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weepingfromacedartree · 1 year ago

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Ten Milestones: The Big Argument

Hi friends! Apologies for the delay, but chapter 14 is now live! ✨✨

Please note: this chapter is rated E for sexual content

“Number Ten: The Big Argument. While likely unpleasant, this milestone may be the most important of all. Entering a marriage with unspoken grievances and frustrations between you and your partner is never a good idea. Before walking down the aisle, you two need to get into an argument. A big one. The catch: you need to come out the other side stronger than where you started.”

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One Week Earlier: April 22nd, 2023

Relationship Status: Complicated

꙳

Logically, Penelope should not be alarmed by receiving an “SOS” text from Colin Bridgerton. Over the last three and a half years, he has used this system about a dozen times for all sorts of reasons — none of which have met the standard definition of an “emergency.”

(The last text came about eight months ago. The emergency? He had run out of leftovers and desperately needed someone to accompany him en route to the nearest chip shop.)

When Penelope received “SOS” from him 23 minutes ago, logically, she should not have been alarmed. But after receiving this text after 6 months of radio silence…

She takes the stairs up to his flat, anyway.

When she unlocks his door, her alarm bells are not quelled by what she sees inside.

Complete. Utter. Darkness.

After blindly grabbing for the nearest lightswitch, she only finds more nothing. She hastes from room to room, but still…

Kitchen. Nothing.

Sitting room. Nothing.

Bathroom. Nothing.

Bedroom. Nothing.

The last place she checks is Benedict’s old room. The one she stayed in for a month during the end of the world. When she swings the door open, she gets exactly what she was expecting. More nothing.

Colin isn’t here. That much is clear — and only one step up from the worst-case scenario. (Having found him unconscious on the floor somewhere.)

She retrieves her phone from her back pocket. She types “Where are you??” and hovers her index above the little blue button. She can’t bring herself to push down. Instead, she pushes the power button and puts the damn thing out of her view.

Absent of any other distraction, Penelope’s tired eyes take stock of the room before her. It looks different than it had three years ago.

The room was evidently transformed into a home office after Benedict moved out. The bed is still here, but does not appear fit to sleep in; the white comforter is barely visible beneath a mountain of cardboard boxes and miscellaneous junk. There's a desk in the corner, cluttered with even more junk. There’s junk packed into every corner of the room. Postcards. Coffee mugs. Unfolded clothes. Half-written journals. Half-dead plants.

Little pieces of Colin, everywhere.

He used to tell Penelope that she is “always” welcome in this flat. Now, she’s standing in the doorway of a room she hardly recognises. Now, she feels like an intruder — which is certainly not an unfamiliar feeling. Not after the last six months.

The two of them have not been in a room together since the night of Benedict’s wedding. Some of that was by coincidence — like the “Great Bridgerton COVID Christmas” that cancelled all plans between Colin’s birthday and New Years. Some of it was purposeful — like the work trip Penelope took to New York at the beginning of the month, which rendered any plans (or possible reunions) for her own birthday obsolete.

Penelope was far from an innocent party in all that silence; it takes two to carry out a silent treatment of that magnitude. But through it all, she could not help but see herself as the less guilty party. She could not help but sense the force with which Colin was driving a wedge between them. Penelope could recognise the pressure because she was on the other side of it once — when she was at Cheltenham and he was at Cambridge and she decided they could no longer be friends.

The only communication they’ve had since that night in October was through a handful of voicemails and texts — none of which discussed anything of note. Certainly nothing about Anthony’s speech or the gaping hole it ripped into their friendship. No jokes or clarifications or confessions of —

Nope.

She can’t think about that right now, so she takes note of her surroundings again. She looks ahead, to those cardboard boxes. She looks down, in the general direction of the phone hidden away in her pocket. She looks over her shoulder, to the front door she accidentally left ajar while barging in here.

She should press send on that text message to Colin. She should write a new one — one telling him to find someone else to deal with any future made up emergencies. She should leave his flat. She should lock the door behind her.

She really doesn’t want to do any of those things, though; she doesn’t know if she has the strength to. So instead, she falls into a familiar tactic. One she uses whenever her head gets too busy and she needs to focus on anything other than that mess.

(Snooping.)

Stepping fully into the room, Penelope’s eyes settle on those boxes on the bed. They’re just out of place enough to stand out from the rest of the junk. Most of them are taped shut, but one has been mercifully cut open. As she approaches it, she realises that the gap is too narrow for her to tell what’s inside. But with one little nudge of her finger…

A book.

About two dozen books, to be exact — each one stacked neatly over the other. There’s a picture of a beach on the cover, one that looks more and more familiar the closer she leans in to inspect it. The bottom reads —

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

She reads the words over and over and over again, not quite believing what she’s seeing.

