Work Text:
Penelope's POV
The second glass of wine had been a mistake.
The third was definitely the reason she’d clicked the link.
Penelope lay curled sideways on her settee, wrapped in a robe she’d bought during a fleeting attempt to be the kind of woman who wore silk. Her feet were tucked under her, toes wiggling against the cushions as the screen of her laptop cast a blue glow over her face. Rain tapped against the windows of her modest London flat, the evening creeping into night, the shadows stretching long across her living room.
Loneliness was like that, she thought. It didn’t scream. It settled quietly beside you and filled the room.
The site had been advertised in a newsletter — not one of her own, though the irony wasn’t lost on her. The Anonymous Quill: A Literary Matchmaking Experiment. A charity venture hosted by some well meaning society ladies with too much time and far too many opinions. Participants submitted a form, received a matched partner based on reading preferences and personality quirks, and corresponded anonymously via private email for a month before deciding if they wanted to meet.
Penelope had filled it out half as a joke. Eloise would mock her endlessly if she knew — romantic folly wrapped in Regency pastiche? Please. But Penelope had typed in her favorite authors, written something vaguely clever about her hatred of literary snobbery, and, when asked for her pseudonym, simply entered: Inkheart.
Because she had one. Because she always had. And because tonight, after listening to her mother’s barbed concern about her unmarried state, and after Anthony Bridgerton had ignored her completely again at the Bridgerton dinner, Penelope decided it was time to amuse herself.
Even if the whole thing was ridiculous.
The confirmation email arrived minutes later.
Welcome, Inkheart.
Your match is…
TheTitledRake.
Penelope snorted into her wine. Subtle, aren’t we?
She hovered her fingers over the keyboard for several seconds before typing.
TO: TheTitledRake
FROM: Inkheart
SUBJECT: Curiosity (Killed the Cat, or Something Less Feline)Dear Sir Rake,
I must confess, your chosen pseudonym has me mildly concerned — not for your virtue, which I presume is already a lost cause — but for your originality. Is “TheTitledRake” a sincere self description, a social commentary, or simply what was left after “MisterDarcy69” was already taken?
In any case, greetings. I am told we are “exceptionally compatible.” I imagine this means you also detest Hemingway’s punctuation and secretly dog ear pages despite owning bookmarks.
Tell me something real, Rake. I dare you.
—Inkheart
She hit send before she could second guess herself.
God, she was already too warm. She blamed the wine. And the boredom. And possibly the fact that she’d recently finished reading Jane Eyre again and was now unreasonably emotional about brooding men with internal monologues.
TheTitledRake. What sort of man chose that?
Probably some self-absorbed aristocrat who quoted Byron and had never been told “no.”
…Probably tall. Probably insufferable.
Probably Anthony bloody Bridgerton in spirit if not in truth.
She rolled her eyes at herself. That was unfair. Lord Bridgerton barely noticed her, even when she was standing directly in his path. He was the kind of man who saw the world in categories: sisters, threats, women to avoid at parties, and—Penelope imagined—decorative furniture.
And she, at best, was a decorative footstool in his periphery.
She closed the laptop, downed the rest of her wine, and swore she wouldn’t check her inbox again until morning.
Anthony's POV
Meanwhile, in a far grander house across town…
Anthony Bridgerton had precisely twenty three minutes to himself before someone attempted to summon him to another dinner, ball, or committee involving seasonal festivities.
He had been lying on the couch in his study, shirt open at the throat, ignoring a stack of paperwork and a glass of scotch when the advert caught his eye — an absurdly worded, overly whimsical card tucked between his correspondence from Will Mondrich and some missive from the Queen’s annual charity board.
Do You Believe in Anonymous Love?
Words first. Faces later.
Sign up now for The Anonymous Quill — Where Literature Leads the Heart.
He had sneered. Out loud. Then, because there was nothing better to do, and because he hadn't been stimulated by anyone in weeks who could actually match him in wit, he tossed the card down, opened his laptop, and typed in the address.
