necklace rests against her sternum, drawing the eye in, downward, as a distraction to her everything - especially her long auburn hair spilling in waves over her shoulder, the curls starting at the jut of her jaw falls just right.
She looks poised, near untouchable.
And exactly what Michaela is looking for, for the night. Tilting her glass in recognition, her lips curve into a private smile, meant just for her as she brings the drink to her lips.
The alcohol does nothing to quell the electric current racing beneath her veins she suddenly feels.
When her glass sets back against the bar’s surface, the woman at the other end is moving and Michaela tracks her wide, confident stride over until she’s there - standing right beside her stool; so close Michaela can smell her fresh perfume, wrapping around her like a familiar old friend.
Like Michaela has known it and her for years. Through time and distance, space and universes - lifetimes even. And no matter what, things always managed to pick up right where they left off.
“Hi,” she says, hesitantly like she has to force her nerves to the wayside. The proximity to Michaela, seeing her and her beauty up close and personal then talking to her was far out of this woman’s wheelhouse … but she decided to be brave anyway. “Fran … I’m Francesca.” Extending her hand. “A-And you?”
Michaela slides her hand into Francesca’s, the hold lingers far longer than propriety surely allows as her fingers absentmindedly caress Francesca’s palm.
“Michaela Stirling,” she replies, her smile blooming into a radiant grin she doesn't bother hiding.
Their eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, the venue and the people in attendance fade away.
Michaela watches hazel eyes, more brown than green, drop briefly to her mouth, lower, start to trace the line of her neck into the valley of her cleavage proudly perched against the straps crossing over shoulders dusted by gold only someone she’d allow close enough to see.
“You’re breathtaking,” Francesca breathes, winded, by her ethereal beauty. “Are you - surely, you're not alone?”
Because that would be absurd, wouldn't it? Michaela can see the thought pass through her mind, cocking her head to the side as the weight of Francesca’s stare turns physical, tangible - making Michaela shift in her seat - her knee brushing smoothly against Francesca’s thigh where she continues to stand.
“Well …” Michaela drawls, playfully, “I wouldn't say that. This is my family’s gala. They host it every year in the name of my late father in law’s honor.”
“Family?” Francesca echoes, brow arching.
Their hands are still linked, loosely entwined as neither have pulled away. But the time presents itself as Michaela nods, letting her fingertips trail over the pulse she can feel beating on the inside of Francesca’s wrist as she lets go. Then, to answer her question, lifts her left hand, directly in Francesca's line of sight. There, on her ring finger sits two pear diamonds wrapped around each other atop a gold band.
“I’m here with my wife. You?”
The air between them charges as Michaela watches for a response. Curious. How will this stranger proceed now that she’s aware?
Francesca’s lips press together, disappointed, maybe - but nevertheless … Her gaze drifts up, connecting with a dark brown stare. Michaela spots the moment she makes her decision, shakes the nerves from her hands and slides into the vacant seat beside her. Whether it’s a fool’s run or a hidden goldmine waiting to be uncovered, that’s yet to be seen.
Their knees brush on her way down. Francesca pressed close under the guise of the bar’s overhang.
Michaela brings her glass back to her lips to steady herself.
“Whoever she is,” Francesca starts, quietly - the nervous tinge persistent no matter how much she tries, “is lucky - possibly the most foolish person in the world, but lucky all the same.” Then as if she realizes what she just said, winces. The insult, small but accurate as she immediately course corrects, the flush of embarrassment spreading quickly as Michaela sits patiently. Waiting. “I mean … if I had someone like you -”
“Like me?”
Francesca can't help herself, her eyes dipping back down to the soft, plush curves in a dress that can only be described as painted on. Her nostrils flare, and the edge of her jaw sharpens taking it all in.
Telling Michaela everything she needs to know.
“I only meant, if I were in her shoes, I’d never leave your side. Not even for a second.”
Michaela leans in, inviting herself into Francesca's space without preemption, their elbows brush.
