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fayes-fics · 1 year

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More Than Friends

Friends + Masterpost

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Modern AU

Summary: Sequel. Set a couple of months after Are We Friends? After a week away, Anthony missed his girl a lot...

Warnings: 18 smut. minors DNI, handjobs, masturbation (incl. with shower head), vaginal sex, wall/shower sex, touch of edging/denial, unexpected feels in the heart area.

Word Count: 4.8k

Authors Note: This is birthday request fill for @colettebronte for her recent birthday. She requested a sequel to Are We Friends? Sorry I'm a few days late, I hope you enjoy this enough to compensate. This didn’t go where I expected. I know it's Christmas Eve and this isn't remotely Christmassy. Sorry about that. Anyway please enjoy <3

You groan as the insistent buzz of your phone on your bedside table rouses you. You fumble to pick it up and squint at the name onscreen, reluctantly swiping to answer.

“What excuse do you have for calling me at…,” you pull the phone away from your face briefly, grimacing at the brightness, “… 2:13 am, and it better be because you are on fire or something,” you grumble.

“I love how grouchy you are when you wake up,” his baritone voice laced with amusement.

“Bridgerton,” your tone is a warning.

“I was hoping you’d let me in,” Anthony chuckles.

You sit bolt upright. “You are here? Now? Why?!”

“Yes, and yes, I figured ringing your phone was politer than your doorbell. To the last part, do I need a reason?” he drops almost an octave lower,

“Oh god, is this a booty call?” you mime brushing a gross substance off yourself even though he can’t see you.

“Are you going to let me in or not?” He chides but with no heat, evading the question.

“If you answer these riddles three…” you begin, your spirited antagonism still there despite your burgeoning relationship.

“Let me in, weirdo,” he chortles.

“Okay, okay.”

You throw back the covers and shuffle to your front door on autopilot, still not fully awake. Opening the front door to find a suave, suited man with no tie and two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. You almost resent how debonair and put-together he is in the early hours. It's been a week since you saw him in person, and you are surprised as you realise how much you missed him, as he stands before you in flesh and blood.

“You look adorable,” he sighs fondly and steps over the threshold to embrace you.

It just dawns on you; you didn't even check your reflection on the way to the door. Your hair is probably a state, but at least you can usually pull off a spaghetti-strapped top and pyjama bottoms.

“Shut up, I do not; I look sexy and fierce,” you lobby as his arms wrap tight around your waist.

“Of course you do. Adorably sexy,” he placates with mock assurance, his breath warm on your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder, curling into you. On instinct, you hug him back and push your front door closed over his shoulder.

“So what are you doing here?” your bemusement muffled into the hair at his temple as he hunches over you. Up close, you can see a few greys, and it does something to you that you don't want to think about. There are traces of his cologne, but mostly he just smells like Anthony, and you breathe deep, the scent both comforting and stimulating.

“I missed you,” he says simply.

“I saw you yesterday on Facetime, weirdo,” you point out, parroting back his word but enjoying the extended embrace. He hasn't kissed you yet, which is unusual—this seems more affectionate than sexual.

“That’s not the same,” he argues, his lips brushing the sensitive skin under your ear, his hug even tighter. “My plane just landed; I had my driver drop me here.”

“Is that because Ealing is closer to Heathrow than Mayfair?” your query tinged with a touch of sarcasm.

“No, weirdo, it's because I wanted to see you,” he pulls away from your shoulder and cups your face. “But I'm glad it's closer; I'm exhausted,” he admits quieter, and you see the tiredness etched into the corners of his eyes, even in the muted glow of your hallway lamp. He moves in and kisses you, but it’s a gentle, chaste brush over your lips that makes your insides melt just a fraction.

“So, not a booty call? This is a use-my-bed-to-crash-in call?” you tease gently with a twisted pout, holding his hands and walking backwards towards your bedroom.

“If you don't mind, yeah, I just need sleep,” he says sotto voce, stifling a yawn and trailing you.

The fact that he has sought you out to sleep next to you, not sleep with you, seems like a rather profound step forward in your dynamic. But then, many things can seem consequential in the early hours, so you decide not to dwell on it.

“No suitcase?” you remark as you move into the darkness of the bedroom.

“Had my driver take my luggage home,” he explains, shucking his jacket and hanging it on the little chair you use as a clothes horse more than anything. The fact that he knows it causes a tiny flutter of something in your stomach.

“Want some help?” you offer modestly, gesturing to his hand now on his fly, testing the waters around if sex might happen despite his tiredness.

He shakes his head but with a look appreciative of the offer. Ok, no sex then.

“Why don't you get into bed? I'll just brush my teeth and join you shortly.”

