Archive of Our Own ^beta

This is all Tequila’s fault.

All my problems would be solved if I stopped letting Bridgertons talk me into just one more margarita, Pen.

Fuck. My head throbs before I’m even fully conscious. I wince behind my closed eyes, bracing for what is certainly about to be the mother of all hangovers.

Genuinely afraid of the brightness waiting beyond my weary eyelids, I burrow deeper into my mattress, trying to gauge just how bad this morning is going to be.

That’s when I feel it.

The heavy weight of a warm arm draped across my waist.

The distinct press of a large hand cupping my ass.

Oh.

Oh, no.

For a split second, I tell myself it’s a pillow. A blanket. A particularly bold ghost.

Then the arm shifts, pulling me closer, and the ghost exhales hot against the top of my head.

Colin.

Of course.

Colin and I have crashed in the same bed before—after too many drinks, after too many bad decisions, or after his ongoing refusal to let me take an Uber home alone. It’s practically a tradition at this point: him snoring on top of the covers, me starfished as far away from his furnace of a body as possible, both of us pretending it’s normal.

But today is not that.

He’s not spooning me, back to my front, like we’ve awkwardly ignored-but-powered-through in the past.

He’s facing me.

My cheek is pillowed on his chest. One of his hands is tangled in my hair, fingers curled like he fell asleep mid-caress. The other is gripping me—Hard— right on the curve of my ass.

My heart slams into my throat, and just like that I forget all about my headache and my fear of sunlight. With a tiny, terrified inhale, I crack one eye open.

He’s out cold.

Relief punches through me first, then disappointment sneaks in right behind it, like the asshole it is. Both emotions churn together in my already-queasy stomach.

Do not think about why you’re disappointed, Penelope. Absolutely not.

I try to distract myself by focusing on how ridiculously out of place Colin’s 6’2” frame looks in my bed. Usually I tease him about it—the way his feet hang off the edge, how he complains my pillows are “fun-sized.”

But from this angle?

From this angle the cramped space makes everything worse, because Colin is pressed flush against me. His sleep-loose hand is still heavy on my ass, and his very obvious, very hard cock is nudging insistently at my hip. His grip is possessive, even if it isn’t intentional.

God. He’s encasing me, wrapping around me like a Colin scented blanket. Dragging me into his heat by the handful, like I’m something he means to keep. Warm and solid and unfairly comforting. And all of that heat is pressed right up against my pussy.

Holy shit.

What do I do?

This is uncharted territory. Or at least…unspoken territory.

Sure, Colin and I have this weird, unspoken… thing that goes beyond explanation. A bond that everyone pretends not to notice when our glances linger too long or when his hand finds the small of my back at parties and just stays there.

It’s the kind of thing that’s easy to ignore until it drops you into situations like this.

Like Benedict’s bachelor party, for instance. The night that ended with a wasted Colin and me passed out in the bathtub together—thankfully fully clothed, but no less mortifying when we were woken up (and recorded) by his brother Greg and the rest of the present Bridgerton horde.

I still can’t look at a clawfoot tub without remembering Greg cackling, “Say cheese, lovebirds,” while Colin mumbled my name into my shoulder.

I swallow hard.

Okay. Focus. Today’s disaster, not past disasters.

Step one: escape.

I carefully lift my hand and press against his chest, intending to ease myself back an inch, two inches—just enough to slide out from under him. His heartbeat thuds steadily under my palm, strong and slow and stupidly soothing. 

“Just a little,” I whisper to myself, barely breathing the words. “You can do this. Ninja mode, bitch.”

I shift my hips a fraction of an inch.

His grip on my ass tightens.

I freeze.

Colin groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my cheek, and his head tips down, his nose brushing my hair. His fingers flex in my curls, and his arm around my waist drags me even closer, fitting me more securely against every hard line of him.

“Pen…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

My soul leaves my body.

Oh, God.

Is he dreaming about me?

Of course he is. Of course the universe has chosen today, while I’m hungover and half-feral in last night’s makeup, for Colin Bridgerton to wrap himself around me and whisper my name like a swear.

This is fine. I lie to myself internally, staring at his collarbone because I don’t dare look higher. 

This is manageable. You are a mature adult who can extract herself from this extremely compromising cuddle.

His thumb strokes the back of my head once, absent and instinctive.

I stop breathing again.

Okay, maybe not so manageable.

I am painfully aware of how good his body feels around me. Have been for years, in fact.

But that particular bit of unrelenting knowledge has lived shoved in the back of my mind in a box labeled UNFORTUNATELY PLATONIC: DO NOT OPEN.

I’m just about to attempt another microscopic wiggle of escape when his breathing changes.

The steady, slow rhythm stutters. His chest expands under my cheek like he’s suddenly remembered how air works. The hand in my hair flexes again, decidedly more awake, and the arm locked around my waist goes tense.

Oh, God. Oh, no. Abort mission. Play dead. Spontaneously die. Anything!

“Mmnh.” His chest rumbles, a gravelly, half-awake sound that vibrates against my ear, sending shocks of pleasure to places it absolutely has no business being. 

“Pen?”

His voice is rough with sleep, lower than usual, and my entire nervous system lights up like someone smashed the emergency button.

“I—morning,” I croak brilliantly, because I am nothing if not smooth under pressure.

Colin blinks down at me, lashes clumped together, eyes blurry and confused and way too soft for someone whose hand is currently groping me. It takes him a beat to catch up, to actually see me, and then I watch it hit him—the awareness of our position, the press of our bodies, the way he’s all but draped over me like some kind of human lifevest.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. “Sorry. Sorry, love.”

Immediately, he starts adjusting, tilting his hips away from mine, angling his lower half back so there’s space between us, but he does it so carefully it hurts. He shifts his hand to a more respectable position on the small of my back, fingers splayed wide, the movement protective instead of possessive now. 

The hand in my hair doesn’t yank away; it just… loosens, his fingertips lightly tracing my curls before they slide to rest on my shoulder instead.

Colin keeps me anchored against his chest even as he very obviously tries not to crowd me.

Of course he does.

Colin Bridgerton: the kind of man who takes off my shoes when I’m too drunk to remember I have feet, tucks me under the covers, and leaves a glass of water and painkillers on my nightstand with a sticky note reminder, Take these, menace. 

And here I am, cataloguing the way his body feels pressed against mine like I’m trying to memorize it for scientific research. Or later use. Whatever.

Guilt flares hot and sharp in my stomach.

“Sorry,” he says again, wincing like he’s committed some unforgivable sin instead of accidentally cuddling me. “You were shivering and then you sort of… climbed me. Like a tree. And refused to get off.”

I want to protest, to tell him it’s fine, that I’m fine, that the only problem here is my traitorous body, trained since puberty to seek him out. Instead, what comes out is a wheezy half-laugh.

“Please,” I mutter. “If anyone’s the victim here, it’s me. Your body heat is a war crime.”

He huffs out a laugh that turns into a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t make me laugh. My head might actually explode. How are you even conscious?”

“I’m not. This is a coma dream.” I swallow, trying to ignore how close we still are, how his heartbeat thuds steady against my cheek. “And in my coma dream, you are a very comfy mattress.”

His eyes open again, softer now, searching my face like he’s making sure he hadn’t crossed some kind of line. Then, with obvious effort, he unwinds his arms just enough to let me sit up.

The moment I leave his chest, the room tilts. The hangover pounces, claws out and ruthless.

“Ugh.” I flop onto my back and throw an arm over my eyes. “Nope. Put me back. The earth is loud.”

He chuckles quietly and sits up beside me, the mattress dipping with his weight. I feel him reach over me; the rustle of the nightstand drawer, the clink of a blister pack.

A second later, something taps my forearm, “Come on, Pen. Up. Pills, then water.”

I peek out from under my arm. He’s holding out two tablets in his palm, the other hand already reaching for the glass he very clearly set there last night before passing out.

Of course he did. 