“I suppose that’s admirable, but she has her reasons.” Michaela counters, eyes flicking over her calmly, defending her wife's absence. “Sometimes she gets roped into her brothers shenanigans, sometimes her older sister corners her about work and needs a solid opinion and sometimes …” Her gaze drops to the open V of Francesca’s jacket, lingering on the soft swell hidden just beyond it. “She likes to admire the view from afar.”
Francesca gulps.
“Perhaps I should return the compliment … this suit,” she slides her hand right over the seam, careful not to brush Francesca’s skin, lest she get the wrong idea. “Looks good on you, like it was made only for you.”
Michaela guesses being equally perceived wasn't on her bingo card for the evening, yet, Francesca nervously taps the edge of the bar in a miserable attempt to recover.
It does something for Michaela even though she knows it shouldn't.
The heat radiating off Francesca’s leg transfers through the skirt of her dress where they’re still pressed together - away from the prying eyes of society - but hurries straight to her waking center.
“Thank you, um. Most people here are far too polite to notice.”
“I’m not most people,” Michaela counters, “and I’d hardly say I'm polite either.”
Her grin turns devilish, more inviting. Francesca’s breath hitches in her throat, the parting of her lips a sight to behold, Michaela has to admit.
“C-Can I get you another?” Francesca stutters after the connective tissue between her brain and mouth finally comes back online, and motions to Michaela’s emptying glass. She lets her, and Francesca orders them another round. A gin and tonic for Michaela and a lemonade for herself.
Michaela doesn't question why she’s not drinking, not one to nose into business that doesn't necessarily belong to her. Besides, a free drink on a gorgeous stranger’s dime, how could she complain?
She certainly doesn't say anything when their finger’s brush when reaching for napkins or as Francesca’s eyes keep gravitating to her lips. As if Michaela would give her permission - the smallest hint - it was okay and she’d connect her lips to them and never let go.
At least that’s what Michaela’s imagination hopes for, staring at those long fingers circling the cool tumbler in her grip, and wonders what they would feel like wrapped around her ponytail, pulling it taut so her neck tilts back offering to be freely explored.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Francesca whispers, inching in so others sitting at the bar won't hear. “And you really, really shouldn't.”
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you want to devour me.”
The glass does nothing to hide Michaela’s smirk as she takes a drink; the gin and lime refreshing. She doesn't look away, wouldn't dare to.
Around them, the bar fills up, the gala in full swing and somewhere a few paces over, Violet Bridgerton’s laughter carries over and Michaela dares Francesca to stay.
“Maybe I do. Just because I'm spoken for doesn't mean I can't enjoy company while my wife is away.” She says, twisting the ring around her finger. “Trust me, I’ll reign it in even though you are tempting. I wouldn’t want to cause a scandal.”
“Is it a scandal if no one’s none the wiser.” Francesca breathes warmly against the shell of Michaela’s ear. “Tell me, honestly, if your wife is careless to leave you alone, looking the way you do … does she really deserve to be mad if someone dared to catch your attention?”
Michaela turns, putting them inches apart, mouth nearly brushing Francesca's.
“Yes … knowing her, she’d drag me somewhere private,” long eyelashes brush against cheekbones as she looks up from beneath, locking in on Francesca, and speaks directly into her parted lips so there’s no room for misinterpretation, “and remind me exactly who I belong to.”
The hand on her knee squeezes for the first time since Francesca dared to rest it there, firm - hard enough to bruise.
“I - You’re dangerous,” She murmurs, eyes half-lidded. Michaela smirks as if to say, wasn't it obvious?
"You said that already," Michaela breathes, as Francesca's lips hover over hers.
"I meant it both times."
Heart pounding behind her ribcage, Michaela watches as the hand on her thigh slides a fraction higher, slipping into the alcove between her thighs before retreating - not far - close enough for but just enough so Michaela knows she’s there. Where she truly wants to be.
