Romancing Mister Bridgerton: Penelope & Colin’s Story (Bridgertons Book 4)

The moment Penelope nodded—the moment before she nodded, really—she knew that she had agreed to more than a kiss. She wasn’t sure what had made Colin change his mind, why he had been so angry one minute and then so loving and tender the next.

She wasn’t sure, but the truth was—she didn’t care.

One thing she knew—he wasn’t doing this, kissing her so sweetly, to punish her. Some men might use desire as a weapon, temptation as revenge, but Colin wasn’t one of them.

It just wasn’t in him.

He was, for all his rakish and mischievous ways, for all his jokes and teasing and sly humor, a good and noble man. And he would be a good and noble husband.

She knew this as well as she knew herself.

And if he was kissing her passionately, lowering her to his bed, covering her body with his own, then it was because he wanted her, cared enough to overcome his anger.

Cared for her.

Penelope kissed him back with every ounce of her emotion, every last corner of her soul. She had years and years of love for this man, and what she lacked in technique, she made up in fervor. She clutched at his hair, writhed beneath him, unmindful of her own appearance.

They weren’t in a carriage or his mother’s drawing room this time. There was no fear of discovery, no need to make sure that she looked presentable in ten minutes.

This was the night she could show him everything she felt for him. She would answer his desire with her own, and silently make her vows of love and fidelity and devotion.

When the night was through, he would know that she loved him. She might not say the words—she might not even whisper them—but he would know.

Or maybe he already knew. It was funny; it had been so easy to hide her secret life as Lady Whistledown, but so unbelievably hard to keep her heart from her eyes every time she looked at him.

“When did I start needing you so much?” he whispered, raising his head very slightly from hers until the tips of their noses touched and she could see his eyes, dark and colorless in the dim candlelight, but so very green in her mind, focusing on hers. His breath was hot, and his gaze was hot, and he was making her feel hot in areas of her body she never even allowed herself to think about.

His fingers moved to the back of her gown, moving expertly along the buttons until she felt the fabric loosening, first around her breasts, then around her ribs, then around her waist.

And then it wasn’t even there at all.

“My God,” he said, his voice a mere shadow louder than breath, “you’re so beautiful.”

And for the first time in her life, Penelope truly believed that it might be true.

There was something very wicked and titillating about being so intimately bared before another human being, but she didn’t feel shame. Colin was looking at her so warmly, touching her so reverently, that she could feel nothing but an overwhelming sense of destiny.

His fingers skimmed along the sensitive skin at the outside edge of her breast, first teasing her with his fingernails, then stroking her more gently as his fingertips returned to their original position near her collarbone.

Something tightened within her. She didn’t know if it was his touch or the way he was looking at her, but something was making her change.

She felt strange, odd.

Wonderful.

He was kneeling on the bed beside her, still fully clothed, gazing down at her with a sense of pride, of desire, of ownership. “I never dreamed you would look like this,” he whispered, moving his hand until his palm was lightly grazing her nipple. “I never dreamed I would want you this way.”

Penelope sucked in her breath as a spasm of sensation shot through her. But something in his words was unsettling, and he must have seen her reaction in her eyes, because he asked, “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she started to say, then checked herself. Their marriage ought to be based on honesty, and she did neither of them a service by withholding her true feelings.

“What did you think I would look like?” she asked quietly.

He just stared at her, clearly confused by her question.

“You said you never dreamed I would look this way,” she explained. “What did you think I would look like?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Until the last few weeks, honestly I don’t think I thought about it.”

“And since then?” she persisted, not quite sure why she needed him to answer, just knowing that she did.

In one swift moment he straddled her, then leaned down until the fabric of his waistcoat scraped her belly and breasts, until his nose touched hers and his hot breath swarmed across her skin.

“Since then,” he growled, “I’ve thought of this moment a thousand times, pictured a hundred different pairs of breasts, all lovely and desirable and full and begging for my attention, but nothing, and let me repeat this in case you didn’t quite hear me the first time, nothing comes close to reality.”

“Oh.” It was really all she could think to say.

He shrugged off his jacket and waistcoat until he was clad only in his fine linen shirt and breeches, then did nothing but stare at her, a wicked, wicked smile lifting one corner of his lips as she squirmed beneath him, growing hot and hungry under his relentless gaze.

And then, just when she was certain that she couldn’t take it for one more second, he reached out and covered her with both his hands, squeezing lightly as he tested the weight and shape of her. He moaned raggedly, then sucked in his breath as he adjusted his fingers so that her nipples popped up between them.