“Why are you like this?” I grumble, taking the pills anyway. “So responsible and… annoyingly nice.”

“Pure self-interest.” He passes me the water, his shoulder brushing mine as he leans in. “You’re unbearable when you’re dehydrated.”

“I am a delicate ecosystem,” I inform him, then wince as the water hits my stomach. “Ugh. I hate liquor. I hate your siblings. I hate my life.”

He snorts. “There it is. That’s my girl.”

My heart does a stupid little flip at even jokingly being referred to as his, which is rude and maybe a touch self destructive to think about, so I pretend not to notice.

“Go back to sleep,” he urges, taking the glass from my shaking hand. His voice drops gentle, almost coaxing. “We’ll do the ritual in an hour.”

The ritual is sacred. Hungover Penelope and Colin do not cook. Hungover Penelope and Colin shuffle to the diner down the street like reanimated corpses. A combined effort of two brain cells working together for: Coffee. Carbs. Survival.

“Fine,” I mumble. “But if I die, tell the waiter to bury me with pancakes in each hand.”

“Morbid,” he says, lying back down beside me, on his side of the bed this time. He still reaches out, though, fingers finding my wrist under the blanket, thumb rubbing a slow, absent circle over my pulse. “Very on brand, but morbid.”

I close my eyes and try not to read into the fact that even while being considerate and giving me space, he still… holds on.

⸻

Tequila is the devil.

Tequila is the devil, and I am its favorite chew toy.

An hour and a half later, we’re shuffling down the sidewalk toward our diner, sunglasses on, hoodies up, looking like we lost a fight with a blender. The sun is offensively bright. The cars are too loud. My brain is sloshing around in my skull like a goldfish in a bowl someone’s forgotten to flush.

The only thing keeping me moving is the promise of coffee, the hangover smoothie we always share, and a greasy breakfast large enough to classify as a cry for help.

“This is your sister's fault,” I tell him as we walk. “All of this. The migraine. The existential crisis. The fact that my liver is filing for divorce.”

“You’re the one who made the fourth round of margs” he points out mildly.

“Peer pressure is a crime,” I argue, “and your siblings are very persuasive criminals.”

A flash of last night skitters across my mind—Eloise crowing about “birthday traditions,” Benedict dramatically toasting to “bad decisions and even worse dancing,” Anthony pouring me more another like it’s water and I a dying plant.

I’m pretty sure I danced on a chair at some point.

I’m also pretty sure I said something I shouldn’t have.

Call it a vague sense of wrongness, that has been hovering over me since I woke up. A blank spot in the night where a memory should be, tugging at me like a loose thread.

I try to focus on the present instead. On this comforting routine of ours—this ritual that has never once asked me to remember anything I said after midnight.

We slide into our usual booth: back corner, near the window but not in direct sunlight, the unofficial hangover throne.

Colin collapses onto his side with a groan, sprawling with all the elegance of a dying octopus. I slid in opposite him and immediately put my forehead on the cool table with an unattractive, wholehearted groan.

“You’re so dramatic,” I don’t need to look up to feel him roll his eyes.

I flip him off without lifting my head.

Our waitress, Darcy, doesn’t even blink at our state. She’s seen this before. Many, many times.

“The usual?” she asks, pen already poised.

“Please,” we say in unison, which is embarrassing, but I’m too tired to care.

Darcy doesn’t even bother writing it down; she knows our damage by heart: Hangover smoothie: some chaotic blend of fruit and spinach and things that allegedly keep us alive. Check. Extra-greasy breakfast: eggs, bacon, hash browns, pancakes. Check. Coffee: black for him, sweet and milky for me. Thank God, check.

“So,” I say, staring at the sugar packets like they personally wronged me, “let’s never drink again. Or at least not with your family. Or in any building that carries margarita mix.”

“That’s a bit drastic,” Colin replies after a suspiciously long pause.

I glance up at him over the rim of my sunglasses.

He’s… quiet.

Quieter than usual, anyway. Colin hungover is normally a golden retriever with a headache: whining, dramatic, in constant need of snacks and validation. Today, though, he’s not doing his usual running commentary. He’s just… watching me.

Every time I look away, I feel it—that weight of his gaze, snagging on me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve and he doesn’t like the answer he’s getting.

Stop it, I tell myself. You’re imagining things. This is just Colin thinking about bacon.

Our drinks arrive. I wrap both hands around my coffee like it’s a life raft and take a careful sip. 

Colin watches my mouth as I drink. My treacherous heart stutters painfully against my ribs.

Focus, Penelope.

As soon as Darcy walks away, sustenance provided, I’m assaulted by unwanted reminders of things better left unaddressed. Like the fact that my legs still remember exactly how Colin’s thighs felt bracketing mine this morning.

I start rambling to fill the silence.

“So, what do we remember from last night?” I ask. “Because my brain has decided to redact a good chunk of it. I recall drinking, the floor spinning, your mother glaring at Benedict like she was one more shot away from throwing him out of the house, and you committing fry theft.”

“You weren’t eating them,” he argues automatically.

My eyes slit with false irritation, “They were mine.”

Colin smiles faintly, then looks down, rolling his coffee cup between his hands. The smile fades. Something restless settling behind his eyes. It unnerves me. 

Here we go, my stomach says. Here comes the thing you forgot.

Colin clears his throat. I hold my breath.

“So…” he begins, like the word weighs a ton. “About last night.”

My whole body goes rigid. I force a laugh that sounds exactly as fake as it is.

“What about it?” I say lightly. 

He lifts his gaze to mine, slow and deliberate. There’s a spark of something there—amusement, yes, but threaded through with curiosity, confusion… and something heavier.

“Do you really not remember?” he asks quietly.

My palms go sweaty around my mug. “Remember what?”

Colin leans back in the booth, studying me, his mouth curving in a way that tells me I am not going to like whatever sentence comes next.

“What the fuck,” he says, enunciating each word like he’s tasting it, “is a ‘subtle orgasm’ ?”

I choke.

There’s no delicate way to put it. I inhale coffee and air at the same time and immediately try to die. I cough so hard my eyes water, slapping a hand over my mouth as my brain detonates.

Because suddenly, horribly, it all comes rushing back.

Standing in the kitchen with his sisters and a couple of their friends, everyone tipsy and shrieking with laughter over some topic that had started as “favorite fictional crushes” and had way, way derailed. 

Someone complaining about bad sex, someone else bragging about not having that problem, and me, stupidly, desperately wanting to be part of the conversation.

Wanting to sound experienced. Normal. Included.

Promptly opening my idiot mouth to announce, with all the false bravado of four shots:

“I mean… I’ve had orgasms. They’re just… of the subtle variety.”

—I want the diner floor to open up and swallow me into the earth’s molten core.

“Oh my God,” I whisper into my hand. “Oh my actual God.”

Colin is still watching me, eyebrows raised, like he’s just lobbed a grenade onto the table and is patiently waiting to see what happens.

“You remember now,” he comments, far too amused for my liking.

“Shut up,” I wheeze, finally getting enough air into my lungs to function.

He doesn’t shut up.

“No, seriously.” He leans forward, forearms on the table, expression infuriatingly earnest. “What does that mean? A subtle orgasm? It’s been stuck in my head since you passed out.”

I glare at him, cheeks on fire.

“Why would you think about that?”

“Because you announced it loudly, in my mother’s kitchen,” he says, not even trying to hide his grin now. “And then Eloise declared a moratorium on the phrase until we got ‘a proper definition,’ and then you disappeared to go lie on the hallway floor complaining the ceiling was spinning, and then I had to drag you home, and the phrase ‘subtle orgasm’ has been echoing in my skull ever since.”

He pauses.

“And because,” he adds, voice dropping just a fraction, eyes flicking to my mouth again, “that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you should have to settle for.”

My brain short-circuits.

Coffee. I need coffee. Or death. Either would be fine,honestly—Whichever got me out of this conversation first.

“Colin,” I hiss, pressing my palms to my burning face. “We are not discussing my orga—this in a public diner.”