Five minutes later, he was matched with someone called Inkheart.
Of course. Probably a cat owning, Brontë-loving sentimentalist. He sighed.
He wrote back anyway.
TO: Inkheart
FROM: TheTitledRake
SUBJECT: Originality Is for PoetsDear Inkheart,
You wound me. But in fairness, I had a better name in mind — Viscount of Vice — but was advised against it by the site's censors. So here we are, both victims of branding.
Your note amused me more than anything has in days. That may be an insult to my current social circle, but I suspect you'd consider it a compliment.
Something real, you said?
Fine.
I read Middlemarch once and actually liked it.
I keep a worn copy of Othello on my desk, not because I’m a romantic but because I find it comforting.
And I haven’t told anyone the truth in weeks, except perhaps you.Your turn.
—TheTitledRake
Anthony stared at the message after sending it. It was more than he meant to say. And yet, for some reason, it felt satisfying.
He leaned back in the chair, one hand dragging over his jaw, and exhaled.
Inkheart. He wondered who she was. Probably someone bookish and clever and impossible. A ghost in the ether.
Which was perfect. He didn’t need faces. He certainly didn’t need scandal. He just needed something… else.
Something honest.
General POV
The inbox had become a kind of addiction.
It started innocently enough, a message or two exchanged each evening. But soon, they were writing multiple times a day, long threads of commentary, confessions, arguments, and layered wit that left Penelope grinning down at her screen and Anthony far too distracted during morning meetings.
They still didn’t know each other’s names. Or faces. Or anything beyond what they chose to reveal. But each message was a pulse—alive, teasing, undeniable.
TO: TheTitledRake
FROM: Inkheart
SUBJECT: I Accept Your ChallengeConfession: I once threw a copy of Moby Dick at a wall during university. Not because I hated it (though I did), but because someone I fancied declared it their “desert island” book and I felt personally offended. That person later went on to major in something called “Philosophical Bio-Aesthetics.” So I feel I was correct.
Your turn. Have you ever weaponized literature? And no, quoting Byron at someone until they swoon doesn’t count.
—Inkheart
TO: Inkheart
FROM: TheTitledRake
SUBJECT: Weaponized Literature & Other OffensesI once ended a situationship by mailing the lady in question a first edition of Sense and Sensibility with a note that read:
“Elinor says it better than I ever could. Goodbye.”In retrospect, this may explain why my sisters believe I’m unfit for emotional society.
PS: I’m not offended that you threw Moby Dick. Frankly, I think Melville would’ve enjoyed the drama.
—The Rake
TO: TheTitledRake
FROM: Inkheart
SUBJECT: You Absolute MenaceYou mailed her Jane Austen as a breakup note?
Sir. That is violence in hardback.
Also: What, precisely, is a “situationship”? Are you writing from 1812 or from some rooftop bar in Soho?
—Inkheart
TO: Inkheart
FROM: TheTitledRake
SUBJECT: You’re One to TalkAnd what era are you writing from, Miss Inkheart? You have the energy of someone who owns a candle collection and speaks to her plants in iambic pentameter.
Also — “violence in hardback” is brilliant. I may steal it.
Do you often fancy people who make poor literary choices?
Because if so… I fear for us both.
—T.R.
TO: TheTitledRake
FROM: Inkheart
SUBJECT: I Accept My FateFirst of all, my plants like being addressed in meter. Second, you say “us” as if we are a thing, which is hilarious considering I don’t even know if you’re taller than five foot seven or if you believe The Great Gatsby is deep. These are dealbreakers.
Also: I keep trying to guess what you sound like, which is extremely annoying of me.
Do you have an accent? Is it ridiculous?
—Inkheart
TO: Inkheart
FROM: TheTitledRake
SUBJECT: It’s a Very Good Accent, ActuallyRidiculous? Never. I sound exactly as one might expect a rake with a title to sound — brooding, velvet-lined, occasionally prone to dramatic sighs.
