Benedict Bridgerton Regency Imagines || Benedict Bridgerton

Bright Star

Sequel to Chapter 1 (Sonnet #29)

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"Must I always find you here, Mr Bridgerton?"

Your greeting is laden with faux grievance as you quietly close the door behind you.

Benedict's chuckle is warm and laid back, his hazy hooded eyes tracking your barefooted movement toward him, his strong jaw accented by the only sconce still lit, off to his left. He is sat much as he was last time you found him here—feet planted far apart as he rests in a wingback chair, a tumbler of whiskey on a side table by his elbow. This time, a lit cigar is in his hand, tendrils of smoke curling above him into the darkness.

Another evening's carousing at Bridgerton House with his brothers has run late. And yet again, he has out-drunk both, them likely skulked to their rooms worse for wear. Part of you thinks his staying behind is by design, practically luring you back into this billiards room in the small hours of the night.

"Are you hoping for a revisit, darling?"

His husky tone confirms your suspicions as you climb onto his lap. The wool of his trousers tickles your inner thighs as you settle, straddling him in just your gauzy cotton nightgown.

"Maybe..." you coquette, glancing briefly over to the billiards table.

As he raises the cigar to his quirked lips, you snatch it and take a drag for yourself. His brow arches at your insolence, but the flex of his quad muscles under you as the fragrant smoke fills your lungs tells you how much he approves. You exhale in a swirl, curling your tongue, staring him down with a glint of challenge. Eager for him to take you right here in this room, something about an encore so very alluring

"Do you know Anthony made me pay to have that table rebaised," he murmurs, more than a hint of hubris laced through his words, a hand on your thigh dragging upwards, rucking your nightgown with it.

"Perhaps you should not have ruined me quite so thoroughly upon it, husband," you cluck, raising a brow of your own.

There's a flash of admiration in his eyes, even though his answering inflexion is casual: "Well, that is the crux of the dilemma, is it not, dear wife....."

He plucks the cigar back from you, balancing it on an ornate pewter ashtray adjacent to his drink, the air heavy with its pungent earthiness as it continues burning. His other hand burrows under your hem, and without preamble, he slides two fingers into your slit, making you gasp loudly.

"... For I doubt any man could resist such a lush bounty as yours," Benedict posits with a crooked, victorious smile, feeling just how aroused you are. "Least of all me."

You grab the arms of the chair as he plays you like an instrument, fingers strumming expertly over your clit, your hips flexing, rocking yourself on his fingertips.

"That's it; ride my hand..." he incites lowly, leaning back with a prideful expression, so pleased at what he can wreak with just a few well-deployed words.

You pitch forward, hotly demanding a kiss. He obliges, opening you to his sensual onslaught, his tongue parrying with yours in a dance. His hand twists, his thumb pressing your pearl as his fingers hook into your channel, breaching your body, teasing that spot which makes you pliant, needy, moaning into his mouth as he greedily swallows your noises.

"So very concupiscent this evening. You would do anything I told you to right now, would you not?" He muses, burying his fingers deeper as if to punctuate his point.