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This was his longest tour yet—almost a year away, exploring Italy, Greece, Austria, and Bavaria. The end of the London social season marked the beginning of yet another adventure for one Colin Bridgerton. He had spent his days eating, riding, and in revelry, while his nights...
Colin paused as the carriage continued in its trek upon cobblestone roads, deep in the night, amid the quiet of a sleepy town.
Now that he thought of it... he spent his nights eating and riding and in revelry as well, only instead of the great outdoors and in the company of guides and adventurous tourists, he was in his room, and in the company of very naked, very willing women.
Yes, once upon a time he was green as could be. Yet now, Colin was armed with many an experience in bedding women of all shapes and sizes, thank you very much.
Why he'd preferred women with wider hips and buxom figures, why he'd liked them when their voice was sweet and kind, why he'd wanted them when their hair was striking and vibrant, he'd never dared question.
Inside the hired hack, he'd gone over the tour in his mind once more, mulling over things he hadn't felt comfortable writing in detail in his journal.
The tour was much like his previous one, with only three exceptions.
Firstly, he had finally explored and discovered what it was to... dip his wick?
The very first time was a very quick one, yet Caterina was patient and kind. She had allowed Colin a respite, before guiding him to a longer, much more satisfying time for the both of them.
From then on, like the quick and dedicated study he was, he had committed the time he wasn't otherwise engaged in an activity related to his tour, to exploring what it was to feel, give, and receive pleasure.
And pleasure was had indeed. It was purely physical, for at the end of every tryst, every rendezvous, he felt satisfied yet somehow... empty inside. Like there was something missing, something wrong.
He cleared his throat, determined to take the experience as the win it was. He was finally a man, if such was needed to be counted as one.
Secondly, his dearest friend Penelope had not replied to a single letter. He'd heard naught from her during the time he was away. He missed her terribly—the way she'd engaged with him, asking the most insightful questions. The way she'd begged for details—of colors and flavors and textures. The way she'd made him feel so confident and sure. The way she'd found him insightful and bright.
It was selfish, he knew, but he could not help it. He liked how he felt when Penelope talked to him. When Penelope made him feel a much bigger man than he actually was.
During his time in Italy, he'd talked about art and philosophy. Colin sent her letters upon letters of the grandeur and politics of Rome, the wonders of Naples, the decadence of Venice... He'd provided all the details he knew she'd have loved—sunrises over terracotta rooftops that reminded him of her hair, the serenity of the sea before him that showed him her eyes even from a distance.
Yet he got not one reply. In every letter, he'd tell her his next address, making sure to let her know of his whereabouts so that her letters would be able to find him.
He wrote her in Greece, then again in Austria, and lastly, Bavaria. But in return, he'd received only silence.
Missing her words, her cheek, her wit, he had taken to rereading her letters from his previous tour. Letters that filled him with such confidence, such importance, such brilliance... Things he'd never felt before.
He had always been selfish of her, and he had always enjoyed her singular attention. And now, to have naught but her memory...
His mood had plummeted, his gaze never leaving the window, watching—unseeing—the view outside: lampposts and workers, the quietness of the evening.
He closed his eyes, grounding himself in the present, letting his thoughts drift to his family. Which then reminded him...
Lastly, of Anthony. The eldest Bridgerton. The viscount. The strict and stoic and most financially literate one in the brood.
Colin had started the tour constantly explaining himself in his letters to Anthony. There were always a few back and forth between them whenever he'd requested for additional funds withdrawn from his trust fund.
Anthony had to explain over and over and over again that their father had left specific instructions that all the children should be allowed access to their trust funds as soon as they married.
And Colin had to explain over and over and over again that he had no plans to marry any time soon. Not in a year. Not in two. Not in three.
He was married to adventure. Married to the world. The Earth and its continents and seas were his muse.
