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She’s going to kill her.
And it doesn’t matter that she’s her closest friend, or that she’ll have to live the rest of her life with average coffee because she can’t use their fancy machine, or that she’ll have to find a new roommate who definitely won’t love the Brontë sisters as much as they do—
Penelope is going to kill Eloise Bridgerton.
“Come on,” her friend-turned-nemesis is laughing, “you have to tell us.”
She’s going to kill her, then dig her up, then kill her again.
Anthony sighs, his mouth pinching as he pushes a carrot around his plate. She’s always liked the eldest Bridgerton well enough (she likes all the Bridgertons, it’s impossible not to) but he shoots up at least three places in the rankings, dethroning Gregory when he sighs—
“Penelope doesn’t have to tell us anything. Don’t be so crude, Eloise.”
Eloise rolls her eyes, a scoff lifting from her throat.
“I only asked her to tell us who she’s dating,” she insists, “if I was being crude, I would ask her to tell us who’s been making her moan like a pornstar every night whilst reminding her how thin the walls in our flat are.”
If Penelope’s cheeks were pink before, they’re a full-on raging inferno now.
Across the table, she can see Colin trying to hide a laugh, his wine glass perched strategically against his lips. Lips that are twitching at the edges, fighting a smirk.
She narrows her eyes.
She’s going to kill him next.
“Eloise Bridgerton!” Violet, now another favourite Bridgerton, scolds, “this is hardly suitable conversation for the table.”
Eloise rolls her eyes again and Penelope fights the urge to kick her.
“Sorry Mum,” Eloise shrugs, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “I’ll wait until after lunch then to get her to admit who’s the best sex she's ever had. Her words.”
The table erupts in their loud reactions. Violet, Simon and Anthony tut, brows pinching in distaste. Hyacinth, Kate and Daphne gasp, mock scandalised but loving the gossip. Benedict, Gregory, Sophie and Michaela roar with laughter, and Francesca quietly tries to hide a smile.
And then there’s Colin.
Fucking Colin shit-eating-grin Bridgerton.
The cause of her misery… and all her delights.
He’s sitting back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, cheeks split wide in a grin. He raises his eyebrows when she makes eye contact with him, then there’s a flash of white as he runs his tongue over his teeth, and it makes her remember what that tongue can do—
She tells herself to get a grip.
That’s why she’s in this mess in the first place.
Because he cornered her one day, voice blunt and fingers insistent as he gripped her chin and told her they needed to—now how did he put it?—“stop eyefucking each other and actually fuck.”
It wasn’t particularly eloquent, and that first time, up against the wall right there and then at the wrong angle,‘Ow’s’ falling from their lips as they accidentally elbowed ribs and tugged hair too hard, wasn’t exactly perfect—but it was them. It was laughter in-between kisses, and smiles that melted into open mouthed pants, and through it all, there was an undercurrent of friendship running between them.
It was comfortable, and easy, and fun.
And yes, over time, it became the best sex she ever had probably because of that friendship. Because she was comfortable enough with him to tell him what she liked—how she loved kissing, and she liked two fingers inside her, but not three, and how she liked it from behind, but she didn’t like being on top. Although after a few short months, she found the courage to tell him that was because of her insecurities too, because other partners had made her feel too big, too heavy, like she would crush them—and he’d wasted no time in showing her how wrong they were, reassuring her until he was so turned on, he was babbling nonsense like,“fuck, Pen, so hot, so gorgeous, so fucking sexy riding me like this.”
Now being on top is her favourite position.
“The best?” he’s asking, one eyebrow raised, “even better than Alfie?”
Penelope rolls her eyes at the mention of her most recent ex.
“Shut up, Colin.”
He chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender.
“I’m just saying… you were with him for years.”
Yes, she was, and the sex was mediocre at best. A fact Colin knows because he had been utterly delighted by how responsive she was the first few times he put his hands on her.
“It’s as though you’ve never been touched,” he’d muttered in awe as his fingers toyed between her thighs, teasing out orgasm after orgasm. Back then and to this day, she doesn’t have the courage to tell him that has nothing to do with Alfie, or any partner that’s come before.
It’s just him.