Notes on Paradise

Colin Bridgerton

She flips open the dust jacket, as if the name plastered across the front wasn’t enough to confirm its authenticity. Sure enough, there he is, looking all too serious in that little rectangular image.

Colin Bridgerton is a writer, copy editor, and voracious traveller hailing from London, England. He is best known for his work independently documenting

Penelope stops reading the blurb, suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that this book is real and ready to be published and currently gripped between her fingers.

A decade ago, he told her writing a book was his dream. Five years ago, he told her he was finally ready to start writing it. He’s mentioned it plenty of times in the last few years, but always as a work in progress. Never as something this real or tangible. She always thought she was the one person he could —

Nope.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he finished it and signed with a publishing house and took a stupid, too serious author’s portrait and never told Penelope about any of it.

With shaky fingers, she opens to a random page in the middle. Whether they were intended for her eyes or not, she reads the words before her.

are gentle. They rise to the shore with a soft rush of foam, slipping and sliding along your toes until another wave arrives to clean up the mess.

As an outsider, it is difficult to miss how Cyprus’ landscape appears to be painted with a different palette than the rest of the world. During my adolescence, I saw a few thousand “blue” skies over London — all of which fade to grey in my mind when viewing the cobalt hue that hangs over the Troodos Mountains. During my travels, I have seen waters a hundred shades of blue — none of which match the exact turquoise that gleams beneath Cyprus’ sun.

The scenery here is so uniquely beautiful — it’s like the land itself begs to be memorialised. While walking along its beaches, I cannot help but recall the brilliant artists who captured Cyprus’ beauty long ago. Those who wrote it into sonnets and built it into mythologies and etched it into murals. Like me, I am certain these individuals knew they were walking through paradise during their time here. This place is perfection, and yet…

And yet, with every turquoise wave and cloudless, cobalt sky I am reminded that this is not my home. That I was born to live elsewhere.

In no way does this revelation quell my incessant need to see as much of the world as I can get. But it does offer a comfort, of sorts. An appreciation for the place I left and will always return to. A longing for horns blaring at daybreak and rainy afternoons in the middle of August.

The people here — do they know the joy that is a sunny day after a week of rain? They couldn’t possibly. Their days are always perfect.

Can one appreciate perfection when it is a constant in one’s life?

August 7th, 2016

Penelope is transfixed by these words. By the time she finishes scanning the second page, the shock and betrayal that loomed inside her just a moment ago is all but forgotten. She pinches the corner between her pointer and thumb, ready and eager to turn the next. But before she can, something new claims her attention.

Footsteps. Then, maybe five seconds later, a voice. One that sounds about two octaves higher than it usually does.

“Whoever’s there — I have a knife!”

As calmly as she can manage, Penelope places the book back where she found it. With heavy footsteps, she walks back into the hallway.

Colin is standing between the front door and the kitchen. As warned, he has a knife gripped in his left hand. From where Penelope stands, it appears more suited to cut butter than defend oneself from an intruder.

“Pen?”

Her name falls from his lips like water. Like nothing. Barely a breath upon his lips.

For a moment, it’s silent between them. Then they ask two questions at once.

“What are you doing here?”

“Why are you wet?”

It had taken her a very long moment to realise it, but Colin is absolutely drenched. His hair is hastily slicked-back and dripping. His jacket and trousers are sticking to his skin. Penelope can practically see the puddles in the soles of his shoes.

Before sense can return to her body and remind her of the ridiculous reason why she is here, Colin informs her, “I was walking back from Mayfair. The sky opened up just as I turned the last corner.”

As if on cue, a clap of thunder rings through his flat so loudly that Penelope jumps a few inches into the air. In fairness, she has been on edge since the moment she got that SOS —

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, sounding even more annoyed than he had just a moment ago. Given the current circumstances, Penelope cannot even begin to imagine what could warrant such a reaction from him.

“What do you mean, ‘What am I doing here?’” she asks, trying and failing to keep her voice from betraying her emotions. She can feel about a thousand of those bubbling up to the surface right now. “I came because you asked me to.”

Any annoyance left on Colin’s face drops immediately. He simply looks confused.

“What are you talking about?”

Penelope glances at the phone hidden away in her pocket.

“SOS?” she reminds him, her voice hitching up at the end. In the back of her mind, she wonders if the last six months drove her to a point of insanity that allowed her to conjure up phantom messages from the ghost of a friend. Her fears are not quelled by the growing confusion on Colin’s face.

“I didn’t…” he starts, pulling out his phone. Whatever he sees there stuns him back into silence. It takes him several seconds to tear his eyes away from the screen and back to his questionable intruder.

He looks at her like he’s waiting for an explanation. But even if she wanted to offer him an ounce of context (she doesn’t), she wouldn’t know where to begin.