He'd had to beg and beg for money, and since Anthony had deemed that it was no longer his responsibility to shoulder such lavish expenses—Really now, a comfortable bed and filling meals? Lavish? Honestly, he was being dramatic—he'd decided to allow him a little leeway into his trust fund to a point.
But toward the end of the tour, the last four months or so, it became easier. It was strange. Sometimes, all Colin had to say—after asking the welfare of the family, of course—"Apologies, Anthony, but it seems I need quite a bit more," and his brother would be quick to send a letter of credit in the amount he'd requested.
It was eerie, and such a long way from his earlier threats that Colin should learn to barter to eat, and listen more intently to his lover instead of purchasing the "best wine" to better bed the woman.
Perhaps marriage had changed him.
Ah, yes. The marriage of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.
Months ago, he'd received correspondence from his mother Violet, telling him the "splendid news" that his eldest brother had finally "found love."
Anthony had married a woman that had challenged him, loved him, supported him, gave him joy, and vexed him, all in equal measure.
Perhaps he had married Miss Kate Sharma after all. They did make a handsome pair. His mother never did mention a name, so he'd assumed that Miss Kate had been the viscountess that took residence in their Grosvenor Square home.
The carriage had finally stopped, the grandeur of the Bridgertons' Mayfair home quiet before him. It was late, Colin knew, but he still was curious that no one—not one footman, nor their butler—went out to greet and assist him.
Perhaps, they had already retired for the night, he thought to himself. He asked the driver of his hackney to help him unload his belongings onto their front porch. After paying the man handsomely for his services, he carried his bags one by one into the house.
Standing in the foyer, he composed himself, calming his breathing, before walking through the quiet house. Some candles stayed lit, which he thought was rather careless.
Just as he was about to blow the second candle out, a faint sliver of light at the end of the hall caught his attention.
The door to the larger sitting room was slightly ajar, a faint glow of light from candles, and maybe even a small fire in the hearth, beckoned him closer.
He kept his pace measured, his steps quiet. His homecoming was a surprise after all. The Bridgertons would not be expecting him for at least another two weeks.
Smirking to himself, he stood by the door, ready to give its occupants a fright.
Just as he was about to make his grand, dramatic entrance, a sound escaped the room, making its way to his ears in the dead silence of the night.
A groan, perhaps a grunt? Deep and dark.
Anthony.
Who else could it be? His suspicions were confirmed when a whine, quiet and breathy, followed by a deeper whisper of words he could not comprehend, floated through the slight parting of the door.
Colin did not want to see Miss Kate—Lady Bridgerton, rather—and his brother... exploring each other. He was about to retreat when he heard—
"Say my name, my darling..."
"Mmhh," she moaned.
Anthony spoke huskily once more, his voice muffled, as though his mouth was pressed against flesh.
"Say my name, wife, and I shall love you as you deserve."
Colin winced. He definitely did not want to be here for this. No, no, n—
And then came a voice he hadn't expected to hear, never in a million years.
It wasn’t Kate Sharma that Colin’s eldest brother had fallen in love with and married.
"Anthony..."
So breathless and sinful, sweet yet sensual, came Penelope's voice.
A gasp, then a broken moan followed—before the quiet, yet unmistakable sound of wet kisses, of a tongue sliding lewdly against flesh.
"Beautiful, Penelope," Anthony said, before another whimper escaped Penelope's lips.
Colin should leave. He knew he should.
Yet he found he could not.
Instead, he inched closer, careful not to come too close to the door—cracked very slightly open—that they might see him.
Giving in to the devil whispering in his mind, he lifted his gaze and finally looked.
As he watched, her soft gasps and moans, wet lashes from Anthony's tongue against her skin, filtered through, filling his ears.
Anthony was sitting on his heels, kneeling on the floor, his face buried between Penelope's thighs. Her hands were in his hair, moving, raking, seeking purchase, yearning to ground herself amid the sensuous barrage his brother had been apparently inflicting on her.