He’s the best sex she’s ever had, and her body reacts to him in a way it doesn’t react to anyone else, because she’s in love with him.
She’s loved him since she was eight years old—a tiny, shy slip of a girl who could barely speak until he and Eloise gave her the confidence to do so. Until they bathed her in the warm glow of their attention and made her shine. Until they made her feel as though she mattered, unlearning a lifetime of being unloved and unheard by everyone else.
She can’t tell him that.
Obviously.
They’re friends, and she can’t ruin that, and if they tell people, it will make it real. It will be out there in the world, which means it could be taken away from her. So it doesn’t matter how many times Colin shakes his head, not understanding why everything has to be a big secret. She understands why.
She’s protecting them both.
Deep down, she’s just waiting for the bottom to fall out. One day, he’ll find some gorgeous blonde with legs up to here who just wakes up in the morning looking beautiful and smelling perfect, and he’ll say “I’m really sorry Pen, but we can’t do this anymore” and she’ll want to die, but she’ll force a smile and say she understands anyway.
She’ll make the most of him while she has him. She’ll take what she can get. She can’t allow herself to wish for more.
Colin's rambling again.
“Wow, if that were me… and you were saying I was the best sex you had ever had… even better than a guy you were with for years and years… well, I’d be a very happy man indeed. If it were me, of course.”
Scratch that.
She’s ending things tonight.
She narrows her eyes, her thumb flexing over her fork as she prepares to flick some mashed potato in his face, when Eloise makes a gagging sound.
“Well, it’s not you,” she’s scowls, “god, just the thought makes me want to throw up.”
He grins again, blue eyes sparkling.
Penelope almost wants to tell her. So it will end the conversation, the speculation, if nothing else. She thinks turning around and cheerfully declaring, ‘Hey Eloise, so it actually is your brother blowing my back out every night! And I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that he’s built like a stallion and he fucks like one too” should effectively douse her enthusiasm.
Luckily her friend and the rest of the table are saved the exposé of their brother’s sexual prowess as Gregory suddenly reaches for the salt and clumsily knocks Anthony’s wine glass over instead. The eldest Bridgerton jumps up with a curse as a splash of Merlot lands over the lap of his beige chinos.
Through the chaos, Penelope locks eyes with Colin again and silently mouths “I hate you.”
A smirk behind his wine glass and a quick wink is all she gets in reply.
He’s torturing her.
She’s been to Aubrey Hall before of course. She comes every summer. But this summer is different. It’s not like her first one, when she was eight and she spent most of the time with her ear pressed against Violet Bridgerton’s bump, fascinated by Hyacinth’s heartbeat. It’s not like when she was thirteen and she had to swap a bikini for a swimsuit because she was self-conscious about her new, blossoming figure. It’s not like when she was sixteen and fresh off the wave of her first heartbreak, mended in part by Colin’s arm slung around her, his shoulder nudging hers as he scoffed that guy sucked anyway. He didn’t deserve you.
That guy did suck, and truthfully, she forgot all about him the moment Colin Bridgerton smiled at her.
This summer is different because her and Colin are different. This year, she can’t look at him lounging by the pool, or helping Anthony with the pizza oven, or braiding one of his sister’s hair without thinking about the face he makes when he comes. She can’t look at him without squeezing her thighs together.
And she thinks he knows it.
Why else would he purposefully let their fingers touch as he brushes past her in the hallway?
Why else would he watch her all the time, eyes heated and blazing out of control?
Why else would he be leaning into her as they watch a film in the (frankly ridiculous) cinema room, his fingers dancing over her thigh under the protective shroud of darkness?
“Colin,” she breathes out in a warning, her eyes darting first to Anthony and Kate sitting at the end of the aisle in-front of them, then Gregory and Benedict a few rows down. The other Bridgertons are scattered around, the room so large it’s basically the size of a normal movie theatre.
Colin hums, the sound rumbling against her ear as his fingers continue to drift up her inner thigh.
She supposes with the angle of his jaw, it looks like he’s just whispering in her ear. The seats cover their lower halves and they’re sitting on the back row so it’s unlikely anyone is going to turn around to look at them.