“I want to see you sitting up,” he groaned, “so I can see them full and lovely and large. And then I want to crawl behind you and cup you.” His lips found her ear and his voice dropped to a whisper. “And I want to do it in front of a mirror.”

“Now?” she squeaked.

He seemed to consider that for a moment, then shook his head. “Later,” he said, and then repeated it in a rather resolute tone. “Later.”

Penelope opened her mouth to ask him something—she had no idea what—but before she could utter a word, he murmured, “First things first,” and lowered his mouth to her breast, teasing her first with a soft rush of air, then closing his lips around her, chuckling softly as she yelped in surprise and bucked off the bed.

He continued this torture until she thought she might scream, then he moved to the other breast and repeated it all over again. But this time he’d freed up one of his hands, and it seemed to be everywhere—teasing, tempting, tickling. It was on her belly, then on her hip, then on her ankle, sliding up under her skirt.

“Colin,” Penelope gasped, squirming beneath him as his fingers stroked the delicate skin behind her knee.

“Are you trying to get away or come closer?” he murmured, his lips never once leaving her breast.

“I don’t know.”

He lifted his head and smiled down at her wolfishly. “Good.”

He climbed off of her and slowly removed the remainder of his clothing, first his fine linen shirt and then his boots and breeches. And all the while, he never once allowed his eyes to stray from hers. When he was done, he nudged her dress, already pooling about her waist, around her hips, his fingers pressing lightly against her soft bottom as he lifted her up to slide the fabric under her.

She was left before him in nothing but her sheer, whisper-soft stockings. He paused then, and smiled, too much of a man not to enjoy the view, then eased them from her legs, letting them flitter to the floor after he’d slid them over her toes.

She was shivering in the night air, and so he lay beside her, pressing his body to hers, infusing her with his warmth as he savored the silky softness of her skin.

He needed her. It was humbling how much he needed her.

He was hard, hot, and so desperately wracked with desire it was a wonder he could still see straight. And yet even as his body screamed for release, he was possessed of a strange calm, an unexpected sense of control. Somewhere along the way this had ceased to be about him. It was about her—no, it was about them, about this wondrous joining and miraculous love that he was only now beginning to appreciate.

He wanted her—God above, he wanted her—but he wanted her to tremble beneath him, to scream with desire, to thrash her head from side to side as he teased her toward completion.

He wanted her to love this, to love him, and to know, when they were lying in each other’s arms, sweaty and spent, that she belonged to him.

Because he already knew that he belonged to her.

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” he said, surprised by the way his voice was shaking over his words.

“You couldn’t,” she whispered, touching his cheek.

She didn’t understand. It almost made him smile, probably would have made him smile if he weren’t so concerned with making this, her first experience, a good one. But her whispered words—you couldn’t—could mean only one thing—that she had no idea what it meant to make love with a man.

“Penelope,” he said softly, covering her hand with his own, “I need to explain something to you. I could hurt you. I would never mean to, but I could, and—”

She shook her head. “You couldn’t,” she said again. “I know you. Sometimes I think I know you better than I know myself. And you would never do anything that would hurt me.”

He gritted his teeth and tried not to groan. “Not on purpose,” he said, the barest hint of exasperation tinging his voice, “but I could, and—”

“Let me be the judge,” she said, taking his hand and bringing it to her mouth for a single, heartfelt kiss. “And as for the other…”

“What other?”

She smiled, and Colin had to blink, because he could swear she almost looked as if she were amused by him. “You told me to tell you if you did anything I didn’t like,” she said.

He watched her face closely, suddenly mesmerized by the way her lips were forming words.

“I promise you,” she vowed, “I will like it all.”

A strange bubble of joy began to rise within him. He didn’t know what benevolent god had chosen to bestow her upon him, but he was thinking that he needed to be a bit more attentive next time he went to church.

“I will like it all,” she said again, “because I’m with you.”

He took her face in his hands, gazing down at her as if she were the most wondrous creature ever to walk the earth.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you for years.”

“I know,” he said, surprising himself with his words. He had known, he supposed, but he’d thrust it from his mind because her love made him uncomfortable. It was hard to be loved by someone decent and good when you didn’t return the emotion. He couldn’t dismiss her, because he liked her and he’d not have been able to forgive himself if he’d trampled on her emotions. And he couldn’t flirt with her, for much the same reasons.

