Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton had a filthy fucking mouth, which Penelope had long thought particularly ironic for someone with such cute teeth. Small, square, and perfectly, weirdly, endearingly even all up the front – enough that you could probably hold up the flat of a ruler flush to their edges without a stitch of trouble – they truly were just so damn adorable; there was no other word for them.
She’d loved those teeth desperately since she was six years old. As such, it came as no surprise (to her, at least) that she’d nearly throttled his ex for the unspeakable crime of seriously suggesting he get veneers two years into his meteoric rise to TikTok fame. Apparently, it just wasn’t enough that he was Millennials’ horrifically gorgeous, flawlessly tousled, marble ab-ed answer to Anthony Bourdain. Apparently, the absolute bitch was just willing to pave over the Eighth Wonder of the Fucking World, all for a chance at bloody toothpaste endorsements.
And yet, despite the slow, simmering rage the thought (still) ignited in her, Penelope had somehow found it within her to err on the side of patience. Mercifully, it wasn’t long before both talk of veneers and, eventually, the Colgate-Loving Shrew had found themselves blessedly going the way of cottagecore and NFTs, just as the Lord intended. That was the brief and poignant recounting of how Penelope was able to maintain her God-given right to worship said winsome little teeth, all from a safe and (mostly) manageable distance.
Until, of course, the moment she hadn’t.
She felt it was now imperative to note, for the record, that their cuteness was entirely misleading; that they were at the helm of the campaign for preserving Colin’s boyish guilelessness, no matter how old he got, and did so nefariously well. Which was, of course, the only acceptable explanation for why, under the right (or wrong) light, with (or without) a fair amount of alcohol coursing through her and a serendipitous (or totally intentional) lack of supervision, they, somehow, tended to end up wrapped around her nipple. A lot.
Like, a lot, a lot.
How did the saying go? Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, every single time his feet dare touch London soil is a pattern?
Something like that.
The point was that, having spent most of her life being completely undone by the mere sight of those teeth, she really ought to have known that they would be the gateway to her maddening, meandering descent into hell. That, incidentally, they would be the reason she found out about the filthy fucking mouth thing, actually, and thus, were entirely to blame for why she was doomed to never again know a moment’s peace.
Well, alright. Maybe they weren’t ‘entirely’ to blame.
Perhaps she and her poor judgment had played some tiny, infinitesimal, very nearly negligible part in it. Maybe. After all, if she was determined not to repeat the same sordid and damning mistake (which she was, she swore it), then concessions had to be made and accountability taken. So, fine. Mea fucking culpa, she supposed. At least for that first time.
Because, as it turned out, all those years she’d spent training herself, all the time she’d surrendered to mastering the art of self-preservation – due, in no small part, to her heart being sous vide-d in the steady, boiling inferno of unrequited love – had been for nought.
Even more surprising, her beloved vice grip on a not-yet-distant-enough grudge against him hadn’t held up, either. Not in the face of him inviting her to step across the threshold of eternal damnation (ingeniously disguised as his chic, professionally decorated Islington flat) under the pretence of a little mise en place dinner for one. Who would have thought?
‘Last-minute R&D,’ he’d said by way of begging, and Penelope had been left to wonder if the Devil often took the form of exceedingly fit men offering up free Michelin-star dishes.
In defence of her momentary lapse in judgement, he had been planning to be away for much, much longer than usual. He had committed himself to a four-month food tour – a veritable aeon in the purgatory of one-sided infatuation – through Central and South America, and the sobering thought of all that limbo, all that sprawling absence and promising (threatening) lack of Colin, had made Penelope feel… invincible. Reckless, really, in that insensate kind of way. Like she could do without the armour, and the chainmail, and the lightning-quick parries, if only for one night. She’d have time to recover the debt she would owe herself, she insisted – so much time.
So, when he’d smiled softly – almost shyly – and cornered her against the counter of his warmly lit kitchen with a fork held up to her mouth in earnest offering? When he’d cupped his palm protectively under the perfect bite of Venezuelan chilli-chocolate cake? The one he’d spent two hours downright erotically ganaching for no express purpose Penelope could name, other than to fully incinerate all of womenkind’s poor, defenceless knickers on the spot?
Well, what was a girl already damned to Hell meant to do? Not offer him a taste off the heated surface of her tongue?
Unfathomable. Uncouth. Uncivilised, even, and Penelope Featherington was many a flawed thing, but uncivilised was not one of them. She was the epitome of graciousness, in fact, as exemplified by the way she had happily (easily) welcomed Colin Bridgerton’s needlessly beautiful fingers between her legs for the perfectly reasonable price of one (1) rather spectacular four-course dinner.