But it's still risky, and it shouldn’t send a thrill racing up her spine, and it shouldn’t make her hips arch needily—but it does.
“What do you think they would say…” he husks, voice low and hot at her ear, “if they knew you were wet for me right now?”
She huffs out an uneven breath.
She slowly turns her head, away from the film she hasn’t paid a bit of attention to, and it’s a mistake because she didn’t realise how close he was. She didn’t realise the movement would have their mouths brushing against each other.
She forces herself to remain aloof.
“You’re too cocky.”
“I am,” he agrees, and then his fingers are slipping under her dress and tugging the crotch of her knickers aside, “but I’m right.”
She sighs, lips brushing hotly against his as he runs a finger up her dripping slit. As quickly as he touches her, he pulls his hand back, giving a quick, furtive glance around before he slips the finger into her mouth. Her eyelids flutter as she tastes herself, biting down on his finger slightly just to watch his eyes darken.
“Don’t be angry with me,” he whispers then, a charming grin curving his lips, “if it helps… you’re the best sex I’ve ever had too.”
She purses her lips, trying but failing to contain her smile. He’s had a lot more experience than her, and she knows he would never lie, so yes. Yes, she supposes that does help. She still won’t give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud of course, so he continues.
“Penelope,” he murmurs, “do you give a shit about this film?”
She laughs quietly.
“No.”
“Me neither. Wanna fuck?”
She purses her lips to contain another laugh, heat crawling up her neck as she glances around the room then quickly nods.
“Meet me in my room in five minutes,” she orders.
They’re fooling around, stripped down to their underwear but just making out against the door, when they hear Eloise declare she’s calling it a night.
Penelope breaks away from his mouth, panting as he drags his kisses to her neck instead.
“Colin,” she breathes, fingers tugging at his curls, “wait… Eloise…”
He groans, pausing to rest his forehead against her shoulder.
“Please don’t moan my sister’s name when I’m kissing you.”
She huffs a laugh, grabbing his hair in a fist so she can tug his gaze up to meet hers.
“No, I mean, she’s gone to bed—” she groans, this time in frustration, when she hears the dim, muted thrum of the Gossip Girl theme tune through the wall, “—oh, she’s going to be up for hours.”
“That makes two of us,” he replies dryly, his eyes flicking down to the sizable tent in his boxers.
She rolls her eyes, giving him a playful swat on the chest.
“I mean it. She’s going to watch at least three episodes.”
Colin’s mouth, wet and kiss-swollen, twitches at one corner.
“How very unsociable of her.”
She grins, thinking it very classic Eloise to pretend she’s going to bed, tell her family goodnight, and watch TV by herself for hours instead. Eloise adored her family, but she was an introvert through and through, and hours spent around big characters drained her.
In the silence, Penelope hears the low rumble of Chuck Bass’s voice, so clear she can almost make out what he’s saying.
“God, these walls are even thinner than our flat’s,” she frowns.
But Colin merely grins… and her stomach knots.
Oh dear.
She knows that look, the devious glint to his eye.
He steps closer to her again, winds his arm around her middle, and pulls her groin flush against his.
“Well then, I suppose you’ll have to be very quiet, won’t you?”
She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, digging in hard when he slowly grinds his length against her aching cunt. She can feel how hard he is though the thin material of his boxers, and he must feel how wet she is through her knickers, and she spreads her legs a little wider.
“Can you do that, Penelope?” he asks lowly, slipping a hand under the waistband and tapping two fingers against her entrance, “can you be good?”
She arches her hips into his hand. When he stays teasing her, fingers toying at her soaked entrance, she realises he’s waiting for her to reply. Waiting for her consent to play.
She locks eyes with him, blazing blue on blue.
“Yes,” she breathes, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ll be good. Just—”
“Just what?”
“Put them inside me.”
He grins, all lopsided and annoyingly handsome, then obeys. He pushes two fingers inside her, wasting no time in crooking them and finding that spongy spot that makes her knees weak. She sighs, trying to keep quiet, one hand scrambling at the door behind her and the other finding his hair again. She tugs, revelling in the little hiss that skates through his teeth.