And so he had told himself that what she felt wasn’t really love. It had been easier to try to convince himself that she was merely infatuated with him, that she didn’t understand what true love was (as if he did!), and that eventually she would find someone else and settle down into a happy and contented life.

Now that thought—that she might have married another—nearly left him paralyzed with fear.

They were side by side, and she was staring at him with her heart in her eyes, her entire face alive with happiness and contentment, as if she finally felt free now that she had spoken the words. And he realized that her expression held not one trace of expectation. She hadn’t told him she loved him simply to hear his reply. She wasn’t even waiting for his answer.

She had told him she loved him simply because she wanted to. Because that was what she felt.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, pressing an intense kiss against her lips before moving away so that he could see her reaction.

Penelope gazed at him for a very long while before responding. Finally, with an odd, convulsive swallow, she said, “You don’t have to say that just because I did.”

“I know,” he replied, smiling.

She just looked at him, her widening eyes the only movement on her face.

“And you know that, too,” he said softly. “You said you know me better than you know yourself. And you know I would never say the words if I didn’t mean them.”

And as she lay there, naked in his bed, cradled in his embrace, Penelope realized that she did know. Colin didn’t lie, not about anything important, and she couldn’t imagine anything more important than the moment they were sharing.

He loved her. It wasn’t anything she’d expected, nor anything she’d even allowed herself to hope for, and yet here it was, like a bright and shining miracle in her heart.

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

He nodded, his arms drawing her closer. “I realized it this evening. When I asked you to stay.”

“How…” But she didn’t finish the question. Because she wasn’t even really sure what the question was. How did he know he loved her? How had it happened? How did it make him feel?This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

But somehow he must have known what she could not verbalize, because he answered, “I don’t know. I don’t know when, I don’t know how, and to be honest, I don’t care. But I know this much is true: I love you, and I hate myself for not seeing the real you all these years.”

“Colin, don’t,” she pleaded. “No recriminations. No regrets. Not tonight.”

But he just smiled, placing a single finger on her lips to silence her plea. “I don’t think you changed,” he said. “At least not very much. But then one day I realized I was seeing something different when I looked at you.” He shrugged. “Maybe I changed. Maybe I grew up.”

She placed her finger on his lips, quieting him in the same manner he’d done to her. “Maybe I grew up, too.”

“I love you,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. And this time she couldn’t reply, because his mouth remained on hers, hungry, demanding, and very, very seductive.

He seemed to know exactly what to do. Each flick of his tongue, each nibble of his teeth sent shivers to the very core of her being, and she gave herself over to the pure joy of the moment, to the white-hot flame of desire. His hands were everywhere, and she felt him everywhere, his fingers on her skin, his leg nudging its way between hers.

He was pulling her closer, rolling her on top of him as he slid onto his back. His hands were on her bottom, pulling her so tightly against him that the proof of his desire seared itself into her skin.

Penelope gasped at the astounding intimacy of it all, but her breath was caught by his lips, still kissing her with fierce tenderness.

And then she was on her back, and he was on top of her, and the weight of him was pressing her into the mattress, squeezing the air from her lungs. His mouth moved to her ear, then to her throat, and Penelope felt herself arching beneath him, as if she could somehow curve her body closer to his.

She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, but she knew she had to move. Her mother had already conducted her “little talk,” as she’d put it, and she’d told Penelope that she must lie still beneath her husband and allow him his pleasures.

But there was no way she could have remained motionless, no way she could have stopped her hips from pressing up against him, nor her legs from wrapping around his. And she didn’t want to allow him his pleasures—she wanted to encourage them, to share them.

And she wanted them for herself as well. Whatever this was, building inside of her—this tension, this desire—it needed release, and Penelope couldn’t imagine that that moment, that those feelings wouldn’t be the most exquisite of her life.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, urgency making her voice hoarse.

Colin spread her legs wide, running his hands along her sides until they reached her thighs and squeezed. “Let me do everything,” he said, breathing hard.

She grabbed at his buttocks, pulling him closer. “No,” she insisted. “Tell me.”

He stopped moving for the barest of moments, looking at her in surprise. “Touch me,” he said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Her hands on his bottom relaxed slightly, and she smiled.

“I am touching you.”

“Move,” he groaned. “Move them.”

She let her fingers drift to his thighs, swirling gently as she felt the soft springiness of hair. “Like this?”

He nodded jerkily.

Her hands slid forward, until they were dangerously close to his member. “Like this?”

