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Penelope was still flushed and boneless, draped across the settee, the afternoon sun casting halos on the dust motes above her head. Colin kissed her temple — smug, sweet, and entirely too pleased with himself — and stood up with the grace of a man who had clearly done this before. She made a small, surprised noise when he slipped out of her, her body already protesting the absence. She felt something sticky rushing out of her.
“I’ll fetch something,” he murmured. “Won’t be a moment.”
Penelope blinked up at him from where she reclined like a painting, flushed, tousled, draped in the blue blanket, and well-loved. Then her gaze, still hazy, flicked lower.
And froze.
She squinted. Tilted her head. Then sat up slightly, propping herself on her elbows with her curls spilling over her bare shoulders.
“…Wait,” she said slowly, with a mix of puzzlement and intrigue. “Why does it look like that?”
Colin froze. Mid-cravat retrieval.
He turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Why does what look like what?”
Penelope pointed. “That. Your—your, you know. The thing.”
Colin followed her gesture. Then glanced down. And promptly turned pink beneath his chestnut curls.
“Oh,” he muttered. “That.”
She continued to stare, not with revulsion or horror, but with curiosity.
“It’s just… I mean, before it was standing at attention, wasn’t it? Now it looks—” She hesitated, clearly struggling for an appropriately genteel word.
“…Deflated?” Colin offered dryly.
Penelope’s eyes lit up. “Yes!” She squinted her eyes a bit, still looking at it. “It looks a bit like a mushroom.”
He groaned, half-laughing, half-mortified, and dropped the cravat in defeat. “I cannot believe I just shared the most intimate moment of my life with you, and now you’re comparing my cock to a mushroom.”
“It’s not an insult!” she insisted, laughing now. “It’s just so different! It’s—soft. Like…well, like a sleeping dormouse.”
Colin rubbed a hand over his face and then through his curls, muttering something that might have been “Please God let me die,” but which was muffled by sheer embarrassment.
Penelope tilted her head again, biting her lip as she studied him in profile. His body was still glorious — all broad shoulders and ridged stomach, a light dusting of hair trailing down his navel to the aforementioned mushroom/dormouse, currently resting between thick, muscular thighs. But her interest wasn’t lewd. It was… curious. Earnest.
“You’re not insulted, are you?” she asked quietly. “I didn’t mean it was bad. Just…unexpected.”
Colin looked at her then, and the heat in his expression softened into something unmistakably fond. “No, Pen. I’m not offended. I’m just trying to preserve what little dignity I have left.”
“Ah,” she said, solemn. “Have I offended your masculine sensibilities?”
He chuckled, shoulders shaking, and walked back to her, cravat in hand. “You’re impossible.”
Her only response was a small chuckle.
He crouched beside her, dabbing gently between her thighs with the soft linen. A mixture of his seed and her own slick soiled his cravat. There was a little bit of blood too, Colin noticed with a pang in his chest. He knew it was inevitable, but he still felt terrible for causing her pain.
She squirmed a little—not from discomfort, but from the oddness of it all. The tenderness. The dampness. The fact that she’d let Colin Bridgerton see everything, and somehow hadn’t burst into flames.
When he was done, he pressed a kiss to her belly, right where her softness curved. Then, resting his chin on her thigh, he looked up at her with those remarkable dark-blue eyes and said, “Would you like a proper introduction?”
“To what?”
He nodded downward.
Penelope’s lips parted. “You’re going to name it?”
“Not name,” he said, mock-affronted. “Just…educate. You seemed rather intrigued.” Then, he added. “And I did interrupt you back then when you were going to touch it.”
She lifted a brow. “You’re offering me a personal anatomy lesson?”
“Precisely.”
She folded her arms, smirking. “You seem rather fond of giving me lessons, Professor Bridgerton.”
Colin smirked back. “Well, Miss Featherington, you make for a wonderful student.” he leaned down, kissing the laugh off her lips.
Ending the kiss, Colin sat back on his heels and gestured gallantly. “What you see here, Miss Featherington, is known—rather indelicately, I’ll admit—as the cock. Or prick. Or penis. Or, if you prefer something more poetic, manhood.”
She repeated the words, trying to get used to them. She moved her hand, intent on touching it, but before she could, she looked at him. Asking for permission.
He nodded.
She wrapped her little fingers around it. It twitched in her hand.