Would you like to hear it?
The Quill is opening texting privileges tomorrow.
I’ll let you decide if you want to… continue this farce on a smaller screen.
No pressure. Unless you want pressure.
—The Rake
That last message was the one Penelope stared at longest. For a full fifteen minutes, in fact, while she stood barefoot in her kitchen, spooning peanut butter out of the jar and feeling entirely too aware of her heartbeat.
Texting. As in, immediate contact. As in, impulsive replies. As in, one step closer to reality.
She typed her number and hit send before she could lose her nerve.
The irony, of course, was that while “TheTitledRake” had become a constant in Penelope’s life — the voice in her phone, the wit in her ear, the spark in her bloodstream — the real titled rake in question was sitting exactly four seats away at dinner that very evening.
And he hadn’t looked at her once.
The Bridgertons’ drawing room was lively, loud, and perfumed with roasted meat and late spring roses. Eloise had invited Penelope with her usual shrug and wave of the hand — “Mother insists on family dinners twice a week or she’ll start organizing dances again. Come save me.”
Pen had accepted, mostly for the food.
She sat at the far end of the table beside Hyacinth, who was recounting some schoolyard fight with alarming glee. Colin was charming someone across the table. Gregory was trying to flick peas at Francesca with a spoon.
And Anthony Bridgerton — Viscount, eldest, brooder-in-chief — was halfway down the table, engaged in some murmured conversation with Benedict and wearing the expression of a man vaguely allergic to joy.
He didn’t glance her way. Not once.
Penelope didn’t mind.
Which was… new.
Because she was too busy thinking of someone else. Someone she hadn’t seen, but who she felt, every time her phone buzzed. Someone who made her laugh at 2 a.m. and confess things she wouldn’t dare say aloud.
When dessert arrived, some sugared tart with warm custard, Penelope allowed herself a secret smile as she slipped her phone from her pocket and saw a new message.
From him.
From TheTitledRake.
Her fingers itched to open it.
Across the table, Anthony sipped his wine, watching nothing in particular.
But he would remember this moment later.
The way she smiled.
The way she looked down.
The way she bit her lip, just barely.
But for now, they were strangers — a viscount and a wallflower.
While their souls flirted in secret.
Anthony's POV
It began, as always, innocently.
Or at least pretending to be.
INKHEART:
I was nearly arrested this morning for indecent behavior.RAKE:
😳
I demand context.INKHEART:
I accidentally walked out of my building in slippers and a silk robe. Fully tied, thank you, but still.
The postman looked haunted.RAKE:
You should be ashamed.
You definitely should’ve let me witness that crime.INKHEART:
You would’ve done what, exactly? Gasped and dropped your cravat?RAKE:
No cravat. Just awe. And possibly sin.INKHEART:
Sin is a big word for a man who quoted Austen during a breakup.RAKE:
And yet, you’re still texting me.
There was a pause — two minutes of silence — during which Anthony stared at his phone, smirking, tapping a pen against his palm as he waited.
He was seated at his desk in the Bridgerton London offices, pretending to review some quarterly report from Benedict’s ridiculous gallery venture. Across from him, a junior partner was droning on about tax strategy.
Anthony wasn’t listening. He was staring at his phone like it had personally seduced him.
Then:
INKHEART:
I keep trying to guess what you look like.
I’ve decided you have nice hands. Possibly veiny. Possibly dangerous.
Also, you smell good. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
Anthony blinked.
His hands?
He flexed one, just to check. Yes, veiny. Yes… suddenly warm.
He coughed once into his fist, eyes narrowing with sharp amusement. His phone vibrated again before he could reply.
INKHEART:
I bet you lean in when you talk.
Just enough to make a girl forget what she was saying.
And you know it, too.RAKE:
You’re flirting with a stranger.