“Fucking hell,” he eventually mumbles. He places his phone and the butter knife on the nearest flat surface, then runs an anxious hand through his dripping hair. “I — I thought I misplaced my phone at dinner. Then Greg said I left it in the loo and… “ He sighs. “That little bugger must have stolen it and sent you that text.”

“Gregory sent it?” Penelope’s words are slow, but exceedingly impatient. “Why? Why would he do that?”

“You really expect me to explain why Greg does what he does? I don’t have the time or the psych degree to unpack all —”

“No, Colin. I meant why — how does he even know about the whole ‘SOS’’ thing? I —”

“Daphne knows about it,” Colin cuts in, not sounding very sure of himself. “Doesn’t she? You told her on that night we babysat Auggie, right?”

“I think so, but —”

“You know my family. They’re always conspiring about something.”

“About what?!” she cries, louder and messier than she had intended to. “Why the hell are Daphne and Gregory conspiring to get us in a room together?”

Still shiny with rainwater, Colin’s face blanches.

“I…”

When he offers no further information, Penelope cannot stop herself from asking, “Is it for the same reason you’ve been avoiding me these last six months? If so, perhaps you could enlighten me on the matter.”

For several seconds, he doesn’t say anything. His lips part, but only the softest, shortest breaths of air flow in and out of his mouth. Then, just when Penelope grows uneasy enough to open her own mouth to backtrack, Colin lies.

“I haven’t.” He looks down. “I — I haven’t been avoiding you.”

And just like that, Penelope’s instinct to backtrack is vanished.

“Bullshit.”

Panic flashes in his eyes as he breathes out, “Pen —”

“We spoke more often when you were running from country to country eleven months of the year. Now, I don’t even know where you’ve been since October, because we haven’t spoken about anything since then! Since —”

Her voice stops short. She doesn’t know how to continue without unravelling everything else.

In her silence, Colin asks, “Did you prefer it then?” His tone is harsh.

“Did I —”

“Did you prefer it when I was gone eleven months of the year?”

His words come at her quickly. She can barely make sense of them, but she knows they sting.

“What are you talking about?”

“I said…” He takes a step towards her, and Penelope has to will herself to keep her feet rooted where she stands. “Did you prefer it when our friendship existed across oceans? When our primary means of communication were through our fucking phones?”

Something furious is welling up inside Penelope. Her breath feels hot against her lips as she responds to his ridiculous question.

“No, Colin. I didn’t ‘prefer’ it when you were gone all the time.” She sighs. Her words taste bitter in her mouth, but she pushes through, nonetheless. “Of course I didn’t. But at least back then, I could leave you a voicemail without wondering if you could be bothered to return my call.”

“Bothered?” he spits back, his voice turning venomous. He takes two more steps towards her. She could reach out and touch him if she wanted to.

“Yes, Col—”

“You know,” he interrupts, “this is all a bit rich, coming from you.”

That last word is so pointed that Penelope finally takes that step backwards.

“What is that supposed to m—”

“I think you’re being a hypocrite.”

“Excu—”

“I’m sorry, Pen. Really,” he says, though his words come out more resentful than they do sorrowful. “I’m sorry that I needed a — a break. But —”

And just like that, something inside Penelope dies.

“A break?” she repeats. Colin doesn’t seem to hear her above the sound of his own voice.

“— if I recall correctly, the last time you needed a break from me, it lasted more than two years.”

This time, she can barely hear herself as she asks, “What?”

“During those first two years I was at Cambridge,” he starts, his voice settling back into a cooler, more controlled sort of anger. “Back when we didn’t call or text or fucking speak to each other unless strictly necessary. At the time, I thought it was just because we were growing up. That we were both too busy with school and life and — whatever — to make time for one another. And that was fucking awful, but at least it was understandable. But after Catalonia, I don’t —”

His voice stops short. Whether that’s due to him running out of air or deeming the memory too cruel to dredge up now doesn’t matter. Not from where Penelope’s standing.

“You’re right,” she confirms. She’s five years late, but perhaps it’s never too late for one to stop lying. Even a bullshitter as proficient as Penelope.

“I was young and stupid and hurt, and I decided it was easier to step away from our friendship than to live with such a constant reminder of that night. But I was wrong. And I’m sorry — really. But I also struggle to see why you needed a break from our friendship following your brother’s wedding.” After sucking in a deep, desperate breath of air, she continues, “Is this about —”

“You know,” he interrupts, “I don’t believe you ever gave me a clear answer as to why you were hurt enough to temporarily end our friendship.”

Though that wasn’t technically phrased as a question, yet again, Colin is looking at her in wait for an explanation. When Penelope offers none, too busy biting at her lip and willing her eyes to keep dry, he asks the question she’s been dreading for five years.

“Why were you so hurt by what I said at Fife’s party?”