Her skirts were rucked up, pooling around her waist. Her soft peaches and cream skin shimmered in sweat, glistening in the warm light. Her left shoe was on the floor, while the other hung precariously from her right foot.
They were at such an angle, slightly off-center in Colin's view, that he could see her legs spread wide open as Anthony's tongue flicked hurriedly, desirously, against her pearl.
"Ohh, l-love, please, please let me—"
Colin heard Anthony suck harshly. Penelope made a strangled, choked noise once more, as his mouth released her with a filthy pop. Anthony chuckled darkly, greedily, before burying his nose in her ruddy curls... before an unmistakable sound of a deep, unhurried inhale permeated the silence of the space they occupied.
Colin's cock twitched in his breeches. How did she smell, he couldn't help but wonder.
"Your sex smells like sin, my dove," Anthony said, before diving in once more, his tongue already out and ready, before licking a wide stripe from her entrance to her clit.
"Jesus! Anthony!"
On and on Anthony went, his hands unforgiving in gripping her legs, forcing them apart. The flicks of his tongue furious, relentless, fast. Penelope writhed before Colin's very eyes, her legs itching to snap together, longing to smother Anthony deeper into her. She whined and groaned, muttering expletives under her breath. Her hands gripping hard on the hair of Anthony's head, pulling his face toward her cunt.
Anthony released her left leg from his grasp, only to pull down on the neckline of her dress.
"Unnghh," she moaned in tandem with the sound of fabric ripped.
And there it was... Her left breast—soft, round, and full. Colin couldn't make out the color of her nipple, yet he saw the moment the air touched her skin. Her peak hardened, and before long, Anthony's large and greedy hand palmed her breast. Penelope arched toward his touch, while her legs twitched incessantly, signaling her impending release.
Anthony's fingers pinched and rolled her nipple. And then, Penelope's eyes flew open, causing Colin to retreat, but only for a bit.
Colin watched, his cock hard and aching and leaking, as Penelope's mouth fell open in a silent scream... Until a high-pitched, wrecked "Yes, A-Anthonyyy—" echoed throughout the room.
He saw Anthony withdraw his mouth, only to pepper light kisses on the inside of her thighs.
Colin had seen enough.
He thought he did.
Why did Anthony have to ruin her dress further?
The fabric ripped once more, and Anthony pulled her neckline further down in one, disastrous motion, finally releasing her right breast.
She arched her back again, as both Anthony's hands descended on her breasts—grabbing, kneading, massaging. But it seemed he had become rather impatient.
Anthony released her right breast, and opened his mouth wide, hinging at his jaws, to engulf what he could of her flesh.
"F-Fuck, so good," she whispered and moaned.
Penelope keened as Anthony traced her areolas lightly, small soft circles with his tongue, before suckling hard on her nipples, moving from one breast to the other, replicating his worship, causing her hips to buck forward, her sex seeking friction.
Colin watched, his hand flying to his crotch to relieve his ache if only a little, as his brother took her breasts in his mouth in turn, in rapid succession—punishing, licking, sucking, flicking.
All as Penelope squirmed. All as she groaned. All as she whimpered so sinfully, almost innocently, as though she was unsure of what was happening to her soft, delicious body.
Anthony retreated, Penelope groaning in frustration. He chuckled, before he covered her mouth with his. Colin was filled with envy, jealousy, desire. He looked on, intent and focused on their mouths, and saw the moment —one single moment— that would haunt him forever, he was sure of it.
That moment Penelope moaned into the kiss, before she sucked his tongue into her needy mouth, was sure to inhabit his dreams.
Anthony groaned, his hands finding her waist. He lifted her off her seat and laid her gently onto the carpeted floor. Penelope's breasts were heaving with her heavy breathing, her mouth panting in anticipation.
"Hurry, my love, please," she begged. Her voice gentle and sweet, an infuriating contrast to her every move and sound since Colin gave in to watch them.
To watch her.
To want her.
To become hard on her breaths, her noises, her body, her breasts.