A terrible idea.INKHEART:
Mmm. Maybe.
But he flirts back.RAKE:
Touché.
Though in fairness, it’s getting very hard to concentrate on work.INKHEART:
Good. I hope you suffer.RAKE:
Everything’s suffering at the moment. Including my shirt buttons.INKHEART:
You’re the one who said “sin,” darling.
I merely followed the assignment.
Darling. That word made something low in Anthony's chest coil, dark and hot.
He shifted in his chair, tugged once at his collar. The junior partner across from him — Davis? Devon? Something with a D — kept talking.
Anthony did not register a single word.
Then came the next text. The one that broke him.
INKHEART:
If you were here right now, I’d sit on your lap. Just to see what your voice does when I whisper in your ear.
And maybe I’d whisper something very unladylike.
Maybe I wouldn’t whisper at all.🖋️🔥
Anthony breathed out so slowly it sounded like a curse.
He set his pen down. Loosened the second button of his shirt.
"Excuse me," he said abruptly, standing up. "I need a minute."
He left the junior partner mid sentence and strode straight into the private bathroom down the hall, locking the door behind him.
His reflection met him in the mirror — flushed cheeks, hair a little too mussed, eyes bright like he’d just come in from a storm.
He laughed. Once. Quiet and low and a bit astonished.
Whoever this woman was… she wasn’t real. She couldn’t be. She wrote like a poet, flirted like a courtesan, and had the audacity to wreck him with words alone.
She didn’t send nudes. She didn’t need to.
Anthony pressed his palms to the cool marble counter, grinning like a man on the edge of obsession.
He was utterly gone.
And he still had no idea who she was.
Penelope's POV
Penelope wasn't sure when it had started, the flutter in her stomach when her phone buzzed after midnight.
Maybe it had been that first moment of real boldness. Or maybe it was just the slow, burning thrill of being seen without truly being seen. She could write without shrinking. Tease without blushing. Seduce without consequence.
Or so she'd told herself.
But now, curled up in bed in her shorts and oversizesed t-shirt, hair still damp from the bath, cheeks warm from wine and adrenaline, Penelope was fully aware that she had crossed into dangerous, utterly delicious territory.
He was watching Pride & Prejudice with her.
And texting the entire way through.
Her laptop was perched on a pillow beside her, playing the 2005 version. Keira Knightley was mid eye roll. Matthew Macfadyen had just glared across a ballroom like he wanted to bite someone.
The screen of her phone lit up.
THE RAKE:
He looks like he wants to murder her. Or bed her. Or both.INKHEART:
That’s the entire appeal of Mr. Darcy, thank you.THE RAKE:
You enjoy dangerous men?INKHEART:
I enjoy restrained men.
Men who burn silently and then ruin you.
Penelope laughed softly to herself, then shifted, pulling the blanket higher. Her shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder. She didn’t pull it back up.
INKHEART:
Also, this scene. When he flexes his hand after touching hers.
I had to pause the film the first time I saw it. I was seventeen. It was… formative.
Another buzz.
THE RAKE:
You paused it?
That’s precious.INKHEART:
I had thoughts. Unholy ones.THE RAKE:
Tell me.
It’s late. I won’t judge.
Pen bit her lip. The hum in her blood told her he meant it — not just the flirtation, but the permission.
She pulled the covers closer, snapped a photo of her knee barely peeking out from under the duvet, her fingertips just brushing her skin.
Tasteful. Barely anything. But suggestive as hell.
She hit send.
INKHEART:
I thought about hands.
And mouths.
And what it would feel like to be kissed after all that tension.INKHEART:
Also:
[photo.jpg]
Caption: For reference. I still pause it here.
Her pulse thundered as she watched the typing bubbles on his side appear. Then disappear. Then return again.
God, she loved it when he got flustered.
Then:
THE RAKE:
You’re going to kill me.INKHEART:
That’s the goal 😇
Another message popped up. Then a second.