Penelope has never known Colin to be cruel. He may have hurt her in the past, but never this intentionally. This…

There’s no excuse for this. Just like there’s no point in asking a question that only has one possible answer. (Other than to make a point out of that answer.)

Colin is staring down at her, sopping wet, one footstep away, practically begging her to admit the truth to him. That when she was sixteen, his words killed her because she thought herself so in love that she could not imagine her heart beating without him. But it can. And she knows that now. She didn’t know it when she entered this flat tonight, but she does now.

She can see it all so clearly. How sad — how utterly pathetic — this little game she plays with herself is. This test of her character. This push to see how badly she can bruise her ego before it ceases to exist entirely. She could have stopped playing years ago. At sixteen. At eighteen. At twenty-three. At any of the countless moments in her life when she was hit by a proverbial truth — that she loves Colin Bridgerton, and he will never love her the same.

At twenty-eight, Penelope is experiencing a nauseating sense of deja vu. She’s in another one of those countless moments, and she thinks this one needs to be the last.

“Can I only name one reason? If so, I would have to say the reason I was ‘so hurt’ by your words was because they alerted me to the fact that I didn’t know you at all.”

“Penelope, I —”

“No,” she says forcefully. “You be quiet. It’s my turn to speak.”

Colin’s mouth falls open. Thankfully, he doesn’t try to use it to interrupt again.

“When we were teenagers, I thought you could do no wrong. I certainly didn’t think you would make a joke of me the second I disappeared from your view. But honestly — in hindsight, I should be glad I received that wake up call when I did. That I didn’t have to spend another decade blinded by the view of you. But god —”

Her voice cracks on that last word. Still, she pushes through.

“Now I fear I never learned my lesson. That I never learned who the real Colin Bridgerton is.”

“Penelope.”

When he offers her nothing more than the sad sound of her own name, Penelope pushes forward.

“I don’t know how I can take you at your word when you so often contradict it. You tell me I’m your favourite person, then cringe at the idea of us being together. You tell me I can rely on you, then disappear from my life for six months. You tell me we can talk about anything, then go silent over a simple, stupid miscommunication.”

“What?” he barely manages to ask. Penelope doesn’t hear him above the sound of her own voice.

“It’s always ‘always’ with you. And perhaps it's my own fault for believing such an impossible promise for so long — but I won’t any longer.”

“Penelope,” he says, louder this time. Still, he does not get through to her.

Turning on her heel, she continues, “And that’s fine. Because I am a hypocrite. And we’ve always been friends. And I never expected you to plan your life around me. But honestly —”

After reaching her intended destination, Penelope turns towards Colin again. She’s momentarily stunned by how close he had followed behind her. She has to crane her neck to meet his eye.

“Honestly, I thought you would bother telling me about this.”

She presses the hardcover against his stomach, and Colin doesn’t move a muscle. He keeps his arms at his sides and his eyes trained on hers. Then, after subjecting Penelope to several seconds of torturous silence, he speaks.

“Open it.”

“I already —”

“To the dedication.”

After a moment of hesitation, Penelope does as she’s told. With shaky fingers, she peels the book from his shirt, flips to the front, and —

To Pen, my best friend — thank you for your silly little words. None of this would exist without them.

After reading the script three times, the whole world seems to go quiet. Penelope looks from the page to Colin and back several times before any sense returns to her body. When it does, she uses what little control she has over her limbs to place the book on the comforter and lower herself gently to the ground.

“I don’t know what to make of that,” she admits once Colin follows her down to the floor. She sits with her knees against her chest. He sits with his shins brushing against her trainers.

“I’m sorry for the last six months,” he says, the fury from the hall a distant memory. His voice is soft, if a bit unsteady. “It’s no excuse, but I — I was just so caught up in my own head. I’ve been caught up in everything and I — I just —”

His gaze briefly leaves Penelope to look up at the ceiling. She can tell that he’s looking for the right words to describe the mess that has clearly been cluttering his mind these last six months. And despite the awful words she flung at him not a minute prior, Penelope now feels an unmistakable, inexorable urge to help him.

“If this all came about because of your brother’s speech… We can just pretend it never happened.”

Colin’s eyes sharpen at that. But again, Penelope pushes on.

“I know your siblings like to —” She chuckles. Sort of. “— conspire about that sort of thing. But I never thought what Anthony said about your parents had anything to do with us. And I’m sorry for not clearing that up months ago. Truly.”

After she gets out that last little fib, Penelope waits for Colin to say something. To smile. To sigh with relief. But for what feels like an eternity, he just sits there and stares at her.

“Col—”

“Anthony was right.”

“What?” she asks, the word falling from her lips before she can stop it. On Colin’s lips falls the faintest hint of a smile.

“I may not have understood the full gravity of those words when I first started wielding them. But even as a kid, there must have been a small part of me that knew. I mean — there had to have been a reason why I took something my dad said to my mum and reserved it for you and you alone.”