You settle under the covers as he disappears into your bathroom, trying not to let your mind turn over too much about this different situation. Jetlagged and sleepy Anthony is a very sweet thing, not your usual sexy sparring partner.

After a few moments, there is a dip in the bed as he climbs into the other side behind you. An arm wraps around your waist as he shuffles into you and pulls you back into him in a spooning position. You feel a wave of body heat through the cotton of your nightwear and realise he is only in boxer briefs. His embrace is comforting, and he sighs onto your shoulder, dropping a soothing kiss there before fluffing the pillow and settling around you, his hand warm on your belly, his minty breath dusting the nape of your neck as he seems to bury his face in your hair and inhale deeply.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, almost into your skull.

“Goodnight,” you whisper back, knowing his warmth and weight will probably lull you back to sleep before you have too many errant thoughts about what is transpiring. When his breathing slows and gets deeper, you feel yourself being tugged under too.

—

Something doesn't feel right. Not in a bad way, not in the slightest. Something feels far too good, and it's distracting your slumber. Or maybe it's just a very vivid dream. Why you would be waking up within a dream seems like a strange point to focus on… Then suddenly, there is a zing of pleasure in your breast that races down your body to your core.

Your world rearranges as you dance the line between sleeping and waking. The sensation becomes sharper as a strong pull on your nipple hurtles you into consciousness with a sharp inhale.

“The lady awakens,” his bemused rumble skitters across your rapidly goose-pebbling skin. You are lying on your back, your top rucked up around your armpits, and there is a head of chestnut hair as you look down.

Anthony Bridgerton. On top of you. His mouth attached to your left breast, something hot and hard branding your thigh through his underwear, where he straddles it.

“Anthony,” your voice is rough-edged from sleep.

His lips pull off your nipple as his head tilts up—his brown eyes shining in the pastel morning light bleeding through the curtains.

“I thought waking you up this way might not be entirely unpleasant for you,” the smirk on his handsome face far too appealing. “An apology for the early hours wake-up call.”

“You are always welcome here, open invitation,” you answer truthfully, “but especially if this is your idea of an alarm clock. Please continue,” you quip, whipping off the top rucked up around your armpits and raising an expectant eyebrow.

He huffs a laugh and kisses your sternum before transferring to your right breast, climbing between your legs and settling over you in a wave of natural body scent that makes your mouth water.

He lathes his tongue wide over your nipple, lapping gently, then biting down with an edge of teeth until it is a stiff peak that he closes his luscious lips around and sucks hard. You can’t hold back the little staccato noises as your hands run over his muscular shoulders and into his luscious hair.

“Sadly,” his speech ghosts over your saliva-damp flesh, “I need to take a shower before this goes any further. I should have taken one last night, but I was too exhausted. Need to wash the journey off me,” he attests as he goes back to lightly kissing your breast.

You doubt that phrase carries as much significance for someone travelling first class as it does back in economy, where you’re usually crammed in, but you can understand the sentiment.

“I think you smell pretty good right now,” you voice without thought.

“I feel like I haven’t showered in 24 hours which, with the time difference, I probably haven’t,” he deadpans as he surges up and pecks your cheek, his chest hair tickling the stiff damp peaks of your nipples. “Care to join me?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye as he kisses over to your ear.

“Is this your way of telling me I smell bad?” You joke, but there’s a flit of concern on your face.

“Y/n,” his resonant voice uttering your name so close to your ear makes your pussy clench as he traces the shell with his nose, “of course you don’t; you always smell wonderful,” the casual compliment just slipping out. “Will you please just say yes to this obvious invitation to shower sex?”

Oh.

“Well, in that case….” you reply, running your hands into his luscious hair, “yes, Lord Bridgerton, I will shower with you.”

“Thank you. Was that so difficult?” he teases with a playful pout, pulling back the covers and hauling you out of bed topless.

His boxer briefs are tented in a delicious way, and part of you wants to just sink to your knees and take him in your mouth regardless of how much he wants to shower. In fact, something about him being a little less than fresh is a peculiar turn-on—just so very potently him.

“Why are you looking at me like you’ve never seen my erection before?” His bemused expression tracking your eye line and not missing your subtle lip bite as he moves towards the bathroom, still holding your hands.

“What? It’s an impressive one. You’ve been away for a week, and maybe I just need to remind myself,” you posit as he pulls you into an embrace.

“Oh, is that so?” His tone is light and taunting, arms encircling your ribcage. He stills in the doorway and surges his hip towards you, so you feel his rigid cock pressed into your belly. “Memory coming back yet?” Dropping his voice into a range that is sinful.