What feels like hours pass as Francesca’s statement hangs between them, though it’s likely only mere seconds and Michaela squeezes her thighs together, searching for relief - anything to keep her from crossing a line and pulling this woman, who is not her wife, closer.
“Would it be okay if we went somewhere quieter …” Francesca’s eyes dilate, the pupils expanding to eat away the light, “and continue our conversation?”
Michaela can hear her pulse roaring in her ears and before she can decide to do the right thing, she stands, dropping her hand in Francesca’s outstretched palm. Damn the consequences.
Francesca bites her lip, trying not to appear too excited the sexiest woman alive actually accepted her invite, and stands before Michaela changes her mind. The slight shift of her suit reveals a beauty mark on her chest that matches the one on the edge of her lip. And this time it’s Michaela’s turn to bite down, as the thought of her jacket falling open to expose more skin makes the spring in her stomach start to coil just a little too tight, and seep into her pelvis.
Walking becomes a task in itself, each step just a bit harder to move forward.
They’re just about to reach the archway that’ll lead them to the grand foyer and away from the crowd when Reginald Thorne slips into their path.
“Francesca! There you are,” Thorne claps a hand on her shoulder. “Just the CFO I needed to see. Those quarterly projections you sent over were brilliant. I was just discussing it with my partner and he and I have been meaning to set something up with you and your brother, possibly this week, if your calendar allows. We’re interested in reallocating another tranche and -”
And the facade cracks.
The hand in Michaela’s tightens for a fraction of a second. The silent curse she hears mumbled under her breath goes unnoticed by Reginald but Michaela bites the tip of her tongue to keep from laughing. The pout tugging at her wife’s unmistakable.
It lasts only a second, but long enough for Michaela to catch. It’s adorable, and infuriatingly cute.
She recovers, squaring her shoulders as she morphs into the CFO of one of the world's largest investment firms.
But Michaela catches the way her fingers tremble as she smooths down her jacket. The way she takes a breath before turning to face Reginald. It's endearing - the formidable Francesca Bridgerton, undone by a little roleplay.
“Mr. Thorne, always a pleasure. Allow me to introduce my wife, Michaela Stirling.”
Michaela smiles, the diamond band catching the light of the chandelier above as she shakes the investor’s hand. “Lovely to meet you.”
Thorne’s eyes lit up, “what a beautiful couple you two make.” He says in good spirits before launching into praise about the direction of Bridgerton & Hastings Capitol Group. How they’ve satisfied his choice to shift a majority of his portfolio their way. Francesca forces herself to seem unbothered by his untimely interruption as they talk shop.
Thankfully, Anthony appears as if summoned by the gods of stocks and fiscal growth, materializing with Kate on his arm.
“Mr. Thorne! I couldn’t help overhearing. Francesca, why don’t you let me take this one? I’ve been eager to discuss the possible relationship myself.”
Francesca shoots a grateful glance at her brother, and extricates them from the conversation before Reginald gets a chance to pivot to her. Line items on a transfer are the last thing she wants to talk - let alone think - about right now.
“I hate these things.” Francesca grumbles under her breath the moment they’re out of earshot.
Michaela coos, stopping them to tuck a loose curl behind Francesca’s ear, and trailing her touch to cup her jaw tenderly.
“You might have mentioned it once or twice.”
Francesca’s pout deepens for a moment, but her eyes soften at the touch. “Then can we go home now?”
Michaela swipes at the edge of her jaw once more before pressing a swift kiss where her fingers just were, holding in her amusement.
“In another hour.” Michaela reassures, reminding her wife of the promise they made before leaving home. “Your mom still has to give her speech. Besides,” bats her eyelashes, “I’d like to dance with the gorgeous stranger I met. If it’s too soon to get away, at least we’ll have that. What do you say Ms. … I’m sorry, I never got your last name.”