Abruptly, he covered one of her hands with his. “Not now,” he said harshly.

She looked at him in confusion.

“You’ll understand later,” he grunted, spreading her legs even wider before sliding his hand between their bodies and touching her most intimate place.

“Colin!” she gasped.

He smiled devilishly. “Did you think I wouldn’t touch you like this?” As if to illustrate his point, one of his fingers began to dance across her sensitive flesh, causing her to arch off the bed, her hips actually lifting them both before sagging back down as she shuddered with desire.

His lips found her ear. “There’s much more,” he whispered.

Penelope didn’t dare ask what. This was already an awful lot more than her mother had mentioned.

He slid one finger inside her, causing her to gasp again (which caused him to laugh with delight), then began to stroke her slowly.

“Oh, my God,” Penelope moaned.

“You’re almost ready for me,” he said, his breath coming faster now. “So wet, but so tight.”

“Colin, what are you—”

He slid another finger inside, effectively ending any chance she had for intelligent speech.

She felt stretched wide, and yet she loved it. She must be very wicked, a wanton at heart, because all she wanted was to spread her legs wider and wider until she was completely open to him. As far as she was concerned, he could do anything to her, touch her in any way he pleased.

Just as long as he didn’t stop.

“I can’t wait much longer,” he gasped.

“Don’t wait.”

“I need you.”

She reached up and grasped his face, forcing him to look at her. “I need you, too.”

And then his fingers were gone. Penelope felt oddly hollow and empty, but only for a second, because then there was something else at her entrance, something hard and hot, and very, very demanding.

“This may hurt,” Colin said, gritting his teeth as if he expected pain himself.

“I don’t care.”

He had to make this good for her. He had to. “I’ll be gentle,” he said, although his desire was now so fierce he had no idea how he could possibly keep such a promise.

“I want you,” she said. “I want you and I need something and I don’t know what.”

He pushed forward, just an inch or so, but it felt like she was swallowing him whole.

She went silent beneath him, her only sound her breath running raggedly across her lips.

Another inch, another step closer to heaven. “Oh, Penelope,” he moaned, using his arms to hold himself above her so as not to crush her with his weight. “Please tell me this feels good. Please.”

Because if she said otherwise, it was going to kill him to pull out.

She nodded, but said, “I need a moment.”

He swallowed, forcing his breath through his nose in short bursts. It was the only way he could concentrate on holding back. She probably needed to stretch around him, to allow her muscles to relax. She’d never taken a man before, and she was so exquisitely tight.

All the same, he couldn’t wait until they’d had a chance to do this enough so that he didn’t have to hold back.

When he felt her relax slightly beneath him, he pushed forward a bit more, until he reached the undeniable proof of her innocence. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “This is going to hurt. I can’t help it, but I promise you, it’s only this one time, and it won’t hurt much.”

“How do you know?” she asked him.

He closed his eyes in agony. Trust Penelope to question him. “Trust me,” he said, weaseling out of the question.

And then he thrust forward, embedding himself to the hilt, sinking into her warmth until he knew he was home.

“Oh!” she gasped, her face showing her shock.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

He moved slightly. “Is this all right?”

She nodded again, but her face looked surprised, maybe a little dazed.

Colin’s hips began to move of their own volition, unable to remain still when he was so obviously near to a climax. She was pure perfection around him, and when he realized that her gasps were of desire and not of pain, he finally let himself go and gave in to the overwhelming desire surging through his blood.

She was quickening beneath him, and he prayed that he could hold out until she climaxed. Her breath was fast and hot, and her fingers were pressing relentlessly into his shoulders, and her hips were squirming under him, whipping his need into a near-frenzy.

And then it came. A sound from her lips, sweeter than anything ever to touch his ears. She cried out his name as her entire body tensed in pleasure, and he thought—Someday I will watch her. I will see her face when she reaches the height of pleasure.

But not today. He was already coming, and his eyes were shut with the fierce ecstasy of it all. Her name was ripped from his lips as he thrust one last time, then slumped atop her, completely bereft of strength.

For a full minute there was silence, nothing but the rise and fall of their chests as they fought for breath, waited for the tremendous rush of their bodies to settle down into that tingly bliss one feels in the arms of one’s beloved.

Or at least that was what Colin thought this must be. He had been with women before, but he had only just realized that he had never made love until he’d laid Penelope onto his bed and begun their intimate dance with a single kiss upon her lips.

This was like nothing he’d ever felt before.

This was love.

And he was going to hold on with both hands.