“We’re not discussing them at all,” he says calmly. “Because you’ve apparently decided the bar is underground and I find that deeply concerning.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Explain it to me,” he insists, and the teasing is still there, but it’s threaded with something else now. Something intent. “What exactly is a subtle orgasm, Pen?”

I stare at him over my fingers and realize—with the kind of clarity that only comes with a hangover and abject humiliation—that tequila might not be the only problem I have.

Because the real issue is sitting across from me, infuriatingly handsome even with bed hair and sunglasses pushed up on his head, asking me about my sex life like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And for the first time in years, I’m not sure I can cram this feeling back into the “UNFORTUNATELY PLATONIC” box.

The box might be splintering.

I haven’t said anything for too long, because my mouth has decided it no longer works.

“Pen,” he hums, and my name lands differently this time—less teasing, more… careful. “Hey.”

I peel my fingers away from my face, expecting another joke. Instead, he’s just watching me, brows drawn the slightest bit together.

 “Okay,” he says quietly. No joke, no push. Just… okay. “We’ll table the orgasm symposium.”

My lips twitch despite myself. “That is not what we’re calling it.”

“Tragically, it is,” he sighs, reaching for another bite, “But for the record? I’m not dropping it because I don’t care. I’m dropping it because you’re turning the exact color of that ketchup bottle.”

It takes me a second to catch my breath. “Thank you.” 

True to his word, Colin lets it go after that—moving on to safer topics: his siblings, whether Darcy is secretly judging our order, the crime of sunlight… all while my mortification simmers under the table, refusing to cool with the coffee.

~~

By the time we stagger back from the diner, I’m half-convinced my blood has been replaced with coffee and shame.

And the shame is winning.

Colin unlocks my apartment door with the spare key he’s somehow had for three years without abusing. I shuffle in behind him, kicking off my shoeis like a raccoon shedding evidence.

“Right,” he says, flicking on the lamp instead of the overhead lights because he’s not a monster. “You. Couch. Hydration. Carbs. Netflix. In that order.”

“Bossy,” I mutter, but I obey, because my skull is still trying to break up with my body.

Sunday veg mode is practically our religion anyway. Within ten minutes, we’re in full observance: I’m in my ugliest, softest sweatpants and an old tank; he’s in worn joggers and my favorite of his old college hoodies. The couch is a nest under the big gray blanket we pretend we don’t basically co-parent, Netflix trailers hum in the background, and an irresponsible amount of snacks colonizes the coffee table.

We settle into our default configuration without thinking: me tucked into one corner, him stretched out along the other, our legs tangling somewhere in the middle under the shared blanket. His foot nudges my calf; I poke his ankle. It’s easy. It’s us.

If I keep him fed, comfy in fleece, and drowning in background TV, maybe my drunken confession will die a merciful death. 

“What are you in the mood for?” I ask, navigating Netflix like it’s a bomb I’m diffusing. “Comfort show? Trashy reality? Murder but cozy?”

“Nothing with loud explosions,” he says, arm thrown over his eyes. “And nothing where someone says ‘previously on’ in a dramatic voice. My soul can’t handle narration.”

“So… cartoons.” I click on some animated series we’ve rewatched a dozen times. “Perfect. I have just the show.”

We make it through one episode. Then half of another.

He doesn’t bring it up.

Maybe I’m safe. Maybe my luck was finally—

“Okay,” Colin says, cutting through the cartoon dialogue like a knife. His arm drops from his face, and he turns his head on the cushion to look directly at me. “Now we’re not in public.”

My stomach drops.

“Mm?” I say, studying the TV like I’m defending a dissertation on it.

“Explain it to me.”

His voice is soft—annoyingly gentle— threaded with that stubborn concern he gets when he’s decided he’s going to meddle for my own good. He’s not mocking. He’s not smirking. He’s just… not letting it go.

Very Violet Bridgerton-coded if you ask me.

“Explain what?” I challenge, as if I didn’t spend the entire walk home plotting how to avoid this conversation.

His eyes stay on me. Warm, steady, completely unwilling to be diverted.

“Pen.” Just my name, but somehow it sounds like Don’t bullshit me. “The subtle orgasm thing.”

I feel my face burn with humiliation and flop sideways, burying my face in the throw pillow. “Nope. Conversation deleted. Topic banned. We had pancakes; let that be enough.”

The couch dips as he shifts. I feel his hand land lightly on my shin under the blanket, not grabbing, just there.

“It clearly bothers you,” he says quietly. “You looked like you wanted to disintegrate in that diner. So, yeah. Explain it to me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I am cornered. But I am also… safe. Infuriatingly, inconveniently safe with Colin. A man who cares about me in every way but sexually.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling for a long moment, counting the hairline cracks in the paint. Then I blow out a breath and turn my head to look at him.

Colin’s watching me like I’m a foreign film with no subtitles. Like if he stares hard enough, he’ll learn a new language.

“Fine,” I relent. “But you’re not allowed to make fun of me.”

“Deal,” he replies instantly. “Unless you say something like ‘my safe word is moist ,’ in which case I reserve the right to judge.”

I snort in spite of myself. “If that were my safe word, I would deserve whatever ridicule I got.”

His mouth curves. The hand on my shin squeezes once. “Go on, then.”

I pick at a loose thread on the blanket, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

“I’ve only ever… slept with two people,” I say finally, the words coming out smaller than I mean them to.

There’s a pause.

“Okay,” he says carefully. “And both of them were, apparently,… subtle orgasm connoisseurs?”

My laugh comes out jagged. “You joke, but yeah. They both… called the way I cum ‘subtle.’ So congratulations to them, I guess, for being weirdly united in their feedback.”

His brows shoot up. “Both of them?”

“Yep.” I pop the ‘p’ with more bravado than I feel. “Alfred, when I was twenty-one, and then Remy a few years later. Different cities, different relationships, same… conclusion.”

His expression curdles at the first name. “You’re telling me your first time was with Alfred Debling?”

I bristle automatically. “You say his name like he’s a mold problem.”

“Because he is a mold problem,” Colin says flatly. “He was thirty, Pen. And he wore scarves indoors. And he called you ‘kiddo’ while trying to sleep with you. That’s three separate crimes.”

Heat creeps up my neck, old embarrassment and defensiveness tangled together. “I was an adult. And it was… fine.”

“Fine,” he repeats, like the word personally offends him.

“Anyway.” I wave a hand, wanting to sprint past this part. “He was very… curated. Everything had to be tasteful, controlled. He liked to make a whole production out of sex—music, mood lighting, sage or whatever—”

“He saged the room?” Colin interrupts. “Before or after the nasty?”

“Colin,” I warn, but a corner of my mouth twitches.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. Go on.”

I swallow.

“The first time I came with him—or at least, I think I did; it was hard to tell—I asked how you’re even supposed to know. He laughed and told me I have “very subtle orgasms.” Even after I said I wasn’t sure I’d actually had one. Like it was this quirky little personality trait.”

I stare at the ceiling again so I don’t have to see his face.

“He said I was quiet. Hard to read. That he couldn’t always tell if I was enjoying myself unless I… made more noise or something. So I spent a lot of time wondering if I was doing it wrong. He got off, but what if I was disappointing him, or if I was just…” I trail off, shrugging.

“Broken?” Colin supplies softly.

The word lands too accurately. I flinch.

“Then Remy,” I push on, ignoring the way my voice thins around the edges. “He was… fine too. Lazy as hell in bed, but charming about it.“I swallow. “And he said the same thing, almost verbatim. That my orgasms were ‘subtle.’ That I didn’t really… react. That it made it hard for him to ‘gauge.’” I put sarcastic air quotes around the word, like that might make it sting less. It doesn’t. “So. Two for two. Data set complete.”

I try to make a joke out of it, because that’s safer than the raw nerve underneath.

“Apparently my orgasms are like art-house films,” I say lightly. “Subtle, small audience, no one claps.”