He can’t be saying what Penelope thinks he’s saying. He couldn’t possibly.

“I don’t understand,” she admits, reaching out for any semblance of logical explanation. In response, Colin reaches for her hand. He gives it a familiar squeeze.

“I’m sorry for the last six months. I’m sorry I ever made you think you were not important enough to tell you about my book or plan my fucking life around. I promise that could not be further from the truth.” He takes one last breath, then…

“I love you, Pen. I always have. I always will.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Penelope knows there is a very simple four-word sentence she is supposed to say right now. But after such an overwhelming, awful, astonishing night, words don’t seem to carry the same weight they typically do to Penelope.

She leans towards him, lips first. He meets her in the middle. It’s perfect.

He drops her hand, just to place both of his against her jaw. His grasp is gentle at first, then firm. It’s perfect.

His tongue brushes across her lower lip. He tastes like salt and rain and Saturday night supper. It’s perfect.

He leans in, incidentally pushing her shoulders flat against the bed frame behind her. His jacket is still soaked-through and dampening Penelope’s blouse. It’s perfect.

Her hands are in his hair. Her knees are between his thighs. Her skin is flushed against his. Her heart is beating faster with every passing second. Her mind is just starting to catch up.

“I love you, too,” she tells him, several minutes too late.

“I know,” he mumbles against her skin, already moving towards her jaw.

“Fuck,” she bites out when his lips meet her throat. She can’t help the little buck of her hips that punctuates the expletive. Nor can she help but take notice of Colin’s increasingly hard erection when she brushes against it.

“Fuck,” he bites into her skin. Then, he pulls back.

Suddenly looking sheepish, he says, “Sorry.” Then, “You’re all wet.

Penelope’s eyes go wide. It takes several seconds for her to realise he’s referring to her clothing.

“Oh! Colin, I don’t care.”

She starts to lean in, expecting him to meet her half way again. But he doesn’t. He hesitates.

“Is this too fast?” he asks, one hand lingering just below her chest while the other sits heavy on her thigh.

Penelope shakes her head.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think anything we do together could be classified as ‘fast.’”

“I like the way you think, Featherington,” he practically growls, finally closing the gap between them. He places one achingly quick kiss against her lips before pulling back again.

He stands.

“What are you —”

“I’m not having my way with you on the floor, Penelope,” he says, lifting boxes of books from the comforter to the floor. “Not the first time, at least.”

“Colin!” she cries through a strangled gasp. She cannot help the giddy laughter that falls from her lips as she stands from her own spot. “Don’t trouble yourself. We can go to your room.”

“No time,” he insists, still working on that mountain of cardboard boxes.

With another laugh, Penelope starts, “How could this possibly be faster than —”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish that sentence. With one fluid motion, Colin sweeps the remaining boxes to the floor with a clatter, wraps his arms around Penelope’s middle, then nudges her onto the bed. She lands with her back pressed firmly against the mattress.

“Let's get rid of these wet garments.” Colin’s fingers work at the top buttons of her blouse. He unfastens each one with quick, careful movement. “Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”

“What a gentleman,” she remarks, though her words are obscured by the sudden burst of giggles caught in her throat.

She can’t stop smiling. She can’t quite believe this is all real. Ten minutes ago, she thought she was done with Colin Bridgerton, now he’s straddling her hips and exposing her skin to the light.

Just as he releases that final button, Penelope presses her palms flat against the mattress and pushes herself up to a sitting position. It’s not the easiest feat with Colin’s pelvis sitting so close to her own, but he thankfully adjusts.

When she peels the jacket from his body and throws it to the floor, she’s almost impressed by how soaked-through his shirt underneath is. The white fabric clings to his shoulders and biceps like it was painted onto him. Holding her breath, she takes one last look before tugging the shirt up and over his head.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, because no other word seems so fitting.

“You’re perfect.” He brushes her blouse off her shoulders, then unclasps her bra. “All of you.” He places a hand flat against her spine and lowers her back down to the mattress. “Perfect.”

They kiss a little while longer. For how long, Penelope cannot say for certain. When Colin’s mouth is on hers, it’s all-consuming. The only matters on her mind concern his tongue and his lips and his taste and his shape. It isn’t until his kisses trail downwards that any other thoughts filter into her mind. When they do, they come fast.

Suddenly, Penelope is brimming with questions.

“How — Um. How long have you known?”

“That I love you?” Colin asks, words barely audible when pressed against her jaw.

“Mhmm.”

“Since Catalonia,” he answers gruffly.

“That was five years ago,” she cannot help but note, still dazed beneath the pressure of him. Images of beautiful beaches and awful arguments come back to her as Colin’s mouth moves down and her eyes roll back.