Recognition flickers back to life in Francesca’s eyes, snapping the game they started back into place, and lifts Michaela’s hand to her lips, warm breath splaying over perfectly moisturized knuckles, sending a fresh wave of heat through her, to her core.
“I could never deny you,” Francesca says, slowly backing them up onto the dance floor just as a new song begins.
Naturally Michaela’s arms slide over her shoulders, behind her neck as Francesca settles around her waist, pulling the shorter of the two in close until there is no more space between them. The heat between them resurfaces as if it never left, visible in the way Francesca’s pulse races on the side of her neck. Michaela wants to latch on and sink her teeth in. Their hips align, chest to thigh, building on the tension slamming through their senses.
The dance floor’s a sea of couples but Michaela only sees Francesca. Her devastating face, full of anticipation and want. Her lips just begging to be sucked and bitten to Michaela's content.
“This okay?” Francesca whispers, and taps the low arch of her wife’s back, daring to travel lower over the curve of her backside.
If only they were alone.
If only it weren't a little bold for the game they started.
Michaela tsks, catching wandering hands and inches them back up to her waist. “Be a good girl.”
The way her voice sinks seductively, wisping right over Francesca’s jaw, makes the breath catch in her throat for the hundredth time that night, sparking a dry tinder. She shivers out her next exhale. Her hold flexes around Michaela’s waist, stroking the plush softness she finds there. Michaela toys with the fine hairs at her nape, playing dirty - she knows how much Francesca likes …
She knows Francesca - her grip pulls Michaela even closer, dropping her hands back to softness her hands can’t stay away from for too long.
“Baby.”
Michaela buries her smile in the side of her neck.
A thigh slips between Michaela’s, forcing her smile to go slack and the faintest, most maddening pressure drowns out everything else besides Francesca.
“Michaela, please, I need you,” Francesca says, pressing her lips along the crown of her forehead in what could be a kiss to an outside observer paying attention. “I’m sure your wife - she … won't mind too much.”
Michaela nods, overwhelmed by Francesca's touch, her scent, and the desire in her voice. Can barely breathe when a hand slides up, and cups the heavy weight of her full breast. When Francesca pinches the strap of her dress, pulling it and snapping back, Michaela grunts. The flame between her legs blaze, and in need. Her arms tighten around Francesca’s shoulders, nuzzling closer to ghost her lips over Francesca’s chin.
“That’s too dangerous to assume. My wife’s pretty powerful.” Francesca huffs, “But I’m betting you already knew that. And maybe you’re just dead-set on seeing what makes me tick.” The unspoken how is left unsaid but they both know. “Slowly. Thoroughly until you're satisfied.”
Her declaration is laced with the inevitable. All it needs is a shove to place it into motion.
Another hand plucks the fold of her dress, a single finger slipping in and down until it reaches a dimple (Michaela knows her wife is obsessed with) as the leg between her thighs tenses, rocking into the seat of her gusset.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Michaela finds her voice, shaking around Francesca. The ambiguous masks she wore since the bar, fracturing. The game traversing between real and pretend, making it hard for either to keep up.
Francesca's hand finds hers in the dark, and for a moment, the game falls away.
"I love you," she whispers.
Not the stranger. Her wife.
Michaela's breath catches.
“And I can't help it, you … in this dress. Michaela.” Francesca finds the spot beneath her ear, unable to hold back, kissing her there, resuming the game.
Her patience fraying as each minute - no, as each second - passes and she’s not worshiping her wife the best way she knows how. Their hips roll against each other, releasing mutual sighs for the slightest relief. Her palm flattens over Michaela’s ass, instinctively wanting to be closer.
Anything to feel Michaela everywhere all at once.
Michaela’s nails rake down Francesca’s back. The pretense of being strangers hanging on by a mere thread when all she wants is:
Francesca on her knees.
Francesca’s fingers inside of her.
Francesca’s mouth, lips, teeth, all over and leaving their mark.
Made even worse as Francesca rocks her hips forward.
