Benedict Bridgerton Modern AU Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

A Helping Hand

The uttering of his name is what catches his attention.

It's muffled and distant to his ears as he quietly closes the front door. He's just here to visit his little sister El, but he knows some of her flatmates' work shifts, so he always enters quietly, almost furtive. Tucking the key into his pocket, he shakes his head, convinced it was just an auditory ghost.

But then he hears it again, closer now that he has moved down the corridor. It's female but sounds edged with desperation. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, suddenly filled with concern that someone may require assistance, trapped perhaps under some heavy furniture. The fact no one knows he is even in the flat doesn't occur to him.

_____

You wish you didn't.

Want him as much as you do.

Benedict bloody Bridgerton.

He's your best friend's older brother, never a good idea, but damn if he isn't every single thing you desire in a man. Tall, lithe, chestnut hair, hazy eyes, large, artistic hands and a troublesome crooked grin that makes butterflies erupt every time. Every. Damn. Time. And so, almost reluctantly, he is to be the star of your masturbatory fantasy tonight, indeed most nights lately.

Freshly showered, you peel off your robe, turn down your bedside light to a faint glow, and climb into your newly made bed, savouring the clean scent and the fluffiness of your pillows. Choosing to lay right in the middle of your double bed, your hands start to wander over your body, thoughts of him, his smiling face, filling your mind. As your fingers brush your nipples, you can't help his name escaping your lips.

"Ben..." it's breathy and feels wonderful in your mouth as your mind swirls with the image burned into your retina. It's of him getting out of the pool last summer, water sluicing down the slim toned lines of his body as he shook out his hair like some bloody model. You almost bit through your damn lip, trying to keep in the sigh.

Your hands wander lower, swirling patterns over your belly that make you giggle in that same coquettish way you do when he cracks a joke in your presence. Part of you resents him for making you so damn giggly, to begin with; part of you wants him to make you laugh every day forever.

Then your fingers slide between your legs, and you call his name for real now as you encounter slick wetness, which is entirely his fault.

"Benedict..." you moan, louder this time, using his full name.

Suddenly overheated as you begin to make little circles with your middle finger, you throw back the covers around your ankles and screw your eyes shut, concentrating even harder on that mental Rolodex of memories of a man you should not be fantasising about.

"Benedict..." There is no disguising your moan now. Or your apparent addiction to saying his name. A slight clench deep in your gut every time you do, just heightening every sensation.

_____

He pushes open the door, filled with concern.

And screeches to a halt.

Oh god. It's YOU.

He didn't know this was YOUR room.

And oh fuck you are entirely naked, eyes closed, and... holy shit, you are masturbating.

His entire being is haywire. Chemicals flood his system making his head pound and his chest restrict. And his blood flow is entirely redirected southwards.

If there is one person who has always been on his 'danger, danger' list for as long as he can remember, it's you. But you are his little sister's best friend, which somehow seems wrong. But now. Dammit, nothing in him can remember why that is such a bad idea.