“And about twenty years overdue,” he remarks between kisses. When they travel down to the side of her neck, Penelope asks another question.

“So… Where were you the — mmm — the last six months?”

“Aubrey Hall. Mostly.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He temporarily lifts his mouth from her skin to continue, “I fled to the country because I feared I wouldn’t be able to control myself while in the same city as you. But —”

“Oh?!”

“— as it turns out,” he laughs, “sequestering one’s self away from society exponentially helps one finish their unfinishable book.”

Penelope laughs, too. She brushes a hand through his hair as he returns to his task. When his lips find her clavicle, she asks another question.

“Who did you sign with? Not Danbury, right?”

(If he had, Danbury surely would have mentioned it to her. Surely.)

“No,” he confirms. “Romney House.”

A gasp escapes Penelope’s lips. Partially due to the realisation that he signed with Danbury Books’ biggest competitor. Partially due to the way his teeth grazed her skin as he said those words.

“I know.” He chuckles. “She’s going to have my head on a spike when she hears the news.”

“I’ll talk her down. Selfishly, I would prefer to keep you around a little while longer.”

“Going soft on me, Featherington?” he asks, lips going soft on her sternum.

“Mhmm,” is all she can get out as his kisses trail on. Just as his tongue grazes the shockingly firm bud of her nipple, he picks his head up again. It takes all of her remaining resolve to not to grunt or whine in disappointment.

“How long have you known?”

“That I love you?” she asks, her voice barely registering below a squeak.

After Colin nods, Penelope answers, “Always.” Or, she tries to. The word gets lost in a moan as he lowers his lips around her nipple and sucks on the sensitive flesh. He stays on that spot for a while, which she thanks god for at first, then curses just as quickly. As the seconds tick by, a proverbial truth hits her with increasing clarity.

She wants more.

“Colin.” She rakes a hand through his hair and tilts his head so his eyes meet hers. “Do you have a condom?”

He does, of course. He informs her of this with a very enthusiastic head nod.

He disappears down the hall to retrieve a box from the bathroom. He’s only gone a few seconds, but Penelope makes good use of that time; she pulls off her shoes, socks, and trousers and throws them somewhere out of sight and mind. When Colin returns, she’s sitting upright on the edge of the bed, the only garment covering her body a pair of plain white panties. (A garment she would not have chosen this morning, had she known what was to come tonight.)

(Not that she ever could have predicted this.)

Colin’s eyes — blue and sharp and searching — trace Penelope’s body as he traipses forward. He nearly trips over one of the many discarded cardboard boxes en route from the doorway to the bed, distracted by the view before him.

“Perfect,” he whispers against her lips, pulling her in for yet another achingly soft kiss. As much as she wishes to deepen it, Penelope pulls her head back an inch.

“Are you ready?” she whispers.

“Penelope,” he moans, removing his hands from her body to begin unbuckling his belt. “I don’t believe there are words to properly express just how ready I am.”

Penelope, feeling bolder than she ever has in her life, places a hand over Colin’s. With one quick pull, she rids him of his belt.

“Then don’t use your words.”

Her backside is pressed into the mattress again. He’s straddling her hips again. His tongue is in her mouth again. All of this is so new to them, and yet they fit together in a way Penelope previously believed could only be achieved through rigorous practice.

Also new is the feeling of his fingers at the rim of her panties. He’s gripping into them like he’s ready to rip them apart. Before he can ask, she positions her lips against his ear and whispers, “I need you, Colin.”

With a low grunt, he gives in and strips her bare. With his knees now settled between her thighs, Colin brushes a thumb down her center. This is when Penelope realises that she is already very wet.

“Fuck,” she whines, burying her head into the side of his neck.

“That feel good, Pen?” Colin asks, using his other thumb to graze her nipple.

“It feels —”

Penelope stops short. Her breath hitches. She decides Colin was right; there isn’t a word for this.

“Keep going,” she orders.

As Colin does as he’s told, Penelope wraps both arms around his neck and shoulders. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she could make better use of her own hands right now. But it’s difficult — impossible, even — for her to focus on anything except one basic need currently boiling up inside her. The need to have Colin as close as her body will allow.

As his index finger begins to circle her clit, Penelope’s breath hitches again. Fearing that she’s close to coming undone, she tears her lips away from his neck.

“I need you, now.”

If she had more control over her mind or body, Penelope would have phrased that request in a far more eloquent or seductive manner. Her diction is of no importance, of course. The look on Colin’s face makes it clear he needs no tempting.

Wordlessly, he pulls himself off her and drops his remaining garments to the floor. Though Penelope would like to be more helpful, she can only watch with parted lips as Colin rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth and slides the rubber across his cock. When she looks back up, she finds a shamelessly cocky smirk gracing his lips.