Two photos.
One of his hand on his desk — big, tanned, veins visible
The second… just his bare throat, the edge of his jaw, shadowed and sharp. His collarbone. The soft indent where his neck met his shoulder. Nothing indecent. But so male.
Penelope squeezed her thighs together and forgot to breathe for a moment.
THE RAKE:
Now you’ve made me think about your mouth.
About what you'd whisper if I had you underneath me.
Or on top of me. I’m flexible.
What are you wearing, Inkheart?
Her skin flamed.
She was not a bold woman by nature. She wore cardigans. She drank tea. She used sarcasm as armor.
But tonight, she felt powerful. Untouchable. And undeniably wicked.
She pulled the neckline of her shirt down just enough to bare the curve of her shoulder and hint at the swell of her chest. Still tasteful. Still hidden in shadows. But far more than she had ever sent anyone.
She took the photo carefully. Then typed slowly.
INKHEART:
Cotton t-shirt, shorts.
No bra.
You?INKHEART:
Also:
[photo.jpg]
Caption: For your unholy thoughts.
He didn’t respond right away.
For five full minutes, there was nothing.
She thought she’d gone too far. Or not far enough.
Then her phone lit up.
THE RAKE:
I’m shirtless.
Lying on my bed.
And debating how long I can last without hearing your voice.But I won’t ask. Not yet.
I like this.
The not knowing.
The building.
Penelope bit her lip so hard it stung.
He liked it. The mystery. The slow burn. The power exchange without even a touch.
She stared at the screen, her skin tingling, thighs pressed together, heart racing. Then she typed her final message of the night.
INKHEART:
One day, when you’ve earned it,
I’ll let you slip off my real shirt.
With your teeth.Sleep well, Rake 🖋️🔥
She powered off her phone, heart hammering like a drum, and collapsed back into her pillows with a stupid, blissed-out grin.
She had no idea who he was.
But she was completely, irreversibly hooked.
Anthony's POV
Anthony’s drink sat untouched.
Which, frankly, was offensive to the expensive bourbon it contained.
He leaned back in the leather booth, half listening as Simon and Benedict argued over something idiotic involving fencing lessons and a pair of ruined boots, while the din of the private club's lounge buzzed around them like background static.
“…it’s not a ‘flourish,’” Benedict was saying. “You jabbed at me like a lunatic. My wrist is still bruised.”
“That’s because you were posturing like a Regency widow,” Simon replied lazily. “And besides, my form was excellent.”
Anthony didn’t hear the rest.
Because in that moment, his phone vibrated. A short buzz against his thigh — not an alert, not a call.
A message.
From her.
His fingers closed around the device like it might disappear. He turned it over slowly, controlling his expression with effort.
One image. No words.
He tapped it open.
And his world tilted.
It was just her torso. But good God.
The photo had clearly been taken in a mirror — the kind of thing people sent with careless intention, as if it were no big deal. As if she didn’t know what it would do to him.
She wore a sleek black dress, satin or something that clung to every inch of her. The neckline plunged just enough to hint at full, soft cleavage without baring it completely. Her waist curved in like an hourglass sculpted by sin. Her hips swelled under the tight fit, perfect, ripe, utterly feminine. Her bare legs disappeared into a pair of heels that could’ve cut a man at the knees.
No face. No identifiers.
Just her. Anonymous and agonizing.
His mouth went dry.
Benedict glanced over and immediately perked up. “What’s that look?”
Anthony swiped the photo away and locked the phone. “Nothing.”
Simon, who had known him far too long, narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a ‘nothing’ face. That’s a ‘someone just texted me and now I need a cold shower’ face.”
“Shut up,” Anthony muttered, setting his drink down harder than necessary.
Benedict grinned and leaned in. “Is she hot?”
“Shut up, Benedict.”
“So that’s a yes.”