“Maybe…” you demure into his shoulder, then pull away, moving to brush your teeth before you act on the urge to kiss him senseless.

He crowds into your back as you reach for toothbrushes. There is something so casually intimate about the stolen glances in the mirror as you both brush, his chest hair tickling your shoulder blades as he spiders his fingers under the curve of your breast with a small foamy smile. As you rinse, his fingers untie the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms, and his reflection smoulders as he pushes them over the swell of your hips, falling to the floor. He presses the length of his body into your back, and you emit a faint moan as his heated flesh drags over yours; something rigid and hot nestles the upper curve of your bottom.

“Better get naked if you plan to shower,” you smirk at him in the mirror and feel a swell of triumph as he reaches down and pushes off his underwear. His cock bobbing up insistently. You whip around to face him, fisting him and squeezing reflexively.

“Fuckkk,” he stutters, and a hand rounds behind your head, grabbing with an intensity that surprises and arouses, fingers curling into the cords of your neck. “I’d almost forgotten how good it feels to have your hand on me rather than my own.”

The admission sounds like he’s not been intimate with anyone else since you last saw him. You’ve not discussed exclusivity yet, but he is a rich man travelling the world on business, and you have no delusions about the lifestyle that might entail if he so chooses. As you pump him gently in your hand, your breath catches at the mental image of him with his hand wrapped around his cock in some fancy five-star hotel room, sprawled in the middle of a plush king-sized bed.

“You should have called me; I could have talked you through my technique,” you jest, deciding to meet his statement with light humour, your hands moving to cup his balls as he hums contentedly, the hand on your neck squeezing.

“Noted for next time,” is the amused reply, and then he walks you back into the shower enclosure, flicking on the dial.

The warm spray hits your shoulder blades, and you sigh, pulling his arms to join you. He hums in satisfaction, his head tilting back as he luxuriates in the stream of water. You turn up the pressure on the showerhead, and his resounding moan of pleasure echoes up the shower walls; the deep, rich tone causes your nipples to pebble hard—you have to fight your urge to twine around him. Instead, you reach for your shower gel and loofah and scrub his skin lightly, starting at his neck.

“Mmmmm, please, can I have you in my shower every time?” his voice wistful, eyes still closed, almost swaying.

You gently and methodically bathe the skin of his arms and upper torso, enjoying swirling patterns into his chest hair as you buff him clean. As you move lower over his abs, you can't help but grab his cock with a soapy hand and squeeze lightly, cleansing it thoroughly as you tease with delicate motions. He moans and slowly opens his eyes, meeting your gaze with hooded desire.

“I'm just making sure you are thoroughly clean,” you tease, the hand still rubbing his cock long after it is sufficiently cleansed.

He grabs your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss that is all tongues and teeth, biting in intensity. Your tongues roll over each other in tandem with the movement of your hand. When he finally lets you take a breath, you quietly ask him to turn around. He whines a little as you release his cock, but does as you request. Pausing to admire the sweeping curve of his back and the expanse of muscle tapering down to the trim bum that is so irresistible, you push your body into his back, nipples catching his ribs, and he growls as you teeth the upper notch of his spine.

“Touch yourself,” you whisper into the nape of his neck, and surprisingly he does so without retort. He’s usually the one who takes charge, but his silent obedience makes your breath hitch.

He groans softly, and you can’t resist a peek over his shoulder, his body curled slightly concave, cock fisted in his right hand, moving at a languid pace. Reluctant to look away from the delicious tableau, you run the loofah down his spine and lather his back before your hands land on his pert rounded cheeks. You crouch down to wash his muscular, tanned legs, kissing a cheek and enjoying the way his bum flexes as you do. You straighten back to stand behind him, listening to his huffed little noises, watching his arm speed up a fraction as your soapy fingers slide along the crack of his ass.

“All clean; you can stop now,” you offer into his skin.

There is a blur of movement as suddenly he grabs the auxiliary shower head and flicks the spray to a different setting, spins around and pushes it between your legs, the jet expertly pummeling your clit in hot pulsing waves. You almost squeal at the intensity—the switch of power back to him in a whiplash moment.

“How is that?” His voice is velvety as he bites your earlobe. “I need to hear all your delicious sounds, don’t hold back now.”

You attempt to writhe away from the intense sensation, but a strong arm holds you in place, pushing the shower head more insistently up into your flesh. You moan, and he encourages you, a wet slippery hand smearing down your back and spanking your cheek, making you jump and squeak.

“Get inside me.” The plea tumbles from your lips. You want, no, you need, to feel him invading you, his hands rough on your body, him making needy noises, you begging for more.