Silence.

I risk a glance at him.

He looks… distraught. Not pitying, not patronizing. Just deeply, deeply offended on my behalf.

“That’s not a you problem,” he says, voice low and threaded with fury. “That’s a ‘they didn’t know what the hell they were doing’ problem.”

I huff a humorless laugh. “You weren’t there, Colin. Maybe I really am just—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut. His hand tightens on my leg, not painfully, but anchoring. “Stop. Usually the person doing the cuming gets to decide whether they came, not two men who couldn’t find a clit with a map and a flashlight.” He gestures vaguely, like he wishes they were here so he could throw something at them. “They don’t get to issue a performance review.”

The phrase hits me right in the sore spot I’ve been carefully working around for years. 

Performance review.

That’s exactly how it’s always felt. The way I always thought of it but never said out loud.

“They made you feel like it was… wrong?” he says quietly, like he’s trying not to spook me. “Inconvenient? Underwhelming?”

I swallow hard. “They made me feel like my pleasure was an after thought . Like if I didn’t react the way they expected, I was… failing at it. At sex. At being with them.”

Colin’s jaw flexes. For a second, he says nothing. The show on the TV keeps playing, absurdly bright and cheery, completely at odds with the storm brewing on the couch.

“Wait, back up,” he says suddenly. “Only two?”

I blink. “That’s the part you're focused on?”

“In all your years,” he continues, staring at me like I’ve personally insulted him, “of being a terrifyingly hot, emotionally competent woman, you have slept with two men and both of them were idiots?”

“That’s a very dramatic summary,” I mumble, cheeks burning.

“It’s an accurate summary,” he shoots back. “And I hate it. I hate that your first time was with Alfred the fucking vegan,” Colin continues, counting on his fingers like he’s building a case, “and that the second one was lazy, emotionally unavailable Remy, and that they both somehow decided they had the right to critique your orgasms like this is fuckin’ Yelp.”

A laugh cracks out of me, startled and shaky. “One star, would not cum again.”

He gives me a look that says I am both amused and furious and it is your fault.

“I just can’t picture it,” he admits, more to himself than to me.

I tense. “Picture what?”

“You.” His eyes flick over my face, searching. “You don’t do anything halfway. When you cry, you sob. When you laugh, you wheeze and scare small children!”

“That was once when Belinda was a baby.” 

He ignores me, “When you’re angry, entire rooms feel it.” His gaze softens, something warm and aching moving in it. “And when you're happy fuckin bells go off and angels get their wings. I refuse to believe your orgasms are… polite.”

Heat rushes through me, mortifying and electric all at once.

“You can’t just say that,” I choke out. “We are on my couch. There is a cartoon ghost running a hotel on the television. You can’t—”

“I’m serious,” he insists, and he is. All the joking has drained out of his face. “You’re not broken, Pen. You just had partners who didn’t bother learning your body and then blamed you for their own incompetence.”

My throat tightens. Embarrassment tangles with something sharper—something like relief. Like being seen, maybe for the first time, in a place I’d written off as unfixable.

I look away, overwhelmed by his gaze. “You don’t get it,” I murmur. “After two people say the same thing, you start to wonder if maybe they’re right. That maybe I just… don’t feel much. That maybe that part of me is… muted.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps instantly.

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can.” He shifts, turning fully toward me, one knee bending so he can face me properly. “Because I know you. I know how you are with everything else. There is nothing muted about you, Pen. If something’s quiet, it’s because they never bothered to listen properly.”

I swallow around the lump in my throat.

His expression has gone intense now, focused in that way that always unnerves me a little. Like he’s lining up a decision on some inner map.

“The person having the orgasm,” he says slowly, like he wants every word to land, “is the authority. Everyone else is just… commentary. And the commentary you’ve had so far has been garbage.”

“Wow,” I croak. “Tell me how you really feel.”

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, but it doesn’t quite make it.

“How I really feel,” he seethes, “is that I would like to track these men down and revoke their licenses to exist near other humans. But barring that…”

Colin trails off, jaw working, eyes flicking over my face again. Something shifting behind them, clicks into place.

“Barring that, what?” I ask, heart hammering.

He hesitates, like he’s right on the edge of a cliff and deciding whether to jump.

“I just…” He exhales. “I hate that the only “data” you have about your pleasure comes from idiots who didn’t deserve access to you in the first place. And I hate that now you’re sitting here wondering if you’re broken, when all I can think is—” He cuts himself off, frustrated.

He tries again, slower, steadier.

“I can’t reconcile that version of you with the one I know.” His gaze locks on mine. “The one who feels everything too loudly, all the time.”

His eyes are steady. Scorching.

“I don’t believe your orgasms are subtle,” he adds quietly. “I think the men you’ve been with weren’t worth your time.”

The room goes very, very still.

The cartoon demon keeps fighting.

My pulse roars in my ears, heat starting at my belly travels lower with his every word.

And for the first time, the thought creeps in, bold and terrifying:

If he offered—if this stopped being hypothetical—would I let him prove it?

My brain answers before I can stop it.

Yes.

Fuck yes.

The thought is so loud I’m half convinced it slipped out of my mouth.

My tongue feels numb, my lips parted like I’m mid-word. 

I try to get a hold of myself, then Colin’s eyes flick down to my mouth and back again, and my stomach does another swoop.

His hand is still on my shin under the blanket, thumb pressed warm and steady against my skin. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, like he’s chasing something down.

“Pen,” he says, and my name sounds different again—hoarse around the edges. “Can I say something without you accusing me of being a colossal asshole?”

“That depends,” I manage, “On how colossal we’re talking.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Though it doesn’t quite become a smile. A rush of lust surges through me all the same. 

“I keep trying to think of a delicate way to say this,” he admits, gaze skittering away for a second before coming back to me,“and there isn’t one, so I’m just gonna rip the Band-Aid off.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, because the air feels too tight in my lungs.

“If I—” He breaks off, jaw clenching, eyes darkening. “If I had my hands on you, Penelope… ‘subtle’ would not be the word we’d be using.”

My mind blanks—bright, white, stunned.

For a suspended heartbeat, I genuinely think I’ve misheard him. Like my brain, drunk on humiliation and caffeine, has just invented a more interesting reality.

Colin’s looking right at me, flush high on his cheekbones, like he can’t believe he said it either.

“Colin,” I whisper, my voice desert-dry. “You can’t just—say things like that.”

“I know,” he says, almost strangled. “Trust me, I’m painfully aware I just said that out loud.”

We stare at each other, the cartoon’s laughter tinny and ridiculous in the background.

He scrubs a hand over his face, then drops it, expression rawer now, stripped of the earlier humor.

“I’m not trying to be some cocky bastard,” he says, slower this time, like he’s laying the words down carefully between us. “This isn’t—about me proving a point, or… whatever guys like Alfred and Remy think sex is for. I just—” His throat works. “I hate that this is the story you’ve been given about yourself. That you’re in any way defective.”

The last word comes out like it physically hurts him.

I flinch. He sees it. His hand on my leg tightens in apology, then relaxes, his touch turning into something gentler, thumb tracing a slow arc over my skin.

“You’re perfect,” he declares quietly. And I feel the entire sky expand in my chest. 

“I can’t stand that you’re sitting here wondering if you’re broken when the only evidence is two men who wouldn’t know how to take care of you if I wrote them step by step instructions.”

“Colin—”My eyes sting.

He barrels on, like if he stops he won’t be able to start again.

“If you ever wanted to—” He breaks off, exhales hard, starts again. “If you ever wanted to actually know what it feels like when someone is paying attention, I would... I would want to. No pressure. No expectations. No ‘you owe me this’ bullshit.” His gaze flicks away for a second, then back, anchoring to mine. “Just… data. And you. And me. And trust.”

I forget how to breathe.

“You’d—” My voice cracks, so I try again. “You’d seriously offer to… what, run a controlled orgasm study?”

