Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

And One For Luck

"Happy birthday!!" all your friends raise a toast around your dinner table, and you drink the dregs of your wine down with gusto. Three glasses in, the word seems warm and fuzzy around the edges.

"Hello, handsome," you slur slightly as your husband slides into the seat next to you.

"Hello, darling, that might be enough wine," Benedict suggests gently, taking your glass and putting it back on the table as you pout. "I need you complis mentis for your last gift in a short while," he whispers, leaning in.

"Do I not get but one hint?" your pout growing larger.

You have certainly enjoyed all the other wonderful little gifts he has given you today, from the physical (lovely jewellery, the dress you wear) to the social (this surprise dinner party).

"Alright. It's a tradition I heard about from our fine American cousins; I think you'll enjoy it. And that's all you get for now, wife," he winks and slips away again to play party host.

—

You sway a little as you bid the last of your friends goodbye in the hallway. As your valet closes the front door and scurries away with a quick bow, you turn to your husband.

"Thank you for my party, Benedict," you smile, still a little tipsy; the wine has you feeling louche and a little aroused at the sight of him in his handsome navy velvet jacket and gold cravat. He looks like a present himself, wrapped up in delicious layers you want to peel away to get to the lovely gifts underneath.

"You are welcome," he smiles, kissing your temple. Then there is a change in his voice; it's darker, smoother. "Now, are you ready for your final gift of the day?"

"Yes, please," you murmur back, suddenly a little breathless at the bedroom tone he has employed.

"How daring are you feeling, my love?" he checks as warm fingers trace patterns on the skin of your back, right above where your dress line is.

"Very," you answer honestly, already feeling a heated ache for him between your legs. It still amazes you that only a few words from him can do this to you.

"Pull up your dress." It's an order.

Everything inside you screams yes and please.

"Here?!" you hiss, faking displeasure, playing up as a surge of want gallops through your body.

"Did that sound like a suggestion?" he raises an achingly seductive eyebrow. You scramble to obey, gathering your dress up over your arms. Rather conveniently, you find there are loops hidden under the hemline. "Another gift," he smirks as you feed your hand through, recalling this is the dress he had specially made for you tonight. No wonder he also asked you to forgo your chemise. He has planned it all. You just love it when he does this.

"Hold on here," he instructs, taking your hands and guiding them onto the thick balustrade at the base of your staircase. You grip the smooth polished wood and shoot a desirous look at him over your shoulder. He smiles predatory, and a hand lands on your bottom, warm through the thin luxurious but thin layer of your silk underwear.

"Tell me, darling wife, have you heard of birthday spankings?" his voice smokey and dark.

You clench reflexively at the word, butterflies fluttering, your breath catching.

"No husband," you demure, flexing instinctively against his hand, "please tell me more."

"Those in the Americas believe it brings luck to the birthday person. You get a light spank on the buttocks for each year you have been alive," he intones, his breath hot on your cheek as his long fingers swirl patterns into the silk, and he adds, "And an extra one for luck."