Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Stitches

"Hello, my darling, what are you up to?" He asks softly, walking up behind your chair; his hands land on your shoulders, and he leans over to kiss your neck.

You assume it will be a brief affectionate greeting, but he lingers there. His lips are warm and feel plush, hitting the spot on your neck that makes your stomach flip. You hum gently in satisfaction at the feeling.

Your family butler has just let him in, and you will likely only have a short time together before your parents return from their walk around the gardens.

"I'm attempting to do needlework," you murmur, missing the fabric entirely with your next motion. You stutter a sound as he sucks a little harder.

"Sounds fascinating," his voice is honeyed and vibrates against your skin.

"If there's a dropped stitch, I'm blaming you," you chide with no heat, but your hands are frozen in position, unable to concentrate on the task at hand.

He moves slowly up the cord of your neck, placing gentle kisses all the way. It appears he wants to maximise your few moments alone - you don't have any complaints about that.

"But I'm not doing anything," he teases, and you feel his smile against your skin, an outright lie.

"Mmmm, this doesn't feel like nothing to me," you respond, closing your eyes briefly and leaning into his ministrations.

"Please, don't stop your handiwork on my account," he chuckles, and then his tongue lathes against a pulse point.

"Ohhh..." is all you can reply, craning your head to give him more access as he becomes more insistent, sucking harder on a particularly sensitive spot.

"Benedict...." you exhale tremulously.

"What?" his voice languid, the edge of his teeth dragging lightly over everywhere he has kissed; you feel goosebumps pebbling in his wake.

It's no use; you can't go on under this sensual assault. You drop the fabric into your lap, uncaring where the needle lands. Your hand slides into his hair, encouraging his movements.

"Oh..." it's his turn to stutter as you drag your fingernails against his scalp through your netted gloves. The hands resting on your shoulders curl heavier around you.

You hear footsteps in the hall and know family is approaching. You drop your hand from him reluctantly and pick up your needlework.

"I suppose I had better stop before they arrive," he sighs reluctantly, his breath hot on your ear. "Even though you are my intended."

In one final act to destroy you, he sucks your earlobe into his mouth and bites it gently. He then stands up straight, leaving his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. Everywhere he touched is tingling, your pulse beating strong where he sucked hard on your skin. You know a little mark is already blooming there.

As your parents enter the room, you jab a few hurried stitches into your cloth.

"Mr Bridgerton," your father greets happily, "how wonderful to see you again."

"Good afternoon Lord y/l/n," Benedict answers warmly, "I thought I should drop by and see if my wonderful intended needs any help with wedding preparations." he squeezes your shoulders.

Funny, he never mentioned that to you when driving you to distraction with his lips.

"All is going well, Mr Bridgerton," your mother chimes in with a smile. "We have a dress, and all the flowers have been chosen already. Y/n was just embroidering a beautiful handkerchief for her grandmother to wipe her tears on the big day, weren't you dear?" your mother's eyes fall on you expectantly.

"Oh yes," your response slightly rushed, picking up her cue a little late, your mind still on Benedict and his sinful tongue.

You go to turn your needlework around to show her, but it snags awkwardly. Dammit. You have stitched your left glove onto the fabric.

Your mother huffs an embarrassed laugh and shoots you a disapproving frown. "I apologise, Mr Bridgerton; I can assure you my daughter is usually excellent at needlework." Her motherly concern that your husband-to-be may harshly judge your domestic skills is evident. "I have no idea what happened here."

I have some idea, you think, peeling off your gloves as you try to unpick the mis-stitch.

"Oh, I am certain she is," Benedict assures, shooting your mother a heart-melting smile that always has the mamas like putty, "But I care not about that; she has many other skills I am much more impressed by," he adds flatteringly, spidering his fingertips down your spine, unseen by your parents. "She is excellent at riding, for example," he adds brightly.

You want to kick him in the shins.

"Oh yes," your mother enthuses, "she does love our horses so much! She is the only one who could ever get Bullion to behave."

"I can well believe it," Benedict responds warmly, "she can tame any stallion."

Now you really want to kill him.

"Her French is impeccable," Benedict adds, "as if it was her native tongue," he emphasises the last word with a brush of his knuckles over the nape of your neck.

French. Tongue. He is being a total cad right now.

"Ah yes. We spent many a summer in France when she was a child," your father interjects, "our family has a home in the Loire Valley. Once you are married, you should go there together; it is quite beautiful."

"I would be happy to spend all summer in her family valley once we are married," Benedict chimes, with more than a tinge of amusement in his voice.

Straight-up murder, that's what you are planning now.

"Well, I'm quite certain that's more than enough wedding and marriage talk than you gentlemen can bear," you announce with finality, standing up, "and I do believe my wonderful fiancé has places he needs to be," you say pointedly at him.

He still looks thoroughly entertained by his private jokes—the rake.

"I will show him out, mother and father," you turn to them and smile, gesturing Benedict towards the door.

Soon as you are out of earshot in the hallway, you grab his arm.

"Don't do that again," you hiss disapprovingly.

"Charm your parents?" he replies archly.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," you raise an eyebrow at him.

"Relax, my darling, I could tell they truly have no idea," he soothes, "besides, you really are excellent at horse riding and speaking French." He pulls you into an embrace and runs his lips over the shell of your ear, "not just riding and frenching me," he adds in a hot whisper.

"You are incorrigible," you scold, pulling away from him but giggling despite yourself. "Now get out of here before I am tempted to do either. Or both." You add with a wink.

"I can't wait to marry you," he confesses.

"Me either," you reply, "now shoo, Mr Bridgerton."

"As you wish, future Mrs Bridgerton," he smiles and gives you an exaggerated bow before disappearing out the front door with a huge grin on his face.