They both giggled, but Penelope’s eyes were still curious, tracing him with open fascination. “And the other parts?”
Colin obliged with the flair of a seasoned lecturer. “These,” he said, gesturing lower, “are the stones. Or bollocks, depending on your vulgarity threshold.”
She moved her hand down and cupped them, squeezing them. Above her, Colin let out a rather undignified squeak.
“Careful with those, sweetheart,” He said, removing her hand. “They are rather…delicate. You could bring a man to his knees if you damage them.”
She giggled again, and he leaned over her, bracing one hand on the back of the settee, looming above her like a very naked, very hairy Adonis. The blanket slipped, baring her breast, and his gaze flicked downward before returning to her eyes.
“Any other questions, Miss Featherington?” he murmured, voice low.
Penelope’s smile faded into something softer, warmer. She reached up, brushing a curl from his brow, her fingertips lingering on his temple.
“Just one,” she whispered. “Will he… wake up again?”
Colin's grin turned feral. “Give him a moment, and perhaps a bit of encouragement.”
She lifted her leg slightly, curling it around his hip, drawing him down against her with practiced ease that shocked even herself.
“Well then,” she whispered, as his mouth found her neck, “I think we ought to begin the second lesson.”
He laughed, low and wicked, as she gasped beneath him. But before his mouth could find hers, before his hands could resume their now-familiar pilgrimage across her curves, she pressed her palm to his chest—firmly.
“Wait.”
He blinked, breathless. “Wait?”
She wiggled a bit beneath him, which was entirely unhelpful to his state. But her expression was earnest now, flushed and glowing and eager, yes, but serious beneath it all.
“I want to understand,” she said softly. “My body. What happens.”
Colin frowned, pushing himself up on his forearms. “Pen… surely you know—”
“I don’t,” she said simply. “Not really.”
His brows knit in surprise.
She continued, a little defensively, “Gentle-bred ladies of the Ton are taught to sit straight, walk prettily, sew samplers, and smile through conversations about watercolors and music. But no one ever told me what… what to expect of marriage. Of this.”
Her voice dipped, embarrassed. “I didn’t even know anything was supposed to go inside me until you showed me.”
Colin stared at her for a beat, torn between outrage on her behalf and staggering arousal at the thought of being her sole instructor in such delicious things.
“You mean…” he trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly. “You truly had no idea what the marital act was?”
She shook her head. “I assumed it had something to do with kissing and… possibly bedsheets? But the rest was all a bit of a mystery. And now that I know—” she flushed deeper. “I want to know everything.”
Colin was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Well,” he said, voice velvety and dark, “if it’s a full education you’re after, I suppose I’d better earn my keep.”
He sat back on his heels, drawing her upright with him, wrapping the blue velvet blanket loosely around her back while leaving her front gloriously bare to his gaze.
“Lie back, love. Spread your legs for me.”
She obeyed, breath hitching, eyes wide but trusting as her thighs parted, the blanket pooling beneath her.
“That’s it, that’s a good girl.” Colin exhaled softly, reverently, and ran a callused hand from her knee up the lush expanse of her thigh.
“First, your thighs,” he murmured, voice dipping. “Soft as pillows, thick and strong. Perfect for wrapping round a man’s hips—or his head, if you ever feel generous.”
Penelope made a strangled sound.
He grinned, then leaned forward, brushing his mouth along the soft skin at her inner thigh. “And here,” he said, thumb grazing the juncture of her thighs, “is your cunny.”
She squirmed. “Is that what it’s called?”
“In polite company? Perhaps not. But in bed, with me? Yes. That, my love, is your cunt—and it is the most beautiful, maddening, sacred place I have ever been.”
Penelope squeaked.
Colin’s voice softened, his fingers stroking gently through her folds, already slick again. “These are your lips—your labia. They keep everything protected. This—” he circled a finger higher, “—is your clitoris, your pearl. The source of a woman’s pleasure. Little thing, but so powerful.”
Penelope arched slightly beneath his touch, gasping, lips parted. “And… and inside?”
Colin pressed a kiss to her knee, then slid two fingers slowly within her, groaning when she clenched around him, still a little sore but oh so wet.
“Inside is your sheath. Your cunt’s passage. Hot, wet, perfect. It takes me in like it was made for me—and God, it was, wasn’t it?”
Her head fell back, her curls sticking to her damp neck.
