Bridgerton Imagines

to sketch; to touch // B.B. [BLURB]

"Are you wearing my clothes?" Benedict asks, his voice hoarse as he takes in the sight of you in his dress shirt.

Fiddling with the hem of the shirt, you smile unapologetically. "I am. Is that a problem?"

Benedict shakes his head; his eyes focused on your bare legs. "Absolutely not. No problem here whatsoever. I cannot think of a single problem."

You snort, shaking your head at the man you love. "I woke up early and I didn't want to bother the staff."

"So you chose my shirt?"

Turning the collar up, you inhale the spicy scent of your husband. "I did and it smells exactly like you."

It takes everything in his being for Benedict not to scoop you into his arms and return to bed. Instead, Benedict clears his throat, stepping further into the room as he glances at the paper in your lap. Anything to distract himself from the thoughts raging through his mind.

"You're sketching?" He asks, pointing to numerous drawings on the paper.

You purse your lips, unhappy with your attempts so far. "I'm trying, but I'm not successful."

"What are you struggling with?"

"The shape of the legs. I'm trying to draw a figure in motion but it's going horribly wrong."

"Would you like some help?"

"Yes please," You breathe, your eyes shining with happiness as Benedict reaches for your hand.

"Budge up a little so I can sit behind you."

Shuffling forward slightly, Benedict slides behind you. His thighs encase yours as he gets comfortable, his chin resting on your shoulder. In one hand, he clasps your hand. In his other hand, he grips the bottom of your thigh.

"When drawing a figure in motion, your lines become much more fluid," Benedict begins, holding your hand with the graphite point and beginning to sketch a new figure entirely.

You watch with wide eyes as Benedict uses your hand to create a breathtaking sketch. You try to remain focused, but the hand on your thigh begins to draw mindless patterns into your bare skin eliciting goosebumps.

"Rather than sketching straight lines, you want to create them with a slight arch as if the very future itself is dancing across the page. Which is the end result, no?"

"Hmm?" You ask, not having heard a word of what your husband had been lecturing. His free hand has continued draw patterns on your thigh, travelling further and further.

"You're not paying attention at all, are you?"

"Can you blame me?" You cry, "You're distracting me!"

"Just as you distracted me from the moment I walked in the room."

"How?" You demand, feeling close to stamping your foot in annoyance.

"You wore my clothes."