Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Tell me (all the ways you missed me)

It's been three weeks. Twenty-one days and 10 hours, to be precise.

You've never been apart this long before.

Delayed in Calais, Benedict finally got home from his Paris trip right as you needed to leave for the annual Bridgerton Ball. There was no chance of a proper reunion, just a hello kiss, exchanges of I love yous, then he barely even had time to bathe and change quickly.

Now you sit opposite one another in your carriage. The smells of his soap and freshly washed skin hanging heavy in the air. You sigh, fanning your face, smoothing down your dress, fussing with your hair, and trying not to think of the insistent throb between your legs. It's been far too long since he touched you; it's driving you to distraction being so close with no chance of relief. You can't stop tapping your foot, needing some way to dissipate the energy you feel shimmering across your skin in his presence. He looks devastatingly handsome in his formal attire. (You want to sink to your knees and beg him to take you right here.)

"Whatever is the matter, my love?" Benedict asks after a few moments of noting your agitated state. His expression is the very picture of loving concern. Damn him. Damn his beautiful face. (Your mind flashes back to that face between your thighs, begging you to come.)

"I've missed you," you reply plaintively, curling your hand around your knee, trying to quell the fidgeting. (Trying even harder not to think about his hand in the same position as he fucks you.)

"I've missed you too," his smile warm as he reaches out to lace his fingers in yours. He hasn't worn gloves tonight; his thumb swipes tenderly across the back of your hand. (The same thumb you love hooked in your mouth while riding him, your thighs trembling.)

"I mean, I've really missed you. I ache for you, Benedict," you confess in a heated whisper, gripping his hand and (half-crazed with the swirl of heady thoughts) pushing it up your leg, over the junction of your thighs. You know he can feel the heat emanating through the gauzy layers of your dress.

His lips part in surprise, then morph into a devastating crooked smile as he catalogues the flush on your cheeks, the dilation of your pupils and your inability to just sit still.

"Well, we must remedy this," he murmurs, his eyes glittering darkly. He rears back, but his loaded stare never leaves you as he pounds on the carriage roof.

"Go around the park," he hollers to the driver. Unlike the street, at this time of night, Hyde Park will be quiet and dark. No street lamps to illuminate you, no passers-by. What a wickedly clever man your husband is.

There is a muffled confirmation from outside, then a lurch to the side as your carriage abruptly changes course.

For a few beats, you are both still; your skin prickles in anticipation, just the sounds of hooves and carriage wheels, like the preternatural calm before a storm rolls in when all of nature has gone quiet, awaiting the first lightning strike.

Then there's a slight growl as he lunges forward, turns you around and bodily heaves you into his lap—your back colliding with his solid chest.

He pulls your head to the side into a fierce and unrelenting kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, his arms in a vice-like grip around you. Exactly what you need, what you have missed so damn much. You push back into the kiss, dualling with him - you've never been without his touch for this long, and it almost hurts how much you crave it. You chase his lips as he pulls away.

His right hand snakes up to hold your throat, tilting your chin slightly.

"Tell me all the ways you missed me," he implores hotly into your ear. You wrap your hands around his biceps, needing an anchor, feeling the latent strength hidden there under the layers of fabric.