“Now or nev—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” she warns. With a little huff, she pushes herself onto her knees, cups his jaw with desperate fingers, and tugs on his bottom lip.

“Fucking hell, Penelope,” he mutters into her mouth, his muffled voice caught somewhere between excitement and genuine shock. He presses his whole body against her, sending them both crashing down to the mattress.

He only pulls his mouth away from hers to say, “Tell me if this hurts.” He’s already positioning the tip of his erection against her vulva.

Penelope nods. She places a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth before wrapping a hand around his base. Her touch is gentle as she guides him in.

As Colin pushes deeper and deeper, Penelope’s desire to have him as close as possible only grows more depraved. Her legs circle his waist. Her arms wrap around his back. Her fingers dig into his skin. Her hips push up and up and up, each jerking movement bring her closer and closer and —

“Fuck, Colin,” she moans into his ear. “I don’t know how long I can last.”

“You want me to slow down?” he asks, practically grunting out each word.

“No.”

“Good.” He grunts again, more forceful this time. “We’ll go slow next round.”

She reaches one hand up into his hair. She needs something to really grab onto. Colin is practically coming undone inside her. Like Penelope, his pelvic movements are growing quicker and more erratic with each passing second.

He’s panting into her hair. His chest is slick with sweat and heavy against her own. He’s holding himself back, she can tell, and she doesn’t like it.

“I need you to come, Colin,” she whispers. “Now.”

That last word does it.

“Oh, Penelope,” he cries against her skin. His hips sink down, thrusting as deeply into her as he can manage.

Penelope’s eyes roll towards the back of her head. The stretch of her skin burns in the most magnificent manner. If this was the end of their night together, she would be happy. If this was the end of everything, she would die a happy woman. But this isn’t the end of anything.

“Your turn.”

Colin snakes his left hand down between their bodies. Before Penelope can even consider asking what he’s doing, two fingers find her clit.

“Fuck, Colin!” she exclaims, head jerking up from the mattress just as forcefully as her hips do.

“Good?”

Penelope doesn’t bother answering that question; she knows he knows the answer. With her lips pinched together, she burrows her head deeper and deeper into his neck as he keeps going. As his fingers circle her clit. As his hips pick up speed and his semi-erect penis grows hard again inside her. Then, just when she feels herself on the precipice, Colin rakes his free hand through her hair and pulls her head away from the safety of his neck.

“Hey —”

“I want to see your face when you come on my fingers.”

Penelope has never felt such a compulsion to satisfy someone’s wishes in her life. When a wave of prickly, perfect pleasure courses through every inch of her being, she resists the urge to shut her eyes or turn away. She keeps her gaze focused on Colin and Colin alone, even when her brows furrow and her mouth drops open and his name leaves her throat in a pinched gasp.

“Perfect,” he whispers against her lips. He offers her a soft, sweet kiss before regrettably pulling out and leaving her core achingly empty.

After spending several minutes catching her breath, Penelope cannot help but ask one more question.

“Why did we wait so long to do that?”

Colin laughs. He almost sounds hysterical.

“I don’t know, Pen. It all seems rather ridiculous in hindsight.” He leans over and places a kiss against her temple before continuing, “In the future, we should endeavour to stop wasting so much of our precious time.”

꙳ ꙳ ꙳

Tonight, Colin Bridgerton is a very happy man.

He spent the first twenty-five years of his life oblivious to his most obvious desires. He spent the next five paralyzed by the true depth of his feelings. He spent the last six months stewing in his own misery, certain his love would forever sit inside himself, never to be returned. He spent tonight with Penelope, and it was perfect.

She’s resting her head on his shoulder, still flushed from their last round of lovemaking. Not moving his body an inch, Colin flicks his eyes away from her and to the alarm clock on his table. The bright red display informs him that it’s nearly 2 AM.

With a sigh, he turns back to Penelope. He;s about to make a light-hearted remark inquiring how she’ll take her eggs in the morning. But when his eyes settle on her face, he can’t help but notice something that wasn’t there before.

Nervousness.

Her eyes are glazed over and pointed aimlessly at a cardboard box in the corner of his room. Her brows are furrowed, leaving a crease in the center of her forehead. Her lips are twisted and pointing downward.

“Pen?”

Her shoulders jolt as she turns to meet his eye.

“Hmm?”

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” she says quickly. Then, more hesitantly, “I just… I was just thinking about how much of a hypocrite I am.”

Colin breathes a sigh of relief. He laughs lightly as he presses a kiss against her temple.

“I know, love. Let’s not dwell on the —”

“No,” she interrupts, face painted guilty. “I’m not talking about the ‘break’ thing. I’m talking about your book.”

“Oh,” he says, even more confused than he was before. “What about my book makes you a ‘hypocrite?’”

Penelope gulps.

“You know the Whistledown series?”

Whistledown.