Simon sipped his scotch. “Wait… is this her? The mystery woman? The one you won’t tell us anything about?”
Anthony didn’t reply.
Because she messaged again.
INKHEART:
Drinks with the girls.
Thought you might appreciate the view 🍷🖤
He could practically hear her smirk through the text.
He responded with only one sentence.
RAKE:
If anyone so much as touches you tonight, I’ll break fingers.
A beat passed.
Then:
INKHEART:
Ooooh. Possessive now, are we?INKHEART:
What if I touch someone? 😈
Anthony’s entire body went hot.
His jaw clenched. One hand braced on his thigh, the other holding the phone like it might shatter from restraint alone. Simon leaned closer to peek.
Anthony angled the screen away and growled, “Don’t.”
Benedict snorted. “You’ve got it bad. Are you even seeing anyone else?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Anthony glared at him. “Because every other woman suddenly feels like flat champagne.”
Simon arched a brow. “And she? She’s the good stuff?”
“She’s the stuff that ruins you,” Anthony said before he could stop himself.
Simon blinked, impressed. Benedict, for once, looked serious.
Anthony’s phone buzzed again.
INKHEART:
Tell me what you’d do if you were here.
If I sat beside you in this dress.
Legs crossed. Lipstick fresh. Skin warm.
Would you touch me? Or just stare?
He swallowed hard. Loosened the top button of his shirt. His knee bounced under the table.
He typed slowly.
RAKE:
I’d lean in.
Brush your thigh with my fingers.
And make you ask very nicely for more.
Because once I touch you, sweetheart…
You’ll never want anyone else.
Simon and Benedict were still talking, but Anthony couldn’t hear them. His blood was in his ears. His thoughts were in her skin.
He looked down at the phone again, waiting.
No response yet.
He glanced at the photo again. Zoomed in. Saw the curve of her hip, the smoothness of her collarbone, the whisper of skin beneath the fabric.
She was real. Somewhere out there. Breathing the same air. Laughing with her friends. Killing him slowly.
He didn’t even know her name.
But in this moment — in every beat of his racing heart — she was his.
Almost.
Anthony stepped out of the shower and into a cloud of steam, towel slung low around his hips, rivulets of water still sliding down his back.
He felt better, marginally, but still half possessed by the memory of that dress. Of the photo she’d sent. Of the words they’d exchanged.
He had planned to pour a drink. Maybe read something mindless. Definitely not check his phone again.
But when it lit up with a call, his breath caught.
Inkheart calling.
He stared at the screen.
She had never called before. Never even suggested it. Their unspoken rule had been texting only — anonymity protected, voices left to the imagination.
His thumb hovered for a second.
Then he answered.
“Hello?”
There was a pause. And then:
“Oh, God, you picked up,” she said, dissolving into a fit of giggles.
Anthony blinked. Her voice was soft, lilting, slightly slurred with wine. High, but not too high. Warm. Sweet.
Vaguely familiar.
But not quite identifiable.
“Did you… not intend for that to happen?” he asked, amused despite himself.
“I did! I did. I just wasn’t prepared for your actual voice. It’s very…” she trailed off.
“Dangerous?” he offered.
“Smug,” she corrected, laughing again. “But also kind of hot.”
Anthony smirked and walked toward the bed, sitting on the edge, towel still damp against his skin. “Are you drunk, Inkheart?”
“Only a little,” she whispered. “I just got home. My shoes betrayed me. I nearly died on a cobblestone.”
“Tragic. Were the shoes worth it?”
“I looked amazing.”
He could hear her smile through the phone.
“I know,” he murmured.
“You didn’t even see me.”
“I’ve seen enough,” he said. “That dress should be illegal.”
A pause. Then softer, almost shy: “You really liked it?”
Anthony leaned back against the headboard, one arm thrown behind his head. “I had to cold shower the thought of it off my skin. You tell me.”
She made a pleased sound — a little purr, if he wasn’t imagining it.