(What? It was the 21st century. If a woman wanted to express gratitude via a beloved and timeless pornography trope, that was entirely her prerogative, thank you very much.)
Never mind that they were best friends. Never mind that they were just friends. That the chasm those four letters deliberately drew between Penelope and all her heart’s desires hurt her far more than even his inexplicable need to proclaim it. Never mind that she still had that aforementioned not-yet-healed-enough wound – coated over by layers of scabbed humiliation from overhearing the goddamn vehement decree – to show for it.
I would never date Penelope Featherington, he’d said. Not in your wildest fantasies, he’d said.
As if she hadn’t already known that for a fact; hadn’t spent two decades of her life drilling it into her very bones desperately trying to free herself from all that embarrassing wanting.
For it was a truth universally and loudly acknowledged (particularly by her mother) that if, by some miracle, Colin Bridgerton were to ever wake up one day, look far past his yawning horizon of available models-cum-influencers-cum-alarmingly-fuckable-dental-hygienists straight at his plump, passably pretty, pathetically in love best friend of fifteen years and say, ‘Oh! There you are!’, then he would have fucking done it already.
Unfortunately, due to the staggering amount of evidence – amassed largely against Penelope’s will – to support Portia’s, erm, extreme candour, Penelope had to agree.
Clearly, so did Colin. But Christ, did he have to be so loud about it?
She should have cut him off, then and there. Any woman with even a shred of self-respect to her name would have. Or, at the very least, demanded an apology. Except, Penelope hadn’t wanted him to be sorry. No, she’d wanted him to be wrong.
And in that moment, in that kitchen, she was hungry for a chance at that justice. Starving for it. Ravenous. The natural byproduct of a life spent in a constant state of fasting – a constant state of the aforementioned want – perennially convincing herself that she was sated, Goddamnit, she was fine.
Coupled with the promise of her bottom lip caught between the cutest teeth ever to grace a grown man’s face? It became more than enough motivation. Too much, in fact. Because, if the only meal that could have ever truly satiated her was suddenly offering itself up so temptingly garnished with chilli-chocolate and the vague risk of regret, well…
Who was she to look a gift horse in the filthy fucking mouth? Maybe it was high time to just gorge and worry about the repercussions tomorrow.
That was what she’d told herself, anyway. After yet another night spent bemoaning her lack of a character-building Hoe Phase, she felt she certainly deserved it. Especially considering Colin’s repeated, sincere, alarmingly consistent (and tonight, tipsily hiccuped) advice to, quote, ‘think less, fuck more’, unquote.
At the time, only two glasses of Chasselas in, she had laughed it off the way she’d always done – with a snort and a familiar taunt. ‘How very Benedict of you,’ she’d smirked over the rim of the perfectly crisp white.
And Colin’s smile hadn’t faltered in the least when he’d shrugged and said, rather seriously, ‘Universally beloved, heart forever unscathed? There are worse Bridgertons to aspire to.’
By that, he’d meant himself, of course. She knew that because she knew him. Knew that he was still reeling from his failed engagement – from the humiliation of being so thoroughly cheated on – only two years after the fact. Knew that was, at least in part, the lure of his career. Hell, ‘think less, fuck more’ suited his nomadism so well it was surprising he hadn’t had it printed on a bloody coat of arms.
Not that she could blame him. Penelope was quite sure she’d handle being publicly betrayed by the love of her life with all the grace and sanity of Ophelia (sans the chic Pyrrhic victory of having her crushing grief inspire two timeless masterpieces). All in all, Colin was pulling it off with startling aplomb, the fact that he was determined never to fall in love again notwithstanding.
Besides, didn’t that work heavily in Penelope’s favour anyway? Wasn’t that like an indisputable premise of any good Hoe Phase? To go into it with one’s eyes (and legs) wide open?
She’d held onto that thought as tightly as she could with her fingers threaded into the curls at the back of his neck, his lips a delicious mix of hot and unhurried against hers. It gave her purchase away from the knowledge of her bare bum on his crowded marble countertop. Away from her knees being bracketed, rather poetically, by the last of the ganache and the bowl of cream he’d hand-whipped, like she was the one he’d actually meant to have for dessert.
The metaphor quickly turned literal when he’d smiled devilishly against her mouth and tugged the front of her dress down without apology. Penelope felt the cool air of the room kiss her bare breast for a split second before it was overtaken by the wicked swipe of his thumb, dressing her nipple in a neat little dollop of cream.
