Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Cravats

"Darling, I'm home early; I was thinking we c..." he screeches to a halt mid-sentence.

Damn.

You have been caught red-handed. You thought he would be out all afternoon promenading with his sister.

"What are you doing?" Benedict asks, puzzlement filling his tone.

You stand in your joint dressing room with one of his cravats looped around your neck, and you are, well, there's no getting around it, inhaling his scent from it, even sucking on the material. Even you are not sure what compelled you to do such a thing other than you caught a whiff as you went by and, well... couldn't resist a sniff, even a taste.

"I like the feel of the silk..." your stutter, the sound muffled, knowing you are blushing.

He moves closer. "And is there any reason you are sucking on it, my dear?" he rumbles, gently tugging the end from your mouth, eying the wet patch that blooms darker from your saliva.

"I like your taste," you mutter quietly, head bowed in shame.

"What was that?" his tease velvety, "speak up, darling."

You know he is flirting now. You look up to meet his heated gaze and repeat louder. "I like that they taste of you, husband."

His eyes dilate rapidly at your statement, and he takes a deep breath.

"I love how utterly feral you are for me," he snarls. You are hauled against his solid frame, one of his arms banding tight around your waist, the other gathering both ends of the cravat looped around your throat a few times. "Do you know all the ways I could tease you with these?" he rumbles, his voice skittering hot over the skin of your neck.

"Tell me," you exhale raggedly, thrilled about where this is going.

"I could tie you up in a rainbow, my darling," his promise so intoxicating, "cover your skin in delicate, intricate silks bound in exotic knots that only I can untie."

You breathe harder at the very idea.

"Do you know how many cravats I own, darling?"

You glance sideways at the rack but give up at attempting to count them when his warm lips start to suck insistently on the spot right below your ear.

"Fifty-two," he answers between nips of your skin with his teeth, "one for every week of the year."

"That's a lot, husband...," you rasp, his grip on the cravat at your neck starting to restrict your windpipe just a touch, causing a dangerous slick jolt of arousal down your spine.

He hums in agreement, suddenly releases the cravat, and wrenches your dress off your right shoulder—the room echoing with the sound of a seam ripping under his harsh grip. His mouth lands hot on the skin there, and you shudder as he bites down just a little. Talk about feral.

Wordlessly he rips the rest of your light cotton dress with one fist grab, and it falls to the floor around you. It wasn't one of your favourites anyway; the animalistic urge it has brought out in him is far more enthralling than your affection for that dress.

Then his hands are roughly plucking the lace of your stays, your whole body jerking with the motions. All the while, he is staring you down predatory, and you daren't look away, just hypnotised by his stormy expression. When he is like this occasionally, you are utterly mindless for it, for him, in this crazed state. Your stays hit the floor behind you, and he picks up your now naked body, except his cravat, and propels you against the wall of your dressing room, knocking over an empty hatstand as he does so.