To become regretful he hadn't seen her sooner—hadn't seen her first.
To hurt that it wasn't him on top of her small, waiting, flushed, and beautiful form.
Anthony hurriedly lifted her dress all the way to her waist.
And that's when Colin saw it.
Her belly, round and distended.
Penelope was with child.
Penelope was carrying her and Anthony's child.
Remembering how their mother had gushed of their union—now finally figuring out why she'd failed to mention the bride's name—this child that was to be born in a few months, hopefully while Colin was once again far away, would be a child borne from love. Loyalty. Adoration. Heat. Passion.
By the time Colin returned to his reality, Anthony had already lined himself at her entrance.
And in one, brutal thrust, he'd entered Penelope fully.
Anthony grunted. His eyes closed briefly, lost in the bliss of Penelope's wet heat.
An obscene, squelching sound could be heard as he slowly pulled out, only to thrust back in hard.
And Penelope…
She loved it. She loved his roughness. His possessiveness.
“So tight, so wet, my love,” Anthony whispered as he pounded in and out of her. As she moaned and gasped, her eyes never left Anthony's. Both their gazes were locked on each other's. Blissfully unaware of Colin and his turmoil. Uncaring of the loud slap of skin and sweat, of the filthy sound of her wetness.
“Anthony, d-darling, I'm almost—”
“Such a good girl for her husband,” Anthony said confidently, as though it was expected, needed in the moment.
“Such a sweet girl you are Penelope, giving your husband babies. I shall fill you with more, my love,” he said raggedly, never ceasing in thrusting in and out of his wife's cunt.
“Yes, m-more, please—oh!”
Anthony wrapped his lips around Penelope's nipple, sucking and licking, possessive and greedy.
“Your bosom shall nourish our babe when she comes, but before then, your breasts are all mine. Every inch of you,” he grunted, his teeth grazing her pebbled peak and she screamed.
“Anthony—”
“My pretty wife, round with my child, about to be filled once more with my seed. You enjoy that, do you not, my love?” Anthony asked, even as he relentlessly fucked her.
“Y-yes,” she breathed. Her eyes remained open as she kissed him hard.
Anthony's hand flew to the back of her head, pulling her hair, causing her back to bend, her breasts spilling at the sides.
“Mmh,” she moaned, staring down at her husband, her pupils blown, her eyes half-lidded.
“I love you, wife. Thank you for this life,” Anthony whispered reverently, before his other hand covered her belly beneath her navel.
Penelope shattered then, screaming through her release, soaking the carpets beneath her. With a grunt, Anthony followed, spilling deep inside her.
Colin watched as her face contorted in pleasure, his hand sliding up his cock once through his breeches. Just to adjust. To relieve some of the ache.
A smaller orgasm seemed to follow that massive one, her eyes scrunched closed, moaning Anthony's name.
And that's when Colin came. Without meaning to. Barely even touching himself.
His hand flew to his mouth—teeth breaking the skin of his fist as he stifled a moan—all while his seed soiled his breeches.
He briefly leaned against the wall across the door, trying to control his breathing, swallowing whatever sound attempted to escape this throat.
Heavy breaths coming from the room overwhelmed his senses, Penelope's soft giggle breaking his heart.
Anthony whispered even more words of adoration for his wife. The mother of his child.
Shame filled Colin, finally realizing the depth of shit he found himself in—a rude awakening that came with his orgasm.
He retreated then, but not without one final look at the love he could have had. The passion they could have shared.
Etched in Colin's memory as he walked away, was the gentle smile on Penelope's lips, her skin flushed and radiant in the warmth of the room, her hands gently raking through her husband's hair… and Anthony's lips covering her belly with light kisses, his nose gliding along the skin there.
“I love you both,” Anthony whispered.
The very last words Colin heard before he left.
Words that echoed in the chambers of his mind, long after he fled Bridgerton House—long after he sank into the mattress of his bed, in a quiet room of the nearest inn.