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"Bet I could still catch you," he tells her and she glowers at him but he can see the little twitch in her pout. She wants to smile. He feels good. "Now, come on. Give me a hug. I haven't seen you in forever."
As he wraps his arms around her, gathers all her plushness to his chest, his nose is filled with her scent.
And Colin Bridgerton forgets the performance. Forgets that he has to be careful with her. Forgets that his family are about two feet away.
Because she smells fucking divine. Not the right word, surely — too exalted for the earthiness, the rich salt that makes his jaw work and his tongue press to the roof of his mouth and his fingers dig into the rolls on her back. Does she always smell like this, he wonders — this dirty, bright and cloying — or did she just forget deodorant? He can't recall — can't recall anything, except the vivid musk of her, fresh and sweet like the cut stalks of flowers, sweat and tang and — fuck — he's hard. Hard and leaking, immediately and so profusely it kind of feels like he's pissed himself. Fuck. Fuck.
OR: Colin comes home from travelling and realises he likes the way Penelope smells
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❤️
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Completed