Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Lightning & Lilies

"Please..." your whine is pathetic, and you know it.

"Please what?" he teases, circling you, close enough for you to smell his skin. He's bare-feet, just his trousers with braces hanging around his hips, his lithe torso on display, taunting you.

"Touch me," breathless and desperate. You writhe ineffectually against your binding, but it's just no use; you can't move. The wrought iron pillar is cold against your bare back; the rope chafes against your wrists—the heady botanical smell in the air from the riot of tropical plants. In the distance, you hear an approaching summer storm rumbling on the horizon, creating a hum in the air. Intoxicating.

He smirks and plucks a lily from the beautiful patch blooming opposite you, its neatly hammered brass sign Lilium candidum glowing in the moonlight. He takes a deep inhale of the flower and slowly trails the white petals over the skin of your neck, down your breastbone over the centre line of your stomach. The feathery touch is enough to enlighten your senses but not enough to satisfy. His gaze is intent on the flower as he twirls its petals across your belly button, the tickle making your stomach ripple.

"Is this what you want?" His voice is deep and teasing.

"No," you exhale; it's not enough and too much all at once.

"That's a shame," he says ponderously, tipping the flower to drag the stamen up under your breast. Ticking the skin there, trailing up until its sticky yellow pollen dusts your nipple, pebbling under his gentle teasing.

"How about that?" he knows how to torture you to the point of frustration - this is his favourite way to make you crazed for him.

"No, I want you, your hands, your body," you whimper.

He hums as if contemplating your request. Instead, he tucks some loose strands behind your left ear and slides the flower into your hair, long fingers trailing down the side of your face admiring his handiwork.

"Such a beautiful sight; I should go get my easel..." he sighs thoughtfully.

"Don't you dare," you grit through your teeth.

"Beauty should be captured so that others may admire its wondrous nature," he intones, every inch the art professor he is.

"You are not at work now," you reply, squaring your jaw, frustration bubbling into insolence.

"An artist is never at rest, my love," he lectures. "But, then yes, I suppose there are other ways to use my time," he adds, suddenly crowding his whole body against you.

You inhale sharply, fighting against your bindings again, desperate to have your hands, to touch him. His chest catches against your nipples, tickling.

"I really should have tied your hands above your head rather than behind your back," he breathes against your temple as if disappointed in himself for not thinking of it sooner. "You are always a little frantic when your discomfort is ratcheted just a little higher."

His left hand runs down your side, mapping the contours of your skin, listening to your breath hitch as there is a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder much closer than the last. The hand rounds your bum cheek and loops the back of your thigh, pulling your leg up off the ground, hooking it over his hipbone.

"Is this what you wanted?" he questions again, slowly pressing you further into the pillar.

"Yes, more of this, please," your voice drunken, feeling his fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, the metal clasp at the waistband of his trousers grazing your belly, his breath hot on your hairline.