Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Target Practice (Short Drabble)

"Concentrate," he murmurs, each syllable elongated, the tone teasing and resonant.

You purse your lips and shoot him a sideways glance, feeling his heated breath dusting your cheekbone.

"Maybe it would be easier if you weren't crowding me out, husband," you point out with more than a hint of snark.

Benedict lets out a quiet chuckle.

"I'm merely trying to provide ample instruction, my love," his voice tinged with amusement as a gust of wind makes the trees surrounding you rustle slightly, whipping the points of his cravat up to tickle your neck.

You hum, sceptical of that assessment. He seems to be doing his darndest to distract you as much as assist you.

"Here, hold it... like this," his arm snakes around your back and his long, warm, agile fingers curl around yours on the barrel of the rifle.

"You are just doing this in sport now, aren't you?" you pout.

"Not in the slightest," he lilts, "you just have to be the very best at everything, don't you? So here we are."

You almost hate how accurately he can sum you up with such an economy of words.

"Now look down the barrel of the gun along the aim line; line up your target with that v-shaped notch and fire at will," he tutors softly, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You take a calming breath and line up your aim with the empty wine bottle he has placed on the old stone ruin in the forest, some distance away.

He is silent as you cock the trigger, but just as your trigger finger moves to fire, he leans right in and rumbles right in your ear.

"I love seeing you handle my weapon."

The gun fires loudly and ricochets you backwards.

And... you miss—by a country mile.

Your whole body instinctively reacting to that bedroom voice he can affect whenever he wants to rile you.

"Not fair!" you huff loud and indignant. "I call shenanigans! I demand a redo!"

"All is fair in love and war, my darling," he chuckles, already turned away to load and prepare his gun for the same shot.

"That was not done out of love," you counter, brushing a stray hair from your face, "but it was a declaration of war, Mr Bridgerton."

He guffaws louder. "Do your worst, my darling. I was a crack shot at Eton, and I'm still not bad now," he simpers, the confidence oozing from him both attractive and galling.

He really needs to be taken down a peg or two.

To be fair, he looks an innate natural with his rifle as he checks the barrel and lines up for his shot, his hold one of practised ease and years of tutelage. You're almost annoyed at how good he looks, just how damn attractive he looks—his tan britches and blue overcoat straining in all the right places over his muscular outline. Damn him.

"Now darling, once I'm done tutoring you, maybe you will be this good," he states airily, shooting you a crooked, sideways grin without taking his eyes off the target.

So you deploy the one weapon you have in your arsenal that obliterates him—every time.

Just as you see his trigger finger squeeze, you lean in and slide a hand heavily over the front of his trousers.

"I am so wet for you right now...." you exhale, biting his earlobe, breathing hot and heavy into his ear.

The gun fires.... And he has missed by a mile too.

He swings his head to look at you, mouth hanging open in disbelief as you simply tilt your head and raise your eyebrow.

"What? You did it to me," you shrug.

"You brazen little minx," he growls, and its equal parts impressed and annoyed.

"Husband, you told me, on our wedding night, if I recall, if I were ever in such a circumstance that I should tell you right away," you continue in that smug tone. "I am merely abiding by your 'ample instruction'," you volley, echoing his own words right back at him as it's his turn to quirk an eyebrow.

You squeal as he tackles you to the ground. And there is no more shooting for a while... at least not with rifles.