A shaky huff of laughter escapes him. “I’m aware of how insane it sounds when you put it like that, yes.”

“You’re my best friend,” I blurt out. “That’s—this is—”

“I know,” he agrees softly. “And that’s why I’m saying it. Because I’m not going to treat you like a lab rat, Pen. I’m not going to treat you like a performance. I’d treat you so fucking good.” Colin shifts closer, fingers never leaving my leg, the barest pressure increasing with his speech. 

“And if the idea makes your skin crawl, we never have to mention it again. You can laugh in my face and tell me I’ve watched too much late-night pornos. I’ll take it. I’ll deserve it.”

His hand on my skin burns and soothes all at once. A brand searing and healing me as I gape at his handsome face, horribly aware I currently look a mess in my comfiest, although rattiest sweats.

“Just… know it’s on the table,” Colin finishes quietly. “Only if you want it there. Only if you say so. I’m not going to push you into something you don’t want, Pen. Not for this. Not ever."

The cartoon drones on, oblivious to the tension building between us. My own thoughts turn loud and sharp in the face of our sudden silence.

He’s my best friend.

I trust him more than anyone.

He’s the one who takes my shoes off when I’m drunk, who tucks me in, who remembers my favorite take-out order and the name of my childhood stuffed rabbit and exactly how I like my complicated ass coffee.

He has never once made me feel small on purpose.

But this is a line.

This is the cliff edge, and I can see the drop on both sides: us still on this couch years from now, safe and unchanged; or us somewhere else entirely, scorched by whatever this turns into.

Part of me is terrified of crossing it. Of losing him. Of wanting more than he can give and ending up with less than I have now.

Another part of me—the part that has lived with “subtle” like a diagnosis, that has replayed Alfred’s laugh and Remy’s shrug like a looped tape—is so bone-deep tired of feeling broken and small.

If I can’t be unguarded with Colin, who can I be unguarded with?

“Pen,” he pleads, like he’s afraid to speak too loud. “Say something.”

I realize I’ve been staring at him, breathing hard, fingers fisted in the blanket between us. 

“I’m thinking,” I mutter.

His breath hitches and he nods, swallowing. “Okay. Think. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Of course he isn’t.

He’s just… there. Solid and steady on the other side of the couch, knees drawn up, one hand on my leg, the other twisted in the blanket like he’s physically restraining himself from doing anything more.

He’s offering me a choice. That alone feels like a miracle. Let's face some facts, Colin Bridgerton, the unfortunate love of my life, is essentially offering to have sex with me right now, and in his words; subtlety would have no place in the room with us if he were allowed to touch me. 

And I, a mere mortal mind you, with underwhelming sexual experience is meant to navigate this scenario…how exactly? 

I lick my lips, heart hammering so hard I feel it in my teeth.

“Ground rules,” I hear myself say, and we both blink.

“Ground—” Colin's eyebrows shoot up. “Okay. Yeah. Ground rules. Hit me.”

I take a shaky breath.

“If we do this,” I say slowly, “it’s because I want to. Not because you feel sorry for me. Not because you’re on some kind of white-knight crusade to save my orgasms.”

His mouth twists. “I don’t feel sorry for you,” he says. “I feel homicidally angry for you. But yeah. I get it. This is about you wanting it. Or not.”

“And if at any point I freak out, or decide I hate it, or start crying, or whatever…” I swallow. “You stop. No questions asked. No guilt. No weirdness tomorrow.”

His answer is immediate. “Obviously. That’s non-negotiable.”

Something in my chest unclenches.

I look at him. Really look at him. 

At the earnest, wrecked expression. At the way his thumb keeps drawing that same little circle on my skin, absent and soothing. 

At the way he’s watching me like I’m the only thing that matters in the room.

I think about all the years of loving him quietly. Of dating other people and wondering why it never felt like enough. Of walking around with this hollow spot in me where confidence should be.

I am so tired of being scared of my own body.

And here he is, handing me a taste of what I’ve always craved.

My throat feels raw when I finally speak.

“I trust you,” I profess.

Colin’s eyes go wide, dark and bright all at once.

“Pen—”

“I do,” I push on, before I can lose my nerve. “I trust you. With… this. With me.”

My voice comes out thin but steady. “And I’m tired of feeling like some sort of broken vibrator from the discount bin, so yes, okay, fine—” I gesture helplessly between us. “If the offer is real, and not just you talking out of your ass because you’re mad at my exes… then yes. I want this.”

For a moment, Colin just stares at me, like his brain has bluescreened. I wonder if it’s payback for my own bout of buffering. 

Then he swallows, hard.

“It’s real,” he says hoarsely. “I swear to God, Pen. It’s very, very real.”

A hysterical bubble of laughter rises in my chest. “Then stop looking at me like I’m going to vanish if you blink.”

He exhales something that might be a sigh, or maybe it’s a prayer.

“Okay,” he repeats, like it’s a promise.

“One more time, just so we’re absolutely clear and you have every chance to take it back.” He shifts a little closer, not touching me anywhere new, just closing some of the distance on the couch. “You trust me.”

“Yes.”

“You want this,” he states it, voice dropping. Lava thrums through my veins, already turned on and he hasn't been moved.

I can feel his body heat from here. My skin buzzes in anticipation, a shiver running down my spine. 

This is really happening. Colin Bridgerton is about to touch me in the one way he hasn’t before. 

“Yes,” I repeat, louder this time. “I want this.”

Colin closes his eyes for a second, like he’s steadying himself against the force of my response.

Then blue eyes catch on mine again, they’re all determined and focused solely on me.

“Then tell me to come over there.”

The words stick in my throat. I don’t manage “come here,” but I do reach for him, fingers curling in the front of his hoodie.

That’s apparently all he needs. He tosses the blanket onto the floor, then grabbing me by both hips and tugging until I'm straddling him.

“Oh,” a soft gasp slips past my lips, but neither of us have time to utter another word because his lips are on me. 

Colin takes my face in one of his hands, pressing a delicate closed mouth kiss to my tingling lips. Slowly he kisses me, soft but urgent before threading his fingers into my knotted curls and tilting my head up. 

I gasp at the dull ache blooming at the base of my scalp, giving Colin the opportunity to absolutely melt my brain. 

His tongue finds mine with an almost desperate edge, nearly shattering me where I sit, on his goddamn lap. 

A part of me worried it would be weird. All the daydreams and fantasizing would fall apart when facing reality. 

I should’ve known better. Because kissing Colin was devastating.

His hands are everywhere at once—cupping my ass, sliding up to cradle my burning cheek, always guiding me back when I try to chase another angle of his mouth.

His lips are insistent and unbearably soft for a man, not that I have much to compare it to.

Not that I can even remember ever being touched by another. How can I, with the deep timbre of his groans dragging me impossibly closer still?

Colin kisses me as if he has something to prove, and I suppose he does, so I am but a helpless horny mess in his hands, at the mercy of whatever he chooses to offer.

”Pen, if at any point you want to stop—”

I cut him off, breathlessly, “I’ll say stop. I promise. I know you’ll listen.

Colin’s mouth morphs into a wicked smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Good. Sit back,” he says, and my whole nervous system lights up like that was the exact right answer. I shift off his thighs and sink back against the couch, letting him arrange me.

He moves to his knees between mine, never breaking eye contact, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of my sweats.

Insecurity scratches at the walls of my psyche, fighting for attention, but then Colin moans into my thigh, “You’re fucking beautiful, Pen.”

His voice is sandpaper rough against my skin, lips dragging up my thigh, just shy of where I crave him most. 

“Colin.” I whine, feeling possessed by desire. His tongue swipes against my damp panties, the paired dark chuckle lighting my skin on fire.

I shiver, my hands snapping to his shoulders, and before I can breathe a loud Rrriiip announces the shredding of my underwear. Now just a sopping shred of fabric discarded beside our blanket.

I can’t complain when in the next heartbeat, I find out what it feels like to have Colin Bridgerton's mouth on my pussy. 