He covers her moan with his mouth as he puts his thumb to her clit. He rubs it in tight circles, fingers still pumping languidly in and out, as she whimpers and bites down on his lip. He smirks, tongue licking inside, flicking, mimicking the movement of his fingers below.
“Such a good girl being so quiet for me,” he croons, “normally so loud, aren’t you, baby? My poor sister, sounds like you’ve traumatised her.”
The pet name has her shuddering the way it always does, clambering higher, closer to the edge. She wants him to always call her that. She wants him to call her it when he comes home to her at night, after a long day at work, when he crawls into their bed and tells her about his day. She wants him to call her that not just when he’s knuckles deep inside her.
“It’s your fault—” her words bleed into a whimper as his fingers relentlessly stroke her g-spot, “your fault for making me want you so much.”
He falters, something vulnerable flickering over his features. He knows she gets a little needy when she’s approaching orgasm, holds onto him a little tighter, and he’s good at reassuring her. Reassuring her that—
“I want you too, Pen. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”
She gasps, both at the words and the sensation of his fingers pumping inside her. He knows when she’s close, can read the signs in her body, and he kisses her again to keep her quiet. His thumb rubs harder as his other hand snakes behind her back, unclasping her bra and drawing it down her arms with a skill that almost annoys her.
He cups her breast, fingers plucking at a hard nipple as he fucks her harder. The added stimulation has her eyes rolling, her thighs trembling around her wrist as she feels that tight coil in the pit of her stomach start to unravel.
Determined to keep quiet, it’s a roiling, blinding sort of orgasm. Her eyes keep rolling, her body shaking, as he pours hot praise into her ears, holding her and soothing her as she shatters.
“Oh, you do that so well,” he croons, teeth nipping at her earlobe, “so pretty when you come.”
She bucks, overstimulated, when he pats her dripping cunt and gives her thigh a squeeze.
She’s still hazy from her orgasm, still floating somewhere in the ceiling, when she registers him bluntly asking—
“I really want to eat your pussy. Do you think you can stay quiet?”
She shakes her head, because she simply loves it when he does that, and she won’t be able to keep quiet, and she’s too far gone anyway.
She wants him inside her now.
She tells him as much, panting it into his open mouth, and he rewards her with a heavy groan. His fingers pluck at the waistband of her frankly ruined knickers, letting the elastic snap against her hip, too loud, before he draws them down her legs. He hooks them over his wrist and she doesn’t have time to ask why because then he’s removing his own boxers and his cock springs free.
Desire flares hot inside her again as he gives himself a few strokes. He’s so thick, and huge, and weeping at the tip, and she still can’t believe he gets that hard for her. She can talk herself into circles, and her mind can play tricks on her, but that… that is undeniable.
Colin Bridgerton wants her.
He nudges her legs apart, pushing them a little wider, before he hooks his hands under both her knees and lifts her against the door. She gasps, breath catching in her throat as she squeezes her thighs against his hips, legs winding around him. She doesn’t get self-conscious anymore, not with him, and his strength turns her on. It turns her on that he can fuck her against a door as though she weighs nothing.
She holds her breath as he notches his cock at her entrance, gathering her wetness as his head nudges her clit.
“Please,” she whispers against his lips, kissing him just once, “please. I’ll be quiet.”
“Yes, you will,” he practically purrs, and then he pushes inside her.
Her lips fall open in a silent moan, her brows knitting. He sets a steady pace as he begins to fuck her against the door, hips snapping against hers.
One particular thrust has her gasping, a too-loud moan hitching from her throat.
“You gonna make me shove your knickers in your mouth?” he grunts, one hand at her waist as the palm of the other slides up her sternum. His fingers wind around her throat, gripping loosely.
“Harder,” she rasps out, eyes heavily hooded, and he must know what she means because his fingers tighten around her throat. Her eyes roll, her cunt clenching around his length, and a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle rolls from his chest.
She dips her chin and tilts her head, finding his index finger as it slips from her throat to the side of her lips. She takes it into her mouth, biting down on the digit in an attempt to keep quiet. His top lip curls, a feral sort of lust flashing over his face, as he slips a second finger against her tongue.