Her chest is heaving, losing track of time, the game and what happens next.
Other couples on the dance floor begin to pull apart as the live band’s music starts to come to and the lead introduces Violet Bridgerton to the stage, the room filters back into their periphery. Francesca puts an inch of space between them and meets Michaela’s stare, silently agreeing if there’s ever a time to disappear, for even a minute, it’s now.
“There’s a - a gallery upstairs. I hear it's pretty impressive." Her persona slipping back into place: shy stranger picking up a woman way out of her league for the night. “I could show you around … if you’re interested?”
“A private tour?” It takes a second for Michaela to regather her bearings, but when she does she makes an effort to pretend to mull it over. “How can I refuse?”
Weaving through the crowd, no investor stands in their way as Violet takes center stage, announcing the last round of auction participation is coming to an end and they make their exit. They reach the galleries foyer, and ascend the grand staircase - Michaela leading the charge, Francesca’s eyes glued to the sway of her hips, the curve of her exposed back and the heated look in her wife’s eyes every time she looks over her shoulder to check if Francesca’s watching her.
Of course she is.
Like there was ever any doubt she could ever look away.
The second level is roped off and quieter, shut off from the guest inhibiting the first floor but Francesca’s family name is on this wing. Surely, the owner wouldn't take offense and an exception could be made. Dim lights shadow the hardwood floors casting out from behind glass displays but neither truly take the time to observe.
There’s only one goal in mind.
They end up near the back, outside a door labeled Hoteling. Her hands shake as she tries the door. Locked. And mutters a curse under her breath.
Michaela bites back a laugh.
"Need help?"
"No. No … I can open a -" The lock clicks, she pushes it open. "- door." Francesca guides Michaela inside, glued to her waist. “And this …” she says, stepping through the awning behind her, turning the lock. “… is an office.”
Michaela hums in acknowledgment, sweeping over the desk, leather chairs and tall windows overlooking the grounds. Shelves line the back wall filled with books and miniature models. Francesca comes up behind her, pressing flush against her back. The contact searing, emitting off her and sinking through layers of clothing.
“I hope your wife won’t be too upset.” Lands hot against Michaela’s neck, right over her shoulder blades. “I hope she’ll find it in her heart to understand.”
Bumping her nose against her, she inhales deeply breathing in the smell of Chanel No. 9, Shae butter and Michaela’s uniquely sweet scent. The hands on her waist ease off and slide onto the desk, caging her in. Her hips pull forward, the last semblance of her restraint fracturing, and slipping through her fingers like sand.
“And if I kissed you,” she breathes, trembling. “Do you think she could find it in her heart to understand?”
“Depends,” Michaela sounds just as torn, her body betraying her as she grinds back as Francesca pushes in.
“On?”
“If you can control yourself or not.” Michaela moans in challenge.
A hand retreats from the desk, laying flat against her stomach to pull Michaela back more. A light sheen of sweat builds at the base of her nape and Francesca attaches to it, sliding her tongue against her, lapping it up.
“I can be good.”
She can. She can follow directions really, really well in fact. Whatever Michaela wants.
“Tell me - tell me what you’d do if I said yes.”
Her other hand leaves the desk, splaying on Michaela’s thigh right where the slit in her dress begins and drags it up, taking her time when she reaches the crook of her thigh meets her hip. Michaela’s body reacts before she can help herself, rolling her hips back as her wife continues to touch her all over. A palm glides over her stomach, the thin dress feels more like paper, easy to tear away as she climbs higher, brushing the underside of her breast. Michaela’s gasps fills the room, thighs spreading unconsciously as Francesca's squeezes and her other hand cups her jaw, tilting her head aside and drags her tongue along the line; kissing the jut before sucking on the spot.
A groan from her wife vibrates through them.
And Francesca wishes she had more hands, the need to be everywhere clouding her sensibilities of what's possible.