The high pitched moan that punches out of me doesn’t even sound mine. 

He’s wicked. He’s wonderful. He’s rewiring my entire nervous system.

It’s nearly too much pleasure, Colin sucks on my clit with an almost painful precision and it’s just so fucking good.

”Colin!” I gasp his name because I can remember no other words, unsure if I even know the English language past this man's name. 

Colin offers an approving hum, one deep in his chest as he sucks me and I swear I feel it in my soul. 

It’s then I feel that quiet thrill, familiar and scary since it always vanishes as quick as it appears. Like I'm climbing a roller coaster but get off before the fall.

My heart stutters when he replaces his tongue with a skilled digit toying at my clit as mercilessly as his tongue had. 

“Does that feel good?” He asks breathlessly and I almost want to scream, because what do you mean? 

However, the part of my brain responsible for sassy comebacks is blissfully checked out right now. 

“I feel…I” My chest rises rapidly, so close.

”Stay with me, baby. You feeling close already?”

The responding whimper would be embarrassing if it didn’t reward me with his head in between my legs again. 

“Spread your legs for me, pretty girl. I'm greedy for another taste of this perfect pussy.”

He’s ruthless and devine, lapping and groaning against my clit, pleasure building and building and I know this feeling, breathy moans beyond my control tumbling past my lips, my legs shaking struggling to stay spread.

My pleasure spikes higher, to a peak—a throbbing in my cunt that Colin meets with every swipe of his tongue—and I realize this is where other men have always stopped.

They’d pull away. Wipe their mouths like it was a job well done. Leave me hollow and unfinished, so close to perfection it almost hurt.

Colin doesn’t stop, though.

If anything, he gets more determined. He groans against me like he’s the one losing his mind and then slips a finger between my wet folds, pushing inside, and I see stars collapse behind my eyelids.

I moan loudly, surrendering to everything he’s setting on fire inside of me. My thighs tremble helplessly around his shoulders; I couldn’t close them if I tried.

I must black out for a second—seconds stretching into minutes—because the next thing I register is Colin’s face above me, that pleased, boyish grin tugging at his lips, slick with my arousal.

It’s insane how hot it is. The raw hunger in his eyes, like he can’t wait to devour me all over again, as if he hasn’t just done exactly that.

Colin studies me, slow and intent, like he’s taking inventory—every shiver, every goosebump, every tiny betrayal of my body. A satisfied, dangerous little smirk tugs at his perfect mouth.

Another tremor races down my spine at the realization that he isn’t done with me. Not even close.

“There you are,” Colin murmurs, meeting my eyes. Low. Pleased.

I try to catch my breath, but my chest is still stuttering; my legs are limp and shaking where they’re draped over his shoulders. I feel wrung out and still buzzing, like my body can’t decide whether to melt or detonate.

He straightens a fraction, hands smoothing up and down my thighs in slow, grounding strokes—coaxing me back into my own skin like he’s done this a thousand times.

It feels like magic: the tenderness of his touch paired with those gratified little hums, like he’s worshipping what he just pulled out of me.

I shut my eyes at the sheer force of it.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs—half warning, half promise.

My eyes flutter open at the command in his tone.

“Look at me, Pen.”

Heat rolls through me all over again at the way he says it—quiet, confident, like he already knows I’ll listen.

Colin shifts closer, crowding my knees apart again, but slower this time, savoring the way my breath hitches. Every movement is deliberate—testing, learning, adjusting until I’m trembling for him all over again.

“More like this?” he asks, voice rough, eyes glued to my face as his fingers glide, unhurried, over my entrance and swollen clit. “Feel a little sensitive?”

Words fail me. I can only nod, some broken sound scraping out of my throat.

His mouth curves, satisfied. “Don’t hold it in.”

His thumb traces a soothing line along my hip—gentle, grounding—while he slides a finger into me like he’s claiming his right to learn exactly how I work.

“I want to hear you, Pen,” he groans, and the way he says it—like my pleasure is something he’s starving for—knocks the air clean out of me. “All of it.”

The pressure coils again, fast and relentless, and I feel myself trying to clamp down, trying to retreat from the intensity out of sheer habit—

“Look at me,” Colin demands.

I whine, mortifying and helpless.

“Do you like it like this?” he coos like he means to soothe me—then changes the rhythm, thumb pressing the perfect amount of pressure to my clit, keeping me right at that unbearable precipice. Close. So close. And somehow still not enough.

Pure torture.

My heart feels like it’s going to burst through my ribs—and then he adds another finger, swallowing my moan with a kiss.

“So pretty,” he breathes against my mouth. “Look how you just… suck me in.”

Colin’s voice drops, darker, rougher—reckless with want.

“My cock’s going to suffocate in this tight little cunt,” he growls, another bruising kiss, then softer—controlled. “But I can wait. I need you to cum again.”

My head hits the cushions with frustration. “Just fuck me, Colin!” I sob, tears bright at the edges of my vision—hot with humiliation, hotter with need. I clench my eyes shut.

And then it hits me—sharp and ugly and clarifying—

This is as far as anyone else ever helped me get. This edge. This almost. This before.

Colin doesn’t flinch from it. He doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t treat my pleasure like a finish line he can’t be bothered to cross.

This crash course in edging is absolute punishment—incandescent, brutal, freeing.

A kind of permission: trust him. Let him take you past the place where you’ve always been abandoned.

“You’re going to open those pretty eyes for me,” Colin murmurs, voice velvet over steel. “And you’re going to let me fuck you on my fingers first.”

His thumb strokes once, slow. Possessive.

“I’m greedy,” he admits, like it’s a sin he plans to commit again. “I want this next one to last forever.”

“Colin—please,” I pleaded. “I can’t.”

“You can, baby.” His voice is steady, sure. “If you hold eye contact with me, you will. Okay? Look at me.”

Despite the dizzying frustration, I snap bleary eyes to him.

Colin’s mouth tips into a dark little chuckle. “That’s it. There’s something about how you react when I make you hold my eyes”

His fingers drive faster as he speaks—slick, ruthless. “You like to listen,” he purrs, eyes glued to mine. “You like being my good girl.”

My whole body goes tight around the words. Another wave of arousal crying down my thighs.

“Keep holding,” he says—no boyish teasing now, just command. “It’s nice to let go, isn’t it? Keep holding. To listen. Keep holding. You do it so well.”

His thumb keeps circling my clit—exact, merciless—until I’m shaking.

“The thing is,” Colin breathes, voice roughening, “if you like it… I fucking love it.”

And then he does the cruelest thing—

His fingers stop.

No thrust. No friction. Just the empty, aching stretch of him inside me while his thumb keeps me right there, right on the edge he built like a goddamn altar.

I moan, broken. I’m terrified if I break his gaze he’ll stop and it’ll be a year before he lets me cum again.

“Keep holding,” Colin repeats, and then he adds a third finger—pumping into me with an almost brutal pace, like he’s done pretending this is gentle.

“Oh—” It hits me, blinding. Somehow I climb higher on the rollercoaster instead of falling off it. Pleasure cracks through me so bright my vision swims, even with my eyes wide open.

The pressure turns sharp, insistent—no longer asking.

“Let go, love.” I can vaguely hear him moan. 

My orgasm tears through me like a wave breaking—sharp, endless. I whimper as I clench around his still-moving fingers, milking the sensation until I’m nothing but sound on the sofa.

It’s the longest I’ve ever… cum. If I ever even did before he touched me.

Colin catches my mouth, kissing the groans out of me like he owns them. When he pulls back, his forehead brushes mine.

“Such a good girl.” His voice goes softer, careful. “Are you feeling okay?”

It takes me a handful of heartbeats to find my voice again. When I do, it comes out rasped and bratty. “Never better.”

Something bright flickers in his expression—relief, pride, hunger—and he answers with another kiss, rougher this time, pulling me in by the waist like he’s done asking permission to want me.

I fist my hands in his hair, humming against his mouth, heady with the traces of me.