And then, emboldened by the wine or the moment or both: “I thought about you while I was out.”
That pulled something taut inside his chest.
“Oh?” he said lightly.
“I kept thinking about what you said. That I’d never want anyone else.”
Anthony’s breath caught.
“I didn’t let anyone touch me,” she added. “Even when one of the bartenders winked.”
“Smart bartender,” he said, voice lower now. “Would’ve lost a hand.”
She giggled. “You are very possessive.”
“You are very tempting.”
There was a silence then — not awkward, not strained. Just… warm. Present.
He could hear her settle, maybe dropping onto her couch or climbing into bed. The rustle of sheets. The sigh of tired limbs.
“I’m wearing your favorite nightshirt,” she said, almost dreamy.
“My favorite?”
“The one from the photo. Soft cotton. No bra.”
His eyes fluttered shut. He exhaled slowly. “Inkheart…”
“I’m not saying anything else,” she said, but not convincingly. “Except… you sound different than I thought.”
“How so?”
“I thought you'd be more—hmm—aggressive. In person. But you're... gentle.”
Anthony smiled despite himself. “I can be both.”
“I like that.”
There was another pause. He listened as she yawned softly.
He could tell she was lying on her side now. Her breathing slowed.
She mumbled something he couldn’t catch.
“What was that?” he asked, quietly.
“I said…” she yawned again, “I feel safe with you.”
Anthony didn’t speak for a long moment.
Then he whispered, “I’m glad.”
There were no more words after that. Just the soft hush of her breath growing heavier, slower. Sleep overtaking her.
He stayed on the line.
Not for the thrill. Not for the flirtation.
But because something in him — something deep, restless, once thought untouchable — had started to want more.
He didn’t know her name.
He didn’t know her face.
But tonight, she had called him. And he had heard her smile.
And somehow, impossibly, it felt more intimate than anything they’d ever written.
Penelope's POV
Penelope woke with her cheek pressed to the wrong side of the pillow and regret pulsing behind her eyes like a second heartbeat.
She groaned, rolled over, and immediately cursed the sun for daring to exist.
Her mouth was dry. Her mascara was absolutely not where it belonged. Her shirt — no, wait, that was a dress — had twisted up her thigh like a declaration of poor life choices, and her left earring was somehow embedded in the mattress.
She sat up slowly, every movement accompanied by a soft, scandalized moan, and scanned the wreckage of her bedroom.
Shoes: flung.
Clutch: open.
Sanity: missing.
There were flashes of memory — laughter at the bar, a third cocktail that tasted like vengeance, someone named Clara doing a very serious monologue about toe cleavage. Then... her bed. The dress. Kicking off her heels.
And something else. Something fuzzier.
A voice.
Deep. Warm. Real.
“No,” she muttered to herself, already dragging her sore limbs toward the bathroom. “I did not.”
The shower helped. A little. Hot water sluiced away the worst of the headache, though not the lingering sense that she'd done something reckless. Her hair dripped onto her collarbone as she wrapped herself in a towel and padded barefoot back into the bedroom.
Her phone was on the nightstand. Face down. Judgmental.
She hesitated. Then picked it up.
One missed call.
Two texts.
From him.
THE RAKE:
You called me last night.THE RAKE:
It was... unforgettable.
Penelope’s blood ran cold.
She stared at the messages like they might rearrange themselves into something more forgivable. They didn’t.
She sank down onto the edge of the bed, towel tugged tighter around her, heart galloping in her chest.
She called him.
She called him.
“Oh God,” she whispered, face buried in one hand. “What did I say?”
She didn't remember it. Not really. Only the echo of heat in her chest. A vague sense of comfort. And — oh God — did she flirt? Did she moan?
She pulled up the keyboard and began to type.
INKHEART:
Oh God. I’m so sorry. I was tipsy. I don’t even remember what I said. Please ignore everything. Or burn it. Or bury it.
Her