He drops the shower head, so it is pulsing aimlessly into a far corner, water pattering against the glass, and walks you until your back bumps into the wall. The tiles are cool and glassy upon your heated flesh as he grabs your left leg and loops it over his slippery arm, pulling you open. All with a devastating look on his beautiful face, droplets of water skating down his cheekbones, lips parted and plush; you just can’t take your eyes off him.

Then he nudges your entrance with his tip, requesting access.

“Did you sleep with anyone else when you were away?” your concern slipping out unbidden.

He frowns, and there is a minute shake of his head. “No, why would I?”

“I wanted to know before we do this again, unprotected,” you whisper vulnerably, closing your eyes, embarrassed. Except for that first heated night, you have been using condoms.

“I would never do that,” his sincerity makes your eyes fly open. “We are together; you are the only person I’m having sex with, the only person I've had sex with since that party, and the only one I’ve done it this way with in many years.”

You rest your forehead on his cheek. “Thank you,” you mumble quietly, him answering your lingering questions and erasing doubts in a few sentences.

“Don’t thank me; you should expect that of me. You have no idea what a gift this is, what we have—this connection, this dynamic. It’s very…. precious to me,” he murmurs into your jaw. It’s the rawest and most unguarded he has ever been. Your breath catches as he does so. Something glowing and fluttering under your ribs, like it wants to break free.

“Anthony Bridgerton.” you breathe lightly, your heartbeat soaring in your veins, “are we becoming more than friends?”

“I’m afraid so,” his laugh is a precious feathered thing as he surges into your body and steals all other thoughts from your head.

He stills buried deep inside you, filling you in a way no one else has. Just this has your clit pulsing from the stretch, heat and presence of him. He shoots you an affectionate, heated look before his lips find yours. The hand not around your leg cups your jaw and directs the kiss into something open-mouthed and greedy as he rocks into your body, swallowing your little noises. This languid slow pace feels like the start of something electric, like the patter of rain that arrives before an intense storm you can hear rumbling on the horizon.

Your hands band around his bum as his thrusts grow more intense, and you encourage the movement with a press of your fingers into the muscular round of his bottom. Your teeth skim the meaty muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, and it spurs him to push deeper, piercing your hilt and tugging on that invisible string that seems to run between your hipbones and makes your eyes roll back and your brain turn to static.

“God, Anthony, please, fuck me so hard,” your voice barely recognisable to you, needy and throaty.

The corresponding noise he makes has every cell of your body on fire. This man’s ability to invade your every sense is something that might typically scare you, but with him, it just feels like something primal and earthy—a meeting of bodies just as nature intended.

You gasp as he hooks your other leg over his other arm, pressing the length of your spine hard into the wall. You are entirely at his mercy now, held in his arms, pinned, sliding on the damp, cool tile as the warm swirl of mist from the rain-head shower curls around you.

“I’ve got you,” he assures against your temple.

You nuzzle his face until he pulls back a little, intuiting you need to see his face. There’s a sincerity in his wild gaze that feels so close to authentic that it's a dangerous fire, his eyes blazing burned umber.

You transmit your trust all you can with the sincerity of your expression, and his responding smile is like warm honey settling over your bones as he starts to move again. The solemnity of the moment you just shared rapidly morphs into something hot and desperate again. Him driving up into your body with a snap of his hips that makes him grunt and you keen, wrapping your arms tight around his neck as he fucks you with a blistering pace and depth, your breasts squashed across his pectoral muscles.

Curses and a chorus of yeses fall from your lips between panting breaths as he takes you with such force you slam into the tiles; you know your spine will be sore later, but you don’t care. You want this so much. Blinding pleasure licks at the corners of your conscience as you feel him hot and steely, pounding into you over and over, your walls clinging to him as he stretches you in that delicious way.

He is panting hard from the effort and exertion right in your ear. His occasional moans and words cause a spike of lust in your body, and you whisper encouragements and pleas to not stop, greedy for what you need to push you over the edge.

His arms hitch your legs higher, and he moves down the wall, so your bottom rests on a cool metal grab bar. His hands wrap around it; your legs held up and open even more. The change of angle and leverage for him makes the experience even more intense. He can drive much more vigorously now, and he starts to push up and hit that spot inside that makes you cry out, slamming against your clit as he hits your hilt.

“Fuck Anthony,” you grit out, your teeth clenched, jaw held tight and whole body going taunt as you dangle close to the edge of your orgasm so suddenly.

He slows his pace, and you groan in frustration, taking long, languid motions, using the grab bar to propel himself up and into you.

“I’m so close,” you grit out.