Colin withdrew his hand slowly, and then—just to watch her watch him—brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean.
She moaned.
“I’m not done.” He knelt back up, guiding his hand to her breast. “Now these—” he cupped one lush, pale mound reverently, “are glorious. Soft, heavy, and begging for my mouth.”
“You said you dreamed about them,” she murmured, half laughing, half breathless.
“I did. And yet, my imagination was a poor imitation of reality,” he replied gravely, before leaning down to take one nipple into his mouth.
He licked the flushed tip, laving it and sucking until she gasped and clutched at his hair.
When he drew back, he continued, voice rough and fond: “This—your belly. I swear I’d sleep with my head on it every night if you’d let me. Your hips—” he kissed the curve of one, “—were made to bear babies. My babies. And this—”
He turned her around gently, pressing a kiss to the generous curve of her backside and giving her a playful bite.
“This arse is going to haunt my dreams until the day I die.”
Penelope was panting now, laughing and moaning in equal measure. “You are incorrigible.”
“I am honest,” Colin growled, crawling up her body again until he was settled above her, straddling her thighs. “And I adore every inch of you.” He kissed the nape of her neck, drawing a moan from her. “You’re glorious, Penelope. Your body, your mind, your heart. And you’re mine to worship, if you’ll let me.”
Colin's breath came in shallow bursts as he rose above her, hand sliding down the curve of her spine, slow and reverent. Penelope, still flushed from his worshipful litany, lay on her front, her hair mussed, cheeks pillowed against a cushion. The velvet felt cool beneath her skin, but her whole body was fevered, flushed, trembling, alive.
“Lift your hips for me, darling,” he murmured, voice low, dark, like embers smouldering under velvet. “Let me see you.”
Penelope hesitated. “Like this?”
She pushed up uncertainly, knees tucked under her, arse lifted, her front still pressed to the cushions.
Colin sat back on his heels, staring—devouring—his hands flexing at his sides like a man on the brink. She was glorious like this. Her plump arse so beautiful and smooth, her dimpled thighs addoing to the lush picture. And between them. Between them lay paradise.
Her cunny, flushed and wet, dripping with her arousal. He couldn’t help but to lower his hand to his cock and give himself a good stroke.
“Christ.”
He said it like a prayer, like a curse, like he couldn’t quite believe his good fortune.
“You’ve no idea,” he rasped, smoothing his hands up her thighs, spreading her gently open. “No earthly idea what you look like like this.”
Penelope made a small sound, part moan, part protest, burying her face into the velvet. “Don’t look, it’s indecent—”
“Oh, it’s indecent as hell, Penelope,” he cut in, hands now gripping her arse, thumbs parting her folds with aching care. “That’s rather the point.”
She shivered.
Colin leaned in, his breath hot against her slick, swollen cunt. “You’re glistening. Red and pink and swollen, dripping like a ripe fruit. Bloody hell, Pen, you are soaked.” He nuzzled closer, lips brushing over her, teasing, tasting.
She let out a mortified whimper, twisting her hands in the blanket. “Colin…”
“Hush now, love,” he murmured, pressing her hips higher. “Let me take care of you.”
And then he was there—his mouth hot and greedy on her cunt, tongue sliding between her folds, licking up every drop of her. He moaned against her, like a man drinking from a holy cup.
“God above,” he panted between licks, “you taste like sin and syrup. Best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Penelope moaned helplessly, her face pressed into the settee, body alight with embarrassment and arousal and something she couldn’t quite name—trust, maybe. Because he made her feel wanted. Worshipped. Unbroken, unblemished, perfect.
Colin’s mouth returned with a fervor, licking her with slow, torturous intent, his fingers slipping between her folds now—one first, then two— thrusting slowly. He curled them, hitting a spongy spot inside her that made her moan louder.
Hearing this, he smiled against her cunt, satisfied, and continued rubbing that spot mercilessly while closing his lips against her clit and sucking enthusiastically.
She sobbed out a breath, the fullness, the pressure, the slight pain of the stretch, the wet heat of his tongue flicking against her pearl—it was too much. It was glorious.
“Come for me,” he growled, his voice guttural, feral, “show me how good I make you feel, Pen.”
And she did. With a broken cry, her thighs trembled, her hips jolted—and then her release hit her like a lightning strike. She pulsed hard around his fingers and then—gushed, a sudden, startling rush that soaked his hand, his face, his chest.