One thing at a time, she reminds herself, sliding back down to the skirt of her dress, pushing it up until her fingertips discover the silk she witnessed her wife putting on earlier. She traces the lining, running her finger down to the seat and circles her fingers right over the spot where she can feel Michaela’s clit poking from beneath its hood.
“I’d touch you all over. God, you feel incredible,” she moans, unashamed. “I bet you taste even better.”
Michaela’s back arches, breasts filling Francesca’s hand, nipples tight and aching. Francesca reattaches her lips on the spot where Michaela’s shoulder meets her neck, opening her mouth to plunge her teeth into the meat.
“Oh fuck!” Michaela moans, falling to her elbows and Francesca follows her down. The edge of the desk digs into her thighs as the force of their shared pleasure threatens to sweep her away.
Francesca pulls the tie behind Michaela’s neck, loosening the knot and they fall away like a gift unwrapping. The front of her dress sags and Francesca eagerly pulls a side down, freeing Michaela’s right breast. Cool air kisses her skin, pebbling her nipple further.
“Beautiful,” Francesca whispers, more to herself than anyone else. Pinching her wife’s nipple between her fingers, rolling the sensitive bud expertly just the way she knows will render Michaela senseless.
But she's greedy.
She’s been greedy for Michaela from the moment she laid eyes on her three years ago.
Dragging the other side of her dress down, she now has two blessed handfuls of her wife’s breast, twisting her nipples softly between her thumbs and forefingers until Michaela is full on thrusting back into her, meeting Francesca as she grinds her pelvis forward - lining them up just right through a set of pants and her dress, until not being skin to skin becomes unbearable.
Pulling Michaela up, Francesca turns her around and drops to her knees bunching the rest of her dress up until the slip of material circles only her waist. She latches on, peppering the newly revealed skin, her inner thighs, the crease between her legs, kissing and licking anything she can reach before landing on the damp shield covering her wife’s core.
Francesca wants her so bad, she’s drooling.
Michaela falls back, braids swinging behind her as a deep moan escapes Francesca as she presses against her. Breathing in the heated musk she craves on a daily basis and licks against the wetness stamped into the fabric, tasting her arousal and moans in appreciation. She hooks into the waistband, dragging the silky cotton mix down until the neat, wet, curls reveal themselves to Francesca’s hungry gaze.
She barely gets the chance to make contact before Michaela pushes her back. Falling onto her haunches, disoriented Francesca blinks up at her wife, confused … and a little miffed.
“Wha –”
“I knew you wouldn't be able to control yourself.”
The sharp heel of Michaela’s stiletto presses into her shoulder, stinging, and keeping Francesca and her talented mouth at bay, inches away from where they both need her the most.
A pathetic, needy whine slips past Francesca’s lips, darkening the wet spot between Michaela’s legs. And although Michaela’s timing isn't ideal she’s not heartless, and slips her hand inside the waistband of her panties, finding her swollen clit and swirls her fingers over the bundle of nerves.
Her eyelids flutter, the pleasure hitting her instantly, as she attempts to keep her focus on Francesca watching her, longing to take over as every drag across her clit makes the breath stumble past her lips.
Francesca’s moan gives way to a full blown whimper as she’s denied the treasure between Michaela’s legs.
She loves Michaela beyond understanding but this is a lot - this is cruel - especially when she knows how much joy Francesca has eating her out. The selfish gratification she gets wearing the contoured remnants of her wife's release on her lip like a prized phantom mustache.
Hands clenched at her sides, she fights the urge to shove Michaela’s calf away, and be patient, and the sight of her so undone makes Michaela move a little faster, dipping her fingers lower to tease her entrance.
As Francesca grows more desperate, lifting up on her knees, she slides her hand up the leg pressed to her shoulder with one hand and pushes Michaela’s other thigh out, spreading her wider. Michaela grunts, as her fingers dip into her drooling cunt and she slides her panties aside to show Francesca what she’d done. First with one finger, all the way to the knuckle as her walls clench and greedily suck it in deeper. She pumps it in and out before withdrawing with a wet pop.