“Fuck,” he grunts, fucking her harder, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds a little desperate, “can’t you feel this, Pen? How much longer do I have to spend away from you? So sick of pretending. Sick of pretending this isn’t the tightest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever fucked. Sick of pretending you’re not perfect. Sick of pretending I don’t want you every fucking way a man can want a woman. Sick of pretending I don’t lo—”
“Don’t,” she whimpers.
She can’t hear that.
His jaw tightens, a muscle in it flexing. His eyes flash with something akin to hurt and she screws her own shut, panic flooding her chest.
“Don’t ruin it,” she whispers, because she’s scared, and panicked, and yes, maybe a little stupid. She thinks she’s allowed to be after the life she’s had, the love she’s been taught she deserves.
She is a Featherington. Love isn’t easy for her the way it is for a Bridgerton. It hasn’t been given to her unconditionally the way it’s been given to them. It’s always come with strings, with a price to pay, and she just doesn’t understand how he could possibly love her back. She knows she loves him, that much is certain, but she doesn’t know how they could make this work.
“Fine,” he grits out, clearly hurt himself, and that kills her too. He fucks her harder, both of them chasing a release now, an output for this tightness in their chests.
When he hits a particular spot and she moans too loudly, so loud it’s jarring, he finally slips the scrap of lace from his wrist, fists it into a ball and slots it between her lips.
Her eyes roll as she tastes herself, her moans now muffled around the fabric.
When she comes, it’s with her fingers tugging at his hair and her teeth biting down on lace. Her whole body shudders, and she holds on tight as he grunts into her neck and fills her, trembling through his own orgasm.
They pant in the heavy silence as they come back down to earth. A whine catches in her throat as he slides out of her, putting her down on shaky legs, fingers swiping at some of the cum that runs down her inner thigh.
Silence.
She feels awkward.
White hot panic floods her chest again and she just wants to run. Wants to escape. She gives him a tense little smile as she spits her own knickers out of her mouth and feels like the worst person ever.
She goes to walk past him—and she should have known. She should have known that he’d wrap his fingers around her wrist and pull her right back.
“Don’t,” he rasps out, tone thick with something she can’t put her finger on, “please don’t run.”
She sighs, running a tired hand over her flushed face.
“What do you want from me, Colin?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” he shrugs, a sad but sweet smile pulling at his lips, “I want everything.”
She shakes her head, her eyes and throat suddenly burning.
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do,” he takes a step towards her, eyes alight, “I do mean it. Pen, I’m so tired of pretending I don’t. I have tried to be patient, to just take what you’re willing to give, and if you can’t give any more, that’s fine. I’ll still be here. I’ll take any part of you, but I really need you to know that I want more. I want it all. I don’t want to be quiet about my love for you.”
She sighs, and she can feel her bottom lip trembling, and she’s still naked, and she can’t make sense of this.
“You think I don’t understand that it’s difficult for you,” he continues in a murmur, “but I do. I understand it all stems from your parents, and I hate that they made you feel that way. You think you’re not worthy, and you don’t deserve to be loved, but you are worthy, and you do deserve to be loved. You are loved. Will you just answer me this one thing? Please? Then if you want some space, of course I’ll give it to you.”
She blinks past the sudden tears in her eyes, her throat choked as she nods.
“Do you love me?”
She lets out a harsh breath, her reply caught in her throat.
“Because if you do, we can work all that other stuff out,” he adds gently.
She blinks—then her reply is wrenched from her chest.
“Yes,” she says, and it feels like a weight is lifted, “I love you.”
He smiles, so wide and blinding it makes her chest hurt.
He begins to close the gap between them, moving slowly as though she’s an easily startled deer, and it makes her want to cry again—because he’s so patient, and so kind, and she loves him.
“So you’ll give us a chance?” he asks, hands coming to gently cup her face, “you’ll try?”
She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and tells herself to be brave.
“I’ll try.”
He kisses her, smiling widely into it, and this kiss feels different. Like the beginning of something.
When he breaks away, a sudden thought occurs to her. Her smile turns devious, a childish desire for revenge lit like a fire inside her. She remembers the embarrassing conversation at the table that afternoon and says—
“Let’s tell Eloise first.”