Penelope froze in shock. “Oh!”
Colin drew back, absolutely drenched, and looked ravished. His mouth was wet, his chin glistening, hair curling damply at his temples. And he looked… utterly delighted.
“Well,” he said, voice hoarse and stunned, “that’s a new favourite trick.”
Penelope buried her face in her hands, mortified. “I’m Sorry! I-I don’t know why-”
“You baptised me,” he said reverently, licking a glistening trail off his forearm. “I should build a bloody chapel to your cunt.”
“Colin!”
He leaned over her, pressing a kiss to her temple, then, grabbing her chin, gave her a filthy kiss, licking the inside of her mouth like a man dying of thirst. She moaned, tasting herself on his tongue.
“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life coaxing that out of you again, and again, and again.”
She peeked up at him, flushed and blinking. “You’re not shocked?”
“Shocked?” he grinned. “Darling, I’ve dreamt of drowning in you. Consider me happily drowned.”
Penelope slumped forward, her chest heaving against the velvet upholstery, the rich fabric damp with her sweat. Her thighs trembled still, parted obscenely, her slick cunny leaking against the blanket below. Her skin glowed, flushed from brow to heel, and her hair was a riot of red curls stuck to her neck and shoulders.
Behind her, Colin ran his hands over the curve of her back, fingers tracing her spine, then drifting lower to the soft, generous swell of her bottom. He groaned as his palms kneaded the flesh, squeezing handfuls, watching the way it yielded, then bounced back under his touch—an endless delight.
“Look at you,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “You’re properly ravished, darling.”
Penelope gave a weak little hum of protest, her voice muffled by the cushion. “You’re the one who… made me do that.”
Colin chuckled, dipping down to press a kiss to the back of her neck, his hips pressing against her lower back. “And I’d do it again. A thousand times.”
She felt a shudder go through her when she felt his erection pressing against her.
“Is that your- your- your cock?” she asked, stuttering a little bit at the naughty, scandalous word, not used to the sound of it yet.
Colin’s grin was pure sin. He wrapped one large hand around it—it stood thick and proud between his thighs, the head flushed, glistening with need—and gave it a languid stroke. “He’s a resilient lad. Especially when presented with a view like this.”
His hands gripped her hips, spreading her again, and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Sweet hell, Penelope. Just look at you. All wet and pink and stretched open for me. Can I have you again, Pen?” He begged sweetly, “Please, darling, let me worship you some more”.
Penelope whimpered, her hips arching, giving her consent.
Colin lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing, letting the swollen crown catch at her entrance again and again. He watched as her opening resisted him, then began to yield—languid, slow, greedy.
And then he pushed inside.
The sound he made—low and guttural—was feral. Her body clung to him, impossibly tight around the thick intrusion. He sank into her inch by inch, both of them gasping as he filled her, stretched her, claimed every sweet, pulsing part.
“Fuck,” he groaned, voice strained. “You’re so tight—so small, Pen. Christ, it’s a bloody miracle I fit.”
Penelope mewled, pushing her hips back against him, as if trying to take more—all of him.
Her hands clawed at the settee, searching for purchase. “Colin—please—oh, God—”
“That’s it, sweetheart.” His voice was thick with praise, each word rolling over her like warm syrup. “Take me. Let me see that perfect arse bounce when I fuck you.”
And he did—he fucked her. Deep, slow thrusts at first, savoring the wet, obscene slide of her cunt around his cock. Each time he pulled out, he watched her flutter around him, stretched and open, as though her body hated to let him go. Then he’d slam back in, burying himself to the hilt with a groan.
His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh. “You feel so goddamn good, Pen. So soft. So fuckable. I could spend the rest of my days just like this—watching your body tremble while I ruin you.”
Penelope was nearly incoherent now, her breath coming in gasps and helpless whimpers, her voice high and breaking. “It’s—it’s too much, I—I—”
“No, it’s perfect,” he growled, leaning over her, pressing kisses to her back, to her shoulder, his hips never stilling. “You’re taking me so well. So bloody good for me.”
Then one of his hands slid lower—beneath her, over her belly, possessive. He pressed against the soft curve of her stomach, and felt it.
The hard, unmistakable pressure of his cock, buried deep inside her.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, hips stuttering. “You feel that, Pen? That’s me. Deep in your belly. Inside you. Filling you so full I can feel myself through your skin.”