“I know you are,” his voice velvety and proud, “that’s why I slowed down; I want to take you to the edge so many times. I love it when you are mindless and drunk on sex.”

“Anthony, please let me come,” you plead.

“You will,” he vows.

“I want it now,” you pant, almost petulant.

He chuckles richly into your ear “it will be so much better if you let me do this. I’ll only do it one more time, I promise. Then you will come multiple times, and I will fuck you through it.”

So aroused by that little speech, you just nod and move a hand from around his neck to slide between your bodies and pinch your nipple.

“Oh yes, that’s it,” he goads, moving quicker, spiralling you higher again. Your clit and channel burning hot and pulsing. Just as you feel the first ripple of your cunt he stills completely, and you thrash hard in frustration at the denial. You desperately try to move, but he bears you so tight onto the wall that you have no range of motion. You are pinned and impaled onto his cock as he keeps you open to the top of your channel, throbbing and denied. You feel your scalp crawl and every digit on your body flex.

“Anthony,” your voice ragged, “please, please let me come.”

He pulls back, and the mischief and arousal over his face blow you away. He holds your gaze and tilts your heads together as he starts to roll his hips, surging into you almost in a wave-like action.

“Look at me,” he commands when your eyes flutter closed, and so you do, reopening them and meeting his intense stare.

Suddenly he is moving at a blistering pace, and you start to yell with every stroke, but he won’t let you look away. His nose on yours, your mouth panting the same air.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and your hand slips between your bodies. The moment your fingertips brush your swollen clit, you yell, and you can’t stop the tide from approaching. Your whole body convulses in strong waves as you scream, cry, and writhe on him. Yet his pace doesn’t waver. He just hisses through his teeth as your body clamps around his cock. His lips find yours and slant over each other with bruising intensity.

He was right. Twice denied, you are so overwrought that his pounding action takes you repeatedly until you are floating somewhere far away from your physical self, going limp in his arms, your mind utterly offline. The blissful state is almost ethereal as you feel him grunting and stilling, emptying himself with a guttural moan as deep as he can be inside you, his whole being twitching, his mouth open over yours, gusting hot and cursing loudly. You feel the warmth of his cum running down your walls as he slowly softens and slips out of your body.

“Holy shit,” you whisper; nothing has been as close to that intense before, and your legs feel weak and stiff as a newborn giraffe as he gently lowers you to the floor with a bemused huff.

“I told you,” he preens, reaching to flick off the shower as you just slump against the tile, grasping the railing you were perched on for leverage.

“Anthony, I don’t think my legs work,” you confess, trying to move but unable.

“Good,” he laughs, pulling you into his arms and kissing you gently over and over. “I fucked you so well you can’t walk, just like I promised on text the other day.”

“I thought that was a figure of speech” you shake your head disbelieving.

“Oh no, definitely not,” he counters with a smug but handsome smile. “I guess you’ll just have to lay with me in bed all day to recover,” he says playfully kissing your nose, “what a horrible shame.”

——

Later, entangled in bed together after a delicious brunch (where you had your usual sparring contest that somehow ended up making out roughly against the fridge), he pulls you under him and stares into your eyes.

“There is something I would like to give you,” he expresses, almost reserved.

He leans away and snags something from his trouser pocket on the floor beside the bed.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

“This better not be something where you put a spider on me,” you wisecrack as he unfurls your hand on the pillow next to your head.

“I promise it's not that,” he chuckles as he places something sharp and cold into your palm. “Open,” he orders softly, and you see a slim metal key in your hand.

You look up at him with a knitted brow.

“That is a key to my place,” he explains. “I would like you to use it whenever you want. Even if I'm not home, you are always welcome.”

You can’t stifle the gasp that escapes your lips at the significance of the gesture, and you push up and plant a kiss on his lips.

His voice turns even more delicate, as if talking too loud would break the moment. “I couldn't bear the thought of returning to an empty apartment after a week away alone,” he admits quietly. “That's why I came here instead. I know it's only been a few weeks, but I have known you most of my life, and I just… I like being around you.” As he finishes the sentence, his exhale has a slight tremulant quality. “There’s no one I would rather spar with on a lazy Saturday,” he adds with a winning smile that makes you huff a misty-eyed laugh.

“Anthony, I… I… I don't even have a spare key to give you,” you blurt out, a fretting look clouding your expression.

His hearty laugh at your response fills the room.

“I know a locksmith,” he shrugs with a modest smile. “But….” he elongates the last letter of the word as his hands slide down your sides and his lips find that sensitive spot below your ear. “I think that can wait until later. Don't you?” His tone turns silky and decadent as he rolls his whole body into yours, his hard cock brushing your clit.

Yes, it can definitely wait.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

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