I can’t get close enough.

I have spent my whole life believing I would never have this. And now that I do, the thought of losing it feels like standing on a cliff and calling it a view.

Not tonight.

Future Penelope can have the panic. Future Penelope can deal with the consequences and the memories and the ache of wanting more than she’s allowed to want.

Present Penelope gets the privilege of living it.

For data, I think wildly—like that makes any of this safer.

He shifts, dragging me tighter against him, and the last thread of my dignity snaps with a sound that is not dignified at all.

Future Penelope can hate me for the rest of my life, because Colin rucks his hips down in a filthy grind against my bare pussy and I loose the will to care.

“I want to touch you,” I pant, a little wrecked, a little greedy. I reach for his cock and he catches my wrist—not rough, just absolute.

“I have a better idea for those delicate little fingers,” he murmurs, and guides my hand between my legs with a quiet, commanding patience that makes my stomach drop.

“Start rubbing.”

The wanton vixen in me —apparently thriving—wants to do whatever he says forever, as long as he says it like that.

But I’m stubborn, and I’m desperate, and I want him undone, too.

“Colin,” I insist, and my voice cracks on his name. “I want to touch you.”

He continues kisses down my neck, slow enough to make me shake, then pauses at a spot beneath my jaw as if claiming it. I nearly tell him not to leave marks—

—and then I swallow the words, because he’s already tugging me closer, pulling the tops of my tank and bra down, baring skin like it’s a gift he intends to unwrap properly.

“You are touching me,” he teases, low and pleased, and I realize my other hand is still tangled in his hair—gripping just a touch too tightly.

“Colin,” I huff, because he knows that’s not what I meant.

Colin’s gaze dips, awed and hungry all at once.

“I needed to see these magnificent tits before I blew my load.” he confesses, rough on the exhale, like he’s been holding that sentence in his teeth for years.

I choke on a whimper as his tongue laps at my exposed breasts. Nipples hard and practically shouting for his attention. 

”Ugh!” I hiss when Colin’s big hand joins in and cups my breast with a gentle squeeze.

“Sensitive?” Colin arches a brow, amused, and then—without warning—his tone turns stern, dark velvet over steel. “Do what I said.”

God.

How does he go from tender to commanding in a single breath?

I obey—because I want to, because I’m dizzy with it, because the praise in his eyes makes me feel like I’m doing something holy instead of filthy.

“Slower,” he pants, and his hands don’t let me drift away from him. He keeps me exactly where he wants me, like he’s memorizing me. And I'm helpless to the sensation of his undivided focus.

“Good girl,” he moans, softer this time—almost reverential.

“I want you to keep stroking that swollen cunt because If you get a single hand on me I’ll cum too soon. I want the next time you cum to be on my cock, Pen.  I might’ve overdone it earlier with the edging.” A strangled breath. “You’re so sexy I could split this fucking couch in half.”

And the absurd thing is: he sounds like my sweet, babbling best friend.

Just—armed. Dangerous. Ruinously good at this.

Who knew? Well, I did, I've always known .

Colin grins—bright, boyish, unfair. The kind of smile that could make a girl ruin her life and call it romance.

Something in me laughs, breathless and disbelieving, and I hate that my blush still finds me even now.

“Is that what you want,” he asks, brushing a kiss at the corner of my mouth. “Want me to fuck you?”

Every scrap of amusement evaporates.

“Please,” I beg, shameless now. “Now. I need it.”

Colin chuckles, but he doesn’t move right away.

Instead, he goes still—like he’s bracing against something bigger than desire. He cups my face, forces my eyes to his.

“Before we do this,” his voice is low, unsteady in a way that scares me more than it should.

Colin presses his forehead to mine, as if bracing. “I’m going to say something wildly inconvenient.”

My heart tries to climb out of my chest.

“Pen,” he breathes, like my name hurts. “I want you. Tonight, yes—” His mouth twitches, like he’s trying to joke and failing. “But not just tonight. Every night, forever. And if you don’t want that… I’ll understand. I’ll take what you give me and be grateful for it.”

He swallows, and his eyes shine with something reckless.

“But I can’t pretend this is only ‘data.’” A shaky laugh. “I love you.”

The words hit me like a door blown open.

I don’t hesitate. I don’t analyze. I don’t let fear get its claws in first.

“I love you so much, Colin Bridgerton,” I blurt, half-laughing, half-weeping. “What the fuck took you so long?”

Colin surges forward, smiling into our kiss, breaths uneven like he was trying to catch it. 

“I’m a very, very stupid man,” he manages between kisses, refusing to pull away.

Then, breathless against my mouth: “Here… or the bedroom, Pen?”

I don’t even realize I’m laughing until Colin huffs out a low chuckle in response, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as he catches his breath. It bubbles out of me, wild and breathless, half-disbelieving.

“I can’t believe you love me.” 

He looks up at me like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. His hair is a mess, his smile boyish and ruined, and the sight of him like this—wrecked because of me—makes another hysterical little giggle escape.

“I was subtle, huh?” he says, echoing my own stupid word back at me, and there’s so much fond exasperation in it I almost burst into tears on the spot.

My laughter dissolves into a choked sound, something caught between a sob and a moan. Shame tries to claw its way in again, whispering all the old stories about being too much, not enough, always wrong

But Colin is already there, hands gentle and steady on my hips, eyes locked on mine like he’s not going to let me look away 

“I’ve loved you since we were kids,” I confess, somehow turning more red under his gaze, “It’s my default setting, really.”

“Don’t call it a default setting like it’s some footnote, Pen.” His voice goes careful, like he’s handling something breakable. “That’s a lifetime. That’s you—choosing me, again and again, when I didn’t deserve it.”

For a moment I can’t quite hold his gaze. Heat climbs my throat, my cheeks. I huff a noise that’s mostly nerves and mostly relief.

“Make it up to me, then. Take me to bed.”  I criticize, because if I don’t tease, I might cry.

Something in him shifts—like the tenderness doesn’t leave, it just ignites.

His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes—like he’s trying to be good, and failing. “I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman.”

“Isn’t that a pity?” I bite my lip, looking up at him through my lashes.

His mouth twitches—fond, doomed. Then his eyes sharpen, like he’s decided something. “We should fix that.”

Before I can make another smart remark, he steps in and kisses me once—hard enough to steal the air—then slides an arm behind my thighs and lifts me clean off the floor.

I gasp, clutching his shoulders. “Oh my—”

The laugh punches out of me anyway, breathless and wrecked, fingers fisting in his shirt. “Colin—”

“Careful,” he murmurs, lips brushing mine as he carries me down the hall. “If you keep sounding like that, we won’t make it to the bed.”

Finesse doesn’t survive the doorway. We stumble into my bedroom like we’ve been chased, and both of us start tugging—peeling, fumbling, frantic with it—at whatever clothing is still between us.

Soon we’re tangled in my sheets again, kissing messy and open-mouthed, all heat and no patience—like we’re teenagers with the volume turned up and the consequences turned off.

Somewhere along the way it becomes a game: who can make the other moan first, loudest, like it’s a point to be won. A contest I might be losing, but I’ve always been a gracious loser.

Before I know it, Colin has me on my back, his hard length grinding against me—insistent, and I want it enough to beg until he gives it to me.

For a moment, I’m yanked back to this morning: the hazy half-memory of waking up with him in my bed, the weight of him, the warmth of him—now sharpened into something deliberately chosen.

“Colin,” I gasp, arching into him, already ruined by his firm touch and the slow drag of his cock against my wetness. “You can’t keep doing this. I’m going to lose my mind.”

His mouth bites a bruise onto my nipple, a smile in his voice even when the pleasure turns merciless.

“That’s the idea, love.”

“Please,” I croak, and it comes out pathetic in the best way. Honest. “I can’t think. I can’t—please.” Whatever patience I had left detonates. I don’t want more teasing—I want him in me. I want relief.

He hears it. His forehead presses to mine, and his voice turns wrecked. 