Penelope gasped, one of her hands joining his, face slack with disbelief and pleasure. “That’s—you? That’s you?”
“All of me, love. And you take it so sweetly.” He ground against her, rolling his hips in a slow, devastating stroke. “My good, brave girl.”
He took her harder then, spurred on by the feel of her fluttering around him, the slick heat, the grip of her cunt that threatened to drag him under. He dragged the hand that was on her belly down to her cunny. There, he started rubbing her pearl with fast, hard circles. The pleasure surged through her like lightning.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Her wimpers turned into loud moans, her body meeting his thrusts with enthusiasm.
The sound of their bodies—wet, rhythmic, filthy—echoed off the walls. The settee creaked beneath them.
Penelope sobbed, lost in the overwhelming fullness, the stretch, the heat, the love that bled through every vulgar word.
And when she shattered around him again, screaming his name like a prayer, he followed with a shout, spilling inside her with a final, shuddering thrust.
They stayed like that, tangled and trembling, his body draped over hers like a great, heaving blanket.
And then, finally, quiet.
Only the sound of their breath. The warmth of skin on skin. The steady, wild beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.
The silence that followed was thick and golden, the kind that settled deep, not just into the air but into the bones. The settee creaked gently beneath them, the only protest it dared offer after what had just occurred. Penelope remained draped over the velvet cushions, utterly undone, trembling in the aftermath, her body still open and leaking his release.
Colin didn’t move at first. He stayed close, breath rough, one hand still wrapped protectively around her hip, the other pressed over her soft belly where moments ago he had felt himself inside her. He could still feel the echo of it—her slick heat, her impossibly tight grasp, the raw ecstasy of seeing her come undone from his touch, his mouth, his body.
Then, with a soft groan of reluctant separation, he withdrew gently, drawing in a sharp breath at the wet sound of it. She whimpered at the loss, just barely.
He reached down, still panting, and plucked his cravat from the floor—wrinkled, forgotten, soiled, now fatefully repurposed. With the same hands that had gripped her hips with wild desperation, he now, one more time, cleaned her carefully, reverently, wiping between her trembling thighs, catching the thick spill of his seed that dripped from her swollen folds.
“Forgive the lack of linens,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but fond, “but it’s that or I wipe you with a curtain.”
Penelope laughed, exhausted and breathless. “I’d prefer the cravat, thank you.”
Once she was clean, he wiped himself down quickly, tossed the poor, ruined fabric to the floor again, and gathered her into his arms. Not to carry her—not this time—but to settle her against him, on the settee itself. He eased down onto his back, pulling her with him until she lay curled against his chest, snug between his body and the high back of the furniture. Her hands splayed against the crisp hair on his chest, her bare thigh thrown over his.
He tugged the forgotten blue velvet blanket over them both, wrapping them in its warmth. The world narrowed down to this: the scent of her skin, the sound of her breath, the feel of her still-shaking fingers playing idly through the hair on his chest.
There were no servants. No fire lit. No tea waiting. The house was empty, untouched, barely furnished. But in this moment, it felt more like home than anywhere he had ever lived.
Penelope tilted her head and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Colin?”
“Hm?”
“Is it always supposed to be like that?” Her voice was shy, almost sleepy. “I mean… that intense? I thought I might die.”
He turned to her, eyes soft with affection. “If you had,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to her forehead, “I would’ve followed immediately. Death by too much pleasure. A very romantic—and scandalous— obituary.”
She laughed again, quietly this time, into his skin.
Colin smiled and trailed his fingers down the curve of her spine. “I think so,” he said softly. “I think it’s supposed to be like that. But only when it’s right, when you love the person you’re doing it with. And you, Penelope Featherington, are so bloody right for me it’s maddening.”
She tilted her head up to meet his mouth. The kiss was gentle—no urgency now, just the warmth of shared breath, lips brushing slowly, again and again.
“I can’t believe this house is ours,” she whispered. “That you’ll be mine.” “I’ve always been yours,” he said. “I just didn’t know it yet.”
Another kiss. Her hand curled over his heart.
Outside, the world carried on—carts rolling, bells ringing, the distant din of London life humming on. But inside the quiet of their future home, in the shelter of velvet and skin, two lovers lay entwined, sated and safe.
And for the first time in either of their lives, the future felt not just possible, but glorious.