“Open,” Michaela commands.
Francesca readily obeys, extending her tongue without being asked. Michaela slides her middle finger into her eager mouth and they moan in unison as Francesca sucks hungrily at her digit, swirling her tongue and it as she sucks, hollowing her cheeks. When Michaela pops it free, Francesca whines pathetically, trying again to crawl closer but Michaela’s heel remains, holding her in place.
“Please,” Francesca begs.
“Please what?” Michaela asks, starts circling her clit again.
“Taste. Please let me - please let me.” The words die on her tongue as her need for her wife clouds her request, making her lose her words in the process.
“I did,” Michaela replies matter-of-factly.
“Baby, please,” Francesca pleads, her voice cracking around the endearment, eyes glassy.
Michaela relents, removing the obstacle of her heel so Francesca can shuffle closer. But she still won't allow her to touch. No hands or mouth on her center. She has to continue to watch as Michaela pushes two fingers inside herself. The stretch is exquisite and her arousal immediately pools around them, leaking onto the even pane of the wood desk as she thrusts them in and out.
Francesca whimpers, contemplating if she’s desperate enough to lick it off the desk or not.
Almost falls prey until she spots a trail coating Michaela’s inner thighs. She leans in, as close as she’s allowed, and drags her tongue over the sweet, tangy nectar she can't live without. The salt of her skin mixed in, growing stronger the higher she goes catching the residue of Michaela’s pleasure dripping down. Each time Michaela’s fingers thrust, the more it saturates her skin, the more available to Francesca. Her tongue laps diligently in flat strokes along the plush thickness closing in around her ears, sucking on the muscle where the taste was more pungent.
A groan falls from Michaela - the dual sensations of her fingers curling inside and Francesca’s hot mouth so close tips her further towards climax. Hips leaping off the desk as Francesca smashes her nose into Michaela’s hand, knocking into her clit.
“Ugh - oh, fuh!” Michaela babbles as she feels Francesca’s tongue swipe at her fingers inside her, a barrier to what Francesca is really after. Michaela pulls out, offering them to Francesca to lick clean, eyes rolling back before fluttering shut in bliss.
Michaela alternates between fingering herself and letting Francesca lick her fingers, thighs and labia without removing the blockade. Sweat beads on their skin, Michaela’s chest heaving as she picks up the pace, plunging her fingers in harder making her vision spot around the edges - her back arches as Francesca sucks the crease of her thigh, trapping the breath in her throat.
“Oh.”
Michaela speeds up, pulling out to swipe across her clit until her body locks up except her hips, they roll up chasing her release that’s so close she can almost taste it.
Francesca growls, shooting up and hooks the soaked underwear around Michaela’s hips and rips them away, sending a jolt through Michaela. Taking a deep breath, she surges forward and plants her mouth directly over Michaela’s sensitive, spasming bundle of nerves. The first broad lap of her tongue is devastating, setting off explosive fervency straight up Michaela’s spine forcing a cry from her lips and her hands to fly to the crown of Francesca’s head, as she wraps her legs around her neck and holds her in place.
“Fuck Fran-cesca!”
Ripped panties dangle uselessly at her thigh as Francesca claims her, gripping Michaela’s ass, as she stiffens her tongue and fucks her wife. The office fills with Francesca’s greedy slurping and Michaela’s ragged moans as she spills into her wife’s mouth, coating her chin and lips with her release.
Michaela pants, Francesca’s eager devotion initiates a second, stronger peak. Crashing over her violently, as Francesca pulls her clit between her lips, sucks gently and cuts her teeth lightly over the tip. Michaela screams - attendees be damned - and feels Francesca shudder under her, a wet moan vibrating from between Michaela’s legs signaling her release as she latches back on, lashing her tongue wherever it’ll reach.
Michaela pushes her back, oversensitive, and only then does Francesca pull away, otherwise she’d stay put, prodding around in case Michaela wants to go again.