‘I’m quite a hungry boy, Pen,’ he’d whispered cheekily in justification, all his sordid intentions already woven into that simple explanation – a mischievous, perfectly playful warning. And she could have sworn she’d felt her knees actually buckle, because, more than anything, wasn’t that just so fucking Colin? Wasn’t that just everything she loved about him, embodied tidily in a bite-sized anecdote she could snack on, if ever (whenever) her too-logical, post-orgasm mind dared demand why?
Between that and the sight of her discarded knickers on his floor, she felt an ultra-niche kink being unlocked in real-time. It, however, came in tandem with the devastating knowledge that this was likely never to be repeated. That every attempt at sex after this would forever pale in comparison. That she was about to be entirely ruined for anyone else – everyone else. (As if she wasn’t already.)
Still, it apparently wasn’t devastating enough for her to stop. She couldn’t think of a good reason to – not for all the love or money this side of the Atlantic. Not even when he’d kissed her cheek gently, thumb now paying its naughty attentions to her other nipple as he smoothly procured a condom from the very back of one of his well-stocked kitchen cupboards, and she realised, fully, what an utter cliché she was. Just another besotted fool desperate to warm his cock for him in thanks for an impressively cooked meal. (Though, let’s be honest: had the meal itself even really been a requirement?) (No.)
At least, she’d reasoned, she wasn’t allowing herself to be fucked bare, though that said more about Colin’s integrity than Penelope’s willpower. She knew she would have let him – wouldn’t have even bothered putting up the pretence of a fight. Frankly, it was already a personal victory that she hadn’t begged for it, considering she’d been far more worried that the winding quest for said protection would be enough to sober them both up.
In the end, God bless the Condom Cupboard, she supposed. Broader, heartbreaking implications be damned.
‘Pen,’ he’d said then, the sound of it on his lips so darling and careful.
In hindsight, Penelope realised his eyes had been wide and vulnerable as he’d paused, the still-wrapped condom resting so unassumingly on the counter it might as well have been a packet of ketchup. There had been a question on his face – something tentative and far too sensible for her liking. But, if he’d truly been expecting to have a mature conversation whilst his maddeningly clever thumb was caressing the underside of her tit back and forth, back and forth? If he was choosing now, of all times, to have a discussion, when she was obviously very busy trying her damnedest not to snog his stupidly sweet face off? Well, then he had another thing coming. (Penelope. Ideally, it was Penelope who would be coming.)
Nope, she’d decided swiftly. Absolutely not. Now was not the time for rationality or foresight of any kind. Never mind responsibility, which was more than welcome to sod all the way off. Jesus. No, now was the time for some very, very bad decisions – like, some genuinely befuddling, ill-thought-out, earth-shatteringly terrible choices. She was finally ready, and she would not be dissuaded. She was making the call.
And so, she’d met those devastatingly earnest eyes with a disbelieving raise of her brow. She knew she didn’t even have to glance down at his handiwork on her breasts for her argument to stand. ‘My tits are cosplaying a couple of Knickerbocker Glories, and now you want to have a little chat?’
The effect was instantaneous. He threw his head back and barked out a joyous, full-bodied laugh, and that was all it took for her to go mortifyingly, alarmingly damp. God, the sheer amount of kinks Colin Bridgerton was unlocking within her had to be breaking some sort of record, she was sure. Who the hell even got this wet over a bloody laugh? (Penelope Featherington, that’s who.)
But, she digressed. Through the criminally underrated medium of copious sex giggles, Penelope had clearly and deftly made her point: they both knew what this was and, maybe more importantly, what it wasn’t. It would not have to mean anything. She was fine with that.
She’d found she hadn’t even been lying; would wonders never cease. And not even because, if he’d suddenly decided to put a stop to this, she was sure she’d fully burst into tears. (Like, soul-wracking sobs she’d have to excuse as extreme PMS or something equally as sexy.) No, she really was quite ready to ‘think less, fuck more’, if the pot of gold at the end of that rainbow was Colin Bloody Bridgerton. In fact, she was damn near willing not to think and fuck it all, but that was a (rather huge) problem for tomorrow’s Penelope.
Whatever her reasoning, he’d seemed glad for the gift; the rare chance to guiltlessly shed his chivalry and just have some fairly ill-advised fun. And it was ill-advised, she was lucid enough to remind herself, because it was an easy thing to forget when he was raking those eyes down her body and whispering, awestricken, ‘Christ, you’re sexy. Fucking edible.’
Coming from a professional chef, there was no higher praise. He might as well have called her Aphrodite incarnate. In answer, she finally deigned to look down at the product of his mischief before levelling him with a smug smirk.