Colin looks to the ceiling, turning that word around in his head. It sounds familiar, but —

“Those romance books Hyacinth is obsessed with? The ones Eloise pretends not to be obsessed with?”

Penelope nods, and that guilty look on her face only grows guiltier.

“What does —”

“I am Whistledown.”

Still wrapped in each other’s arms, neither Colin nor Penelope say anything for several seconds. Then…

“Penelope, what the fuck are you talking about?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Whistledown’s Whispers is a collection of loosely interconnected romance novels set in Regency England. Danbury Books began publishing them in 1989 (years before Colin and Penelope were even born). The series was the first major success for the publishing house — for years, it was the hottest series in all of London. Part of the novels’ success was due to its daring take on historical romance for the time. But it was also due, in part, to the intrigue surrounding the author’s identity.

The original author only signed with Danbury under the stipulation that her work would remain anonymous in perpetuity. In accordance, the only writing credit that has ever been attached to the books goes to “Lady Whistledown.” When the books first came out, the public desperately attempted to uncover the truth behind the mysterious pseudonym. Then, with time, the mystery lost its intrigue. As did the series’ readership.

In July 2003, the series was officially put on hiatus. The original author had lost interest in her material as much as her readers did and cut her ties with the publishing house. The series remained dormant for over a decade.

In December of 2014, a professor of Penelope’s came to her with an opportunity. He knew of a local publishing house that was looking for a ghostwriter to revive an old series. They were looking for someone with a fresh, passionate voice. He told her he saw “great promise” in her writing and encouraged her to submit a writing sample for the position. Initially, Penelope did not even consider the offer. She deemed it too ridiculous. She was a second-year university student — one who didn’t have the time or skills or backbone for such a thing.

It took one singular conversation with Colin Bridgerton and his inherent optimism for her to consider it.

Penelope has been anonymously writing under the pseudonym for eight years. She has published six books and is currently writing the seventh. Today, only three people in the world know that Penelope Featherington and Lady Whistledown are one and the same: herself, Danbury, and Colin.

Colin swears he would have figured it out years ago, if only he had taken Hyacinth’s advice and read a single chapter. Though she won’t admit it, Penelope tends to agree with him. Although she has tried very hard to keep him out of them, over the years, she has come to accept that every love story she writes will have a little bit of Colin Bridgerton in them.

(Frankly, she’s a little surprised his sisters haven’t caught on yet.)

Now, Colin is looking at Penelope with a very familiar smile on his lips. She feels a smile pulling on her own. She can’t help it.

The game is over. They’ve both won.

“I believe this calls for champagne.”

Penelope rolls her eyes — an act that doesn’t carry much weight when accompanied by a smile like the one currently lighting up her face.

“I’ll get it,” she says, already standing from her spot on the rug.

“There’s a bottle on the top shelf,” he calls out as she walks out of sight. “Yell for me if — sorry — when you need my assistance.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Her sarcasm comes back to bite her in the end. After climbing on several chairs and countertops, Penelope is unable to locate a single bottle. She exits the kitchen with nothing more than two plastic flutes in her hand — which is for the best, in the end.

When she walks back into the sitting room, those flutes clatter to the floor.

On the rug where they just spent an hour playing a silly, life-altering game, Colin is down on one knee. He has a ring box in his left hand. He’s looking up at her with that smile that will always make her stomach flutter.

“Penelope, I don’t want to waste another second. Will you marry me?”

For a moment, Penelope cannot respond. She stands rooted in her spot in the doorway, staring down at Colin and his offered hand. She looks into his eyes and sees him — all of him. She sees the perfect boy of her dreams. She sees the imperfect man of her heart. She sees the love of her life. She sees her husband — even if they have yet to officially cross that threshold.

“Of course, Colin. Of course I’ll marry you.”

They meet in the middle of the room. He kisses her, and it’s as perfect as the first time.

When he slides the ring up her finger, Penelope cannot help but laugh.

“Did you have this in your pocket the entire time we were playing that game?”

“Yes,” he answers smugly. “I know you, Featherington. I knew your practical side would need a bit of reassurance before accepting my proposal — so I delayed it by an hour.”

“I thought you were being spontaneous,” she comments dumbly, running the night over in her head again. “Wait. When did you buy this?” she asks, holding up the massive rock currently sitting on her ring finger.

Colin smirks.

“Remember when I went out for pastries the morning after we got together?”

She nods. She remembers the past week in perfect detail.

“Remember how it took me over an hour?”

She nods again. It struck her as odd at the time; the bakery is only two blocks away.

“I told you, Pen,” he says, leaning down to plant a few more kisses on her lips. “Not. Another. Second.”

“Not. Another. Second,” she murmurs back. She likes the way they hang on her lips.

Not. Another. Second.

Those are words to hold onto, she decides. That’s a promise she can believe.

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