Rising from her knees, she presses her body between Michaela’s legs, and claims her mouth, triumphantly. Michaela hums, poking into the flap of Francesca’s suit jacket to caress the line of her abdomen.
They stay like that, kissing languidly until Michaela calms down. The tension loosening the margins but not dissipating completely. Her chest heaves as she slowly comes back to herself, the intensity of two orgasms ebbing into that familiar sleepy after effect making it hard for her to sit upright. She blinks, trying to stay alert as she feels Francesca sucking around the skin of her areola, every so often, licking at her nipple.
She glances over her head, and down. Breathless laughter escapes when she spots her ruined underwear dangling pathetically from her ankle, torn clean through on one side.
“You ripped my underwear.”
Francesca peers back, a string of salvia connecting her lips to the dark puckered bud, breaking as she looks down; has the nerve to look sheepish at the evidence of her impatience.
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I’ll buy you a new pair.” And leans in, pressing another kiss to her wife’s lips before crouching down and unwinding the shredded material from around her ankle. They disappear into her pocket. “Worth it, though.”
Michaela hums, the sleepiness in full affect, Francesca was probably going to have to carry her out of here. She falls forward, closing her eyes as she rests in the crook of Francesca’s neck, letting her take control for the time being. When her eyes flicker open again, her dress is back in place and Francesca’s procured wet wipes out of thin air, and is wiping her fingers clean before cleaning herself up.
“Can we go home now?” Francesca asks and Michaela chuckles. Her mother in law's closing speech is probably two thirds of the way over, with the winners of the night's auction selected so she doesn't see why not.
“Let's say goodbye first.”
They emerge from the office hand-in-hand after one final check, and make their way back. No one seems to have noticed their absence, as they slip back easily into the crowd.
Violet descends the stage to a round of applause, and Michaela squeezes Francesca’s hand pulling her toward the matriarch of the Bridgerton family.
Residual heat still pulses beneath Michaela's skin - the evidence of her arousal cooling against her skin and her ruined panties tucked inside her wife’s pocket - all at the forefront but saying goodnight to Violet would take the longest out of saying goodbye to her seven other siblings, and their spouses.
As if she knows exactly what her daughter in law is thinking Violet cuts through the crowd, making a beeline straight towards them.
“Shit.” Francesca stumbles in her stride. “Shit."
“Just … be cool.” Michaela whispers, smoothing down her dress as Violet Bridgerton cuts through the crowd toward them.
It's terrible advice.
Francesca’s the furthest thing from cool on a good day. There's no amount of playing it cool that’ll save them now.
"My darlings!" Violet's smile stretches thinly across her angelic face. "I’ve been looking all over for you two. Daphne says she saw you leaving earlier, and I thought, surely that couldn't be. Not tonight of all nights.”
Daphne, that snitch.
"I - we - were just getting some air … it was," Francesca chokes down the truth. “A lot. I needed air, and Michaela was kind enough to accompany me. That’s all.”
"I see." Violet sweeps over Michaela, assessing her before turning her focus on her second youngest daughter, missing nothing. Her gaze cuts into sharp slants. She knows exactly what they’ve been up to. You don't raise eight children and not know.
You don't raise an Anthony, a Benedict, and to a degree, a Hyacinth Bridgerton and not recognize the recycled escapades your children get themselves into.
Even the well behaved ones such as Francesca.
"Let's keep it to only that next time, shall we?”
Francesca makes a sound caught between a cough and strangulation, as her pale skin flushes deep red. "Yes, Mother.”
"Excellent," Violet nods, and Michaela's eyes glue themselves to the floor as Violet wishes them goodnight. "Don't let me keep you. Get home safely. I love you both."
“Y-You too.”
“Night Mrs. B.”
They say in unison as Violet turns back to the rest of the room, in search of more of her children, prepared to deal with whatever antics they and their spouses have gotten up to.