‘I’m covered in an expertly hand-whipped crème fouettée that’s holding its shape rather well,’ she’d quipped airily, unintentionally revealing herself as at least half of the six million views on his three-part TikTok series. (It was fifteen whole minutes of his bulging bicep whisking full-fat dairy. Sue her.) ‘You would think that.’
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the crevice between her breasts, his smile devious as his mouth inched closer and closer to its prize. ‘Crème chantilly, actually,’ he murmured purposefully against her skin like he’d meant for her to feel every single syllable, ‘because it’s sweetened.’ At that point, it was hard to tell which was burning hotter: his lips or the flesh of her, caught underneath them. Achingly slowly, his kisses began to twist – to turn hungry… then insatiable… then fucking gluttonous – before his eyes darted back to hers with a delighted and dangerous gleam. ‘Not that any part of you needs it.’
Whoever said men couldn’t multitask had clearly never fucked Colin Bridgerton because Penelope hadn’t even realised his hand had slid its way under her skirt until he punctuated that misleadingly sweet flirtation with a single graze of his thumb across her clit. It was like lightning hitting water – all the dark nooks, crannies, and depths of her completely illuminated by a single strike – and her mouth fell open in a gasp before she registered a familiar (and rather specific) sensation of coolness on her skin.
Bloody crème chantilly, she realised, was now sitting prettily right on the apex of her cunt and carrying with it a very pointed promise: I’m quite a hungry boy, Pen.
And what? She was really expected to close her legs after that? Be so fucking for real.
She grounded herself through that singular icy point – a much-needed tether to earth – as he (finally!) sucked her nipple into the inferno of his mouth. Ruthlessly, he caught the little nub between his teeth, almost as though to prevent her from squirming away. The first swipe of his tongue was precise and pointed – the kind of lick that dared her to count each rough taste bud she felt on her skin. Not that she could. Not when that one move had her visibly quaking under him, like the world’s most talented porn star.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, but she drew on her restraint – forced herself to keep from throwing her head back and keening. She wanted to watch him feast on her, wanted to savour the sight. If this was going to be the last time this happened (and it was, she swore it), she wanted to commit to memory the knowledge that Colin ate like he cooked and, apparently, fucked like he ate: with unadulterated gusto.
It was through this and the steadfast rhythm of his tongue circling around… and around… and around… that she learned he was equal parts daring and disciplined, madness and method, artistry and ability, and that wasn’t at all surprising. Not for someone who knew him like she did. Not for the woman he’d once dragged across London to six different Asian markets in search of the perfect green papaya, because was life even worth living if Colin couldn’t have a proper som tam whenever he wanted? If he actually had to settle for oyster sisig with lime instead of calamansi, the way God had truly intended?
He’d always had such a singular, unforgiving appetite. It was what made him a great chef. Colin Bridgerton did not believe in shortcuts, or substitutions, or sparing luxuries – not when it came to the things he craved.
Tonight, it seemed he was craving Penelope.
Lust clawed at her, at the thought. It crawled up her body as she watched his meticulous little kisses start to descend. And, as he began to brand her, inch by blistering inch, down her sternum… her stomach… her navel… she realised too late that, without meaning to, the hand she’d had in his hair had indeed been urging him lower… and lower… and lower…
Penelope Featherington was, apparently, no better than a man not-so-subtly angling for a blowjob.
Still, she couldn’t feel too guilty. Not when Colin went eagerly. Devotedly. Insatiably. And maybe, she thought then, that was her reward for her honesty? For her willingness to own up to the fact that, if she didn’t get to ride that disgustingly handsome face at least once, she might actually die?
‘Is that what you want, Pen?’ he’d asked, because apparently, there really was a God. His earnest eyes seared her skin as he unwrapped her, rid her of the last of the buttons on her dress until the fabric flared open, flat and now entirely useless, under her. He’d beamed then, his grin wide, boyish, and bright at the sight of her naked for him. And that smile – that fucking smile – had made Penelope’s traitorous stomach swoop. Made her forget for just a moment that whatever this was, it was certainly not that. They were not heading there.
Distraction was the lifebuoy she reached for, determinedly locking their gazes, content to watch his mouth rest on the underside of her lower belly, barely a breath away from that little dollop of cream. And then, there was no other warning (even though, thinking back, Penelope could have sworn she’d heard the whine of a bomb gleefully hurtling towards the earth in the distance) before… ‘Want my tongue up your sweet little cunt?’