“Shh—God, Pen. Okay.” His breath stutters. “I can’t take it either.” A beat, like he’s forcing control back into his hands. “Tell me how you want me.”

“Like this.”

His eyes lock onto mine—bright, hungry, devoted all at once—like he can’t believe this is real.

“Stay still, baby. Let me sink into this perfect pussy,”His breath breaks, his hips  slowly breaching me inch by inch, “Ffuuuck. You’re so fucking wet, Pen.”

“Two orgasms do that to a girl…”

A sound tears out of him—half laugh, half groan—like he was just handed him permission.

“Ready to make it a third?”

I don’t even know if my body is capable of that, though the idea thrills me all the same.

“Yes.”

He shifts his hips and the change in angle turns my brain into static. Slamming into me with measured thrusts.

“So. Tight.” His voice goes dazed, possessive. “I knew you’d be perfect.”

“Colin—”

“My perfect girl. My pretty pussy.” He groans, eyes never leaving mine. Hips never slowing, “Say it, Pen.”

Heat crawls up my throat, intoxicating and humiliating in a way I’m willing to offer him, if he just keeps moving like that.

“Yours,” I blurt, recklessly on the edge of pleasure.

Colin’s expression flashes—hunger, victory, something tender underneath it.

“What’s mine, love?” he coaxes, like I’m in any state to manage full sentences. “Say it. And look at me.”

I blink up at him, trying to meet him—trying to keep up—hips chasing his every thrust like my body has decided it belongs to him.

“Your—” I gasp, words tripping over themselves, embarrassment burning hot as it spills into want.

Colin hums in encouragement, hands moving to circle my ass and push my legs up around his waist. 

“Your pussy.” I wheeze another harsh breath after a particularly hard thrust, “ Your perfect girl.” I finish.

“That’s fucking right,” Colin grits, and the satisfaction in his voice feels like a brand.

“And I’m about to ruin my perfect girl so I’m the only data she ever needs again.”

I don’t know if it’s his pace, his words, or the new angle that does it, but I feel my walls clench around his cock, throbbing and pulsing through my third orgasm.

A strangled sound tears past my lips, legs shaking where they rest tangled at his waist. 

I am not quiet. Not subtle. Not anything I can pretend isn’t real.

Colin curses, rhythm stuttering but still relentless, like he’s fighting not to lose control 

I keep wailing, my pleasure crescendoes climbing and falling in a loop of prolonged pleasure. It’s too much.

“Oh, baby.” His voice drops, jagged with awe. “I know. It’s intense.” Colin kisses my—shoulder, mouth, jaw—anywhere he can reach, like he’s trying to anchor me. “But you’re doing so fucking well. Give it to me. Don’t. Stop.” 

My body responds to him, another gush of cum meeting his thrusts and seeping down my thighs. His breathing goes ragged, a constant low growl between words.

“Can I come inside you?”

“God, yes,” I shout, shattered open by the tenderness of him asking and relieved expression when I answer.

“I fucking love you.” The words tear out of him like a confession and a curse at once. “You’re fucking perfect.” 

With a few more hard thrusts Colin climaxes, and I have the privilege of watching his face contort in pleasure as he moans my name. 

Pleasure sizzles beneath my skin, as I enjoy the brief comfort of Colin’s weight on top of me. He quickly shifts to not crush me, arranging my jello-body beside him.

Then he presses a sweet kiss to my mouth—soft, grounding—and slips off the bed with that same quiet competence he always has when he’s decided he’s in charge of keeping me alive.

I hear him pad toward the bathroom. A drawer. Water running. The faint clink of something set on the counter.

I stare at the ceiling for a second, blinking, trying to convince my brain this is not a very vivid hallucination sponsored by bad decisions.

Then I stop fighting it. I let myself just feel good f. My body feels heavy in the best way. Like I’ve been wrung out and put back together.

Colin comes back with a washcloth and that focused look of his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low. “Let me.”

He cleans us up with brisk gentleness—no fuss, no weirdness, just care. Like it’s the most normal extension of intimacy in the world.

When he’s done, he tosses the cloth away and returns immediately, like he can’t stand the distance for more than five seconds.

He climbs in beside me and pulls me in—warm, secure, familiar in a way that makes something in my chest go loose.

And the ridiculous part is: my first thought isn’t panic.

It’s just: Colin loves me.

The room is… quiet.

Not awkwardly quiet. Not ‘Now what?’quiet.

Just the kind where everything feels a little hazy and good, like the world’s volume got turned down without anyone asking it to.

We’re a mess in the sheets—warm, tangled, sweaty in that lazy aftermath where my limbs are heavy and my brain keeps trying to reboot and failing because, frankly, it’s not how I expected today to go.

Colin’s still right here. Close enough that I can feel him breathe. One arm under my head, the other around my waist, hand spread, or else gravity might pull me away.

And then—because he cannot help himself—he shifts.

Not away. Just enough to lean across me and grab the water from the nightstand like this is a thing he’s always done. Like he came with a built-in “aftercare” setting.

“Here,” he murmurs. “Drink.”

Colin holds the glass to my mouth, steady and patient, watching me with that focused look that makes my chest go a little tight if I stare at it too long.

I take a few sips, and the second I swallow he visibly relaxes, like he’s been holding his breath until he knows I’m okay.

“Good,” he says quietly, like I’ve passed some important test.

He sets the glass down, then runs his fingers through my hair. Slow. Gentle. Repetitive in a way that makes my thoughts go pleasantly blank.

Which is honestly a miracle, because my brain loves to ruin a good thing.

Normally, this is where the panic shows up.

Did I—was I weird—was it too much—was it not enough—did he notice—did he not—

But it doesn’t.

Or it tries, and it can’t get its footing, because I feel too good. Too warm. Too…full.

Then the realization slips in, soft and inevitable:

I wasn’t broken.

I was just with people who didn’t know what to do with me.

Colin does.

He pays attention like it’s instinct. Like it’s the point.

His thumb brushes my cheek, and I blink, remembering I’m in a room with him and not in my own head for once.

“You okay?” he asks, low and careful.

“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out stupidly sincere. I clear my throat like that fixes it. “I’m just… processing the fact that this is real.”

His mouth twitches. He keeps stroking my hair.

We lay there like that—quiet, warm, not rushing—until I feel him hesitate.

It’s discreet, but I know him. The tiny pause before he speaks. The way his eyes flick away like he’s deciding whether he’s allowed to ask.

“Penelope,” he says, and he sounds… careful. “Can I ask you something?”

“Uh-oh,” I murmur automatically, because if I let myself be soft for too long I’ll start crying and I absolutely refuse to cry in my own bed over a good orgasm. Or three.

Colin lets out a quiet breath—almost a laugh, almost not.

“Just… to be sure,” he starts, his hand tightening lightly at my waist. “Did you—”

He cuts himself off, like he realizes he doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Just checking,” he adds, voice casual on purpose, “am I allowed to be smug?”

But I can see it anyway: the care behind it—how he’s trying to make it a joke so I don’t have to take it seriously. Like if he can get me to roll my eyes, then we’re fine. We’re us. Like if he can make me laugh, he can make it safe.

My chest does that annoying warm thing.

I lift my hand and flick his chest—soft, affectionate.

“Colin,” I say, dry as I can manage, even though I’m smiling. “Obviously.”

His face breaks—wide grin, breathy laugh, pure relief.

“Obviously,” he repeats, shaking his head with an affectionate roll of his eyes—looking, if I do say so myself, entirely too smug about it.

Colin kisses the corner of my mouth, slow and warm, and when he pulls back his eyes are bright with that soft, satisfied heat—less hunger now, more… content. Like he’s settling.

I don’t know how I’ll ever get used to this.

I sink back into his arms and let the world hang there between us like a quiet win.

And somewhere in the back of my mind—beneath the bliss, beneath the disbelief, beneath the tiny, smug part of me that wants to frame the moment—I can’t help but think—

Thank God for tequila.