Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Stand & Deliver

The oak bark is rough against your shoulder blades as he presses you bodily into the tree trunk. A cooling breeze rustles the leaves and ruffles the tendrils of hair around your ears, almost a balm against your flushed skin.

"Please, sir, please do not," you plead, playing up.

His hand, gloved in black leather, is grasping the golden locket you wear long around your neck, his knuckles resting on your cleavage as he does so, sending your thoughts haywire and your chest heaving under his touch.

"It was a gift from my beloved husband," you add breathily, pointedly, for his benefit.

His eyes flash, framed by a simple black mask, slipping effortlessly into the role he has assigned himself. "Oh really, and where is he now?" his voice low, leaning in and running his nose up the column of your neck, inhaling deeply as you turn your head, biting your lip, fighting to conceal the very real gallop of desire in your veins. "Not here to defend his fair lady?" he adds mockingly.

This is a game—your husband, one Benedict Bridgerton, roleplaying highway robber. Swinging out of your carriage on this country lane near your cottage, paying your footmen handsomely to look the other way while he stages a late-night 'robbery', brandishing his empty duelling pistol as he hauls you from said vehicle and holds you 'hostage'.

"It would appear not," you reply with a faux tremor in your voice.

"Well, more's the pity, pretty one," he sighs, then scrapes his teeth along the edge of your jaw. "This trinket, while nice, is not nearly enough to make this robbery worthwhile,"

"But sir," you protest weakly, "it is all I have to give you."

He chuckles darkly, and the hand drops the locket, smears heavily down your dress, and lewdly cups between your legs through the cloth, making you gasp and squirm on his fingers.

"Oh, I do not think that is at all true....," he rumbles, smirking deadly as he rocks his middle finger expertly over your throbbing clit, making you whimper, "....do you?"

"Please, sir, no, take my locket, not me..." you pant, very much lying through your teeth now. You know he can feel your heat and dampness through the gauzy layer, your underwear discarded in the carriage before this charade so much as began.

"And what, pray tell me, would stop me from taking both?" his question with a touch of menace that is entirely believable as he continues to tease your swollen bud.

You glance apprehensively over at your footmen, steadfastly averting their gaze as they stand with the moonlit carriage about thirty feet away. His smirk grows wider, but that is all your husband, not the highwayman.

"Oh please, wife, have we not fucked in our carriage countless times?" he whispers, breaking character.

"Yes, but that is unseen," you hiss as he raises a sardonic eyebrow. "Well, mostly." you modify.

"It's certainly not unheard," he huffs bemused.

"Hush, husband. Alright. Get back to being a dastardly highwayman, please," you pout theatrically.

He takes a half-step backwards, his face morphing into sharp contours as he pulls the unloaded duelling pistol from the front of his britches. Slowly, he drags the cold metal barrel down your breastbone until it catches against the top of your locket, the metal tinking together. Your inhale is ragged, the sheer thrill coursing through your body of being held at 'gunpoint'.

"Sir, please, no, do not," you implore louder, ramping up your distress, your hands scrambling over the rough tree near your hips, digging your nails into its sharp grooves.