Words, she’d thought desperately, as she felt the heat of her blood slowly colour her pink from head to toe. Penelope had definitely heard of the concept before. Had even made a career of writing them down. Had been paid (rather handsomely) for placing them in a distinct, artistic order – one after another, after another – in a way that formed sentences. Paragraphs. Chapters, even, and all it took was a gorgeous face and a filthy mouth to make her forget every single one?
Fuck Colin Bridgerton for that, actually.
Fuck his heartwrenchingly cute teeth, and his ludicrously pouty lips, and the way his deliciously vulgar tongue made Penelope ache with the need to squeeze her thighs together, genuinely worried she might drip onto his floor. Fuck him for employing her favourite kink – the one her romance novels were lauded for, the one that had constantly eluded her sex life IRL – and for having the audacity to pull it off, the absolute bloody bastard.
She drew a sharp breath in and caught her lip between her teeth in an effort to harangue herself back from the edge of the cliff she’d nearly dove straight off. It gave her time to swallow down the PornHub-certified whimper still trying to scrabble its way up her throat, because no, thank you.
But Colin didn’t believe in reprieves. Instead of giving her a moment to pull her heartbeat out of her cunt, he only smiled and slid his thumb gently between its seam. ‘Sweet girl,’ he’d murmured teasingly with a too-light caress. The whisper of his breath had rustled the thatch of red curls under his lips as he toyed with the cream he’d left above her clit. ‘You’re blushing down here, too.’ His smile turned lopsided as he cocked his head, the adorableness of it all so at odds with the way he lifted his thumb to his mouth, and sucked a bit of cream off the tip dangerously, adding almost meanly, ‘Bit of a slut for it, aren’t you?’
Why? Why did she love that?
In true Penelope Featherington fashion, she managed to trap her moan behind her teeth, dropping that lethal train of thought like it scalded her. Instead, she tugged hard on his hair once to chasten him and his stupidly sexy ego. After all, she still had some semblance of self-respect, and the last thing Colin Bridgerton needed was an official deification to sex god. (The man had enough going for him, surely.)
‘Christ Almighty.’ She’d feigned an exasperated sigh even as he obediently followed the tug upward, his gorgeous, warm hands sliding up her naked flanks as he pressed a cheeky kiss to the side of her neck. ‘Will you just get on with it?’ she’d teased, busying herself with pulling his shirt up over his head. She was quite proud that her voice could still mask her utterly staggering lust, because the space between her legs decidedly could not. ‘Jesus,’ she’d continued, tossing the fabric… somewhere… ‘These bloody new-fangled vibrators with the chinwag setting are so annoying.’
His soft huff of a laugh fanned across her face as he kissed her soundly – slowly – his diligent tongue taking its time, seemingly searching the heat of her mouth for any remnants of that cake.
‘Mm,’ he’d hummed, not quite pulling away. ‘Just want a little toy, do you?’ He was smirking against her lips as his thumb strummed a steady tempo across her clit, the obscene sound of her wetness unignorable. ‘Something to use?’
And, oh, Penelope was absolutely burning now, hips unabashedly canting into his touch, cheeks fevered at the thought of finally being allowed to indulge in the full extent of her greed for him. But, because she had given too much away already and really needed to recover the upper hand, she still rolled her eyes, thoroughly devoted to her faux-irritation. ‘Obviously—ah!’
Suddenly, they were both on the floor, Penelope manhandled surprisingly sweetly into straddling his chest. He held her in place by the hips, and when she looked down at him, there was a fiery challenge in his eyes, like he was daring her to try her luck at wriggling away. The pads of his fingers sank into the flesh of her arse, urging her forward, begging her through his touch to hover herself over his mouth.
Still, she hesitated, because Penelope knew she was hardly a slip of a thing – had never been delicate or waiflike or light. She was lush. She was soft. She was ample. The kind of woman who spilt over in her lovers’ hands, filling every bit of space given to her without ever trying. There was weight to her. There would always be.
And yet, Colin was staring up at her the same way he stared at a basket filled to bursting with warm bread: like it was holy. Like this was exactly what life ought to be. Like he’d finally found something worthy of his unapologetically voracious appetite.
Yes, Penelope had thought then, I am worthy.
But it was the way he shimmied a little bit lower, a soft sigh of contentment escaping his lips as he lay in place, that finally did it – rid her of all her pesky uncertainty. How could she even think of denying him when he looked, for all the world, like a man settling in for a sinful and long-awaited meal?
It certainly didn’t help that the expression he was wearing was so easy. So excited. So thoughtlessly brazen. Or that his next devastatingly cheeky command had been, ‘Go on then. Use me.’
‘Fuck.’ It was finally wrenched from her, heavy-lidded and breathless, lust pulsing in her cunt. The beat of it twisted deliciously at the sight of him beaming up at her, adorably self-satisfied, in answer. She’d carded her fingers into his hair for purchase (though if she was honest, she knew the caress was a little too loving), tightened her hold on his sweet curls, and lowered herself onto that smile – that fucking smile.
His face was obscured from her vision now, but it didn’t matter. She felt his desire in the way he clutched desperately at the give of her hips, in the teasing, torrid kisses he left in a trail up, up, up her inner thigh towards her cunt. She counted them carefully – one… two… three… four… – until…
‘Ohhh,’ she’d sighed out, throwing her head back in sweet relief as he sucked the last of the dollop of cream off her clit. ‘Yesss,’ she’d hissed softly, feeling like she could finally breathe again.
‘Mmm,’ Colin murmured from under her, almost to himself. And, even behind closed eyelids, she could picture the wolfishness in his grin. ‘Such a pretty little pussy.’
Penelope’s belly clenched deliciously at the lewdness of the compliment – at her first taste of being truly relished – and then his tongue slipped smoothly between her seam, and, well…
Never let it be said that Colin Bridgerton oversold himself, she thought, as her eyes rolled back into her head. Because fuck, but the man could eat.
He licked into her, the movements unhurried – long, languid strokes that seemed to compel her hips to follow their rhythm. Forward, and forward, and forward, on, and on, and on they urged her, the invitation to bear down and ride his face growing so insistent it was all but an inevitability, and already, her whole body began to quake. Never mind the flames that engulfed her as she looked down at herself – at him, at them together – and saw the way her hips were shamelessly chasing the feel of his tongue. She was sure her grip on his hair must be painful now, and still, he held her firmly to him, his fingers indenting her thighs and his blissfully vulgar gurgles making it rather clear they would never again be able to share a meal without her thoroughly ruining her knickers.
‘Mmm,’ she’d moaned as he started to punctuate each deft curl of his tongue with a teasing flick to her clit. Seemingly small gestures that, strung together – over, and over, and over, and over – were maddeningly lethal. Pleasure was building at her centre, deep and weighted, filling her lungs almost oppressively. And, in the dizzy haze of it, it occurred to her that Colin Bridgerton did not eat like a man starving. He ate like a man used to plenty. Like decadence was something both expected and endless. Evergreen.
It made Penelope wonder, suddenly, if it could be.
The gentle hum of her hunger for him – the one she had lived with for so long – began to morph into something carnal, something mortal and arrogant that was determined, it seemed, to sink its claws into her skin. A soul-damning, totally unearned hubris telling her maybe she could withstand fire and brimstone, actually. Maybe Hell wouldn’t be all that bad. Maybe she didn’t have to give this up.
There was nothing for it now. Bottom lip between her teeth, she began to cant forward in earnest – to succumb to his depraved invitation and really ride him. To match the tempo of his tongue beat for beat. It amazed her how faithful he was to this, to her – how energetic, how devoted, how happy to be of service – and when she closed her eyes, she imagined the way his smug, cheeky grin was, undoubtedly, covered in all her wetness. How much he was enjoying that, knowing the eternally hungry, feral thing that he was.
‘Good boy.’
It snuck out between one breath and the next, and could someone be tongue-drunk? She supposed so, because she was mildly aware that she hadn’t meant to say that out loud; had only meant to feel the words as the weight of them grew unbearable in her throat.
But regret, Penelope then learned, was exactly like good sense: it was an elusive thing. It tended to be fleeting, especially when it resulted in Colin Bridgerton moaning, absolutely wrecked, straight into her cunt. The echo of it racked through her as his licks took on a new fervour – a pace that had all the makings of something relentless and unforgiving. A rhythm that was determined to impress.
And, impress it did. In fact, it was almost too much, and yet she couldn’t help but match it anyway. He’d given her no choice but to brace herself against her arm, one hand flat on his stomach behind her, hips mindlessly humping his godforsaken miracle of a face.
‘Fuck yesss,’ she’d whimpered through gritted teeth, desperate to stave off whatever savage noise was trying to rip through her, ‘Oh my God, Colin, yesss!’
His answer? He’d taken her clit in his mouth and hummed around it in a baritone so merciless she could do nothing but shatter; one minute she was Penelope, and the next, a mirror tumbling slowly to the floor at the exact right angle, morning sunlight reflected brightly on its surface as it splintered into fathomless shards of vicious silver glitter. Ruined, quite irrevocably.
Inevitable as she knew her fall from grace was (and it had been inevitable, she’d realised then), at the very least, the treacherous descent had been truly epic. Mythological. Fucking Icarian.
She’d tried to ease herself off him as best she could, considering her sudden lack of bones and breath. (She could’ve sworn she’d had both in spades just a second ago – was certain she could even find them again, if only she could stop fucking coming, Jesus Christ.) Still, she amassed enough wherewithal to move downward and straddle his belly instead of his face, and was rewarded with the uncovering of an expression he only wore after satisfying some obscure, painfully niche craving. It was the grin exclusively reserved for the successful hauling of one, Penelope Featherington, all over London to replenish his stash of salted egg and morilles séchées.
‘That cunt…’ he had said, rather dreamily, curls standing in heartwrenching little tufts on his head thanks to Penelope’s, er, passions. He toyed with her fingers lazily before intertwining them in each of his hands. His face was slick with her – shiny, sticky, and devastatingly endearing even in its indecency (maybe especially so) – and suddenly, she found herself assaulted by the urge to lick it all off him. Slowly. ‘Exceptional,’ he’d continued, sounding delightfully fucked out, if Penelope did say so herself. (She did.) ‘Three Michelin stars. No, four. No,’ he’d said, widening his twinkling eyes at her meaningfully, ‘five.’
And well… At that point, she’d had to do something, lest she fall even further in love with him than was strictly manageable. (Too late. Twenty-four years too late.)
A heady blush blistering under her skin, she’d made quick work of standing and using the very last dregs of her self-preservation to hide her smile as she located the fucking cupboard condom, still lying innocently on the kitchen island. Playing it cool (she was so cool), she ripped it open with her teeth as she sat astride his waist again, pushing the waistband of his track bottoms low enough that she could free his cock. (The beautiful bastard had gone commando, what the fuck.)
Finally setting eyes on a dick she’d only been dreaming about for literal years was, in a word, indescribable. And yet, the writer in her yearned to try anyway – would have liked very much to spare a second to narrate, in perfectly polished (and anatomically accurate) prose, its delightful girth, the warm weight of it in her hand. To wax poetic about how it was satisfyingly heart-arresting in size (she’d always known, of course, but now she knew) and really quite… pretty. The whore in her, however, was far too thirsty for it, putting a swift end to any fantasies she’d had of further refining her cock-related vocabulary. At least for the moment.
And so, with exactly zero preamble, she rolled the condom onto his shaft rather smoothly for someone who was all but drooling for it, and sat up on her knees, just high enough to notch the head at her humiliatingly wet entrance.
She sank herself onto it leisurely, thoroughly enjoying the sight of him going ever so slightly cross-eyed with pleasure the more she took of him. Suddenly, she knew how villains were born, because the power she felt over him in that moment was dangerously intoxicating, and she could barely resist the urge to gloat, even though she was just as desperate for him. It wasn’t like he needed to know that.
The point was, unrequited and utterly stupid though her devotion was, at least she would always have this: the knowledge that she could unravel Colin Bloody Bridgerton so profoundly, merely by allowing him inside her. She ought to have commemorative t-shirts made, really, or lease out a West End billboard quoting his glowing follow-up review.
‘Six,’ he’d groaned, greedily filling both his hands with her tits, kneading them like it was his last delicious anchor to the moment, ‘six fucking stars.’
‘Do you ever shut the fuck up?’ she’d chuckled, perfectly nonchalant, knowing full well that what she had really meant to say – to beg him for – was: call me a slut again. (It was a happy middle, all things considered. Never let them know your next move and all that.)
But Colin, being Colin, was ever his lethally charming and unrepentant self. His response was to (reluctantly, if his pout was any indication) tear his hands away from her breasts and drag his palms gently down each of her flanks. He squeezed her hips and held her steady on him, sitting up so she was nose-to-nose with that fucking smile again.
Wrapping her arms around his neck was, of course, the only bearable option and, as she toyed casually with those curls, twirling them around her fingers, she felt the searing heat of his eyes on her lips. Just the anticipation of tasting her cunt on him was, in her humble opinion, the very definition of intoxicating. (The reality of it, she would later find, was cataclysmic.)
‘Only when my mouth has something fun to do.’
Penelope watched the words tumble from him hungrily, the remnants of her still glistening on his face adding an adorable air of impertinence to the taunt. She wanted to roll her eyes, to be elegantly nonplussed. But what was the point of the pretence now, when his naughty grin was already pressed against hers? When he insisted on licking into her mouth, torrid and lazy – an obscene reminder of exactly how he liked to lick her cunt?
Jesus, did she hate (love) him.
Their lips slipped away from each other’s, but just barely, their foreheads resting together if only to catch their breath. For a moment, Penelope just… held him inside her, memorising the blissfulness of him filling her, stretching her.
If this was going to be the last time – was it? She vaguely remembered making some sort of false promise she obviously hadn’t meant – then he better fucking feel it. It was selfish of her, true, and so diametrically opposed to the woman she’d purported to be less than an hour ago, but so what? So, she wanted him to look back on this moment and wish, desperately, that he had fucked her bare, wanted him to be haunted by the lost potential of seeing his come dripping down her thighs, wanted him to dream of her clenching herself hard to hold it within her.
Was that so wrong?
Deciding to absolve herself of these fairly reasonable sins, she tightened her fingers into the hair at his nape – grabbed at him – and started her slow, possessive little bounces up… and down… up… and down… up… and down…
‘Call me a slut again,’ she finally found the courage to whisper, ferociously and without shame, refusing to shy away from his gaze or care that she was burning from the inside out at the thought of revealing exactly how vast and endless her lust for him was.
‘Filthy, perfect girl,’ he’d groaned instead, into the scant space between their lips, eyes dark in a way she’d never seen before. Carefully, as he’d guided her gentle rise and fall on his cock, he began to sear kisses in a line up her jaw to her ear. ‘Gagging for it, are you?’ he murmured, flirty and fiendish, each achingly shallow thrust timed to punctuate his taunts exactly. ‘Just love having that pretty pink pussy fucked?’
Was there a better way to realise that being damned to Hell was actually a lot more fun than she’d imagined? Penelope thought not.
Her nod was bordering on manic, the tip of his nose bumping sweetly against her feverish cheek over, and over, and over again, her breathing already laboured.
‘Mm,’ she agreed. At the mercy of his pace, his grip on her hips insisting on revolutions that were steady and unhurried, the friction of his shaft against her clit built, and built, and built like little flashes of lightning, warnings of the blaze to come. They converged into sensations that were whole, that were deep, that forced her to suck air through her teeth and whine helplessly, ‘Yes. Yes, fuck, yes!’
She scrabbled at his shoulders, needing to keep him close, and eventually, his composure began to unravel, each thrust growing harsher, harder, and more demanding despite its measured rhythm. And his mouth? Vulgar as ever, his tongue heavy with litanies of filth.
‘Christ, Pen,’ he’d whispered as those shamelessly adorable goddamn teeth caught her earlobe, ‘what I wouldn’t give to fuck you bare.’
You could. I’d let you. I’d beg you for it.
Considering the particularly intense thrust that made Penelope’s belly swoop and her cunt clench possessively around him, she was rather proud of herself for not letting him, quite literally, fuck the words straight out of her. (Yes, alright, she already knew she was an idiot. There was no need to be so loud.) (Then again, many women had done more for far less than a four-course dinner, hadn’t they? Didn’t that mean she was still within a reasonable threshold of common sense, or at least, that she had a few more forgivable stupidities to her name?)
Important questions, yes, but for another day. A day when Colin Bridgerton wasn’t nuzzling his nose into the column of her throat, and voicing all her poorly kept secrets as he squeezed her arse and pound, pound, pounded his cock into her. ‘You’d let me, wouldn’t you? You’d beg for my come and say thank you?’
Fuck yes, obviously, but he shouldn’t know that. So, instead, she tugged at his hair, tipping his head up towards her so she could look down her nose at him high-handedly. A wasted effort, because the sight of him under her, his tongue peeking out of that cunty little smirk, large hands digging into her fleshy waist as he bounced, and bounced, and bounced, and bounced, and bounced her…?
And then, ‘Say it, slut.’ A predatory command crooned up at her, wolfish, and arrogant, and so fucking hot it made her blood fizz. ‘Say: thank you for fucking me, Colin,’ he’d ordered, keeping their eyes locked until he’d leaned in to press a deviously tender kiss to her throat, smiling devilishly as he whispered into her skin, ‘Say: thank you for making me your little come rag.’
Her mouth fell open at the utter bliss of being so deliciously demeaned, as if she was desperate for him to feed those words to her by hand, to taste them, to curl her tongue around them and just hold them. She would’ve said them in a heartbeat if she could have, but she’d been a bit busy, dying a few hundred little deaths.
Her body seized lusciously around him, the deeply satisfying tremor of her orgasm pulsing from some unnamed core, shifting the tectonic plates of her. And, as she felt him follow her off the edge, his come spurting, hot and inexplicably, ridiculously baptismal inside her, she felt remade into a version of herself that could never again unknow this. A Penelope Featherington that was, now and forever more, completely, utterly, thoroughly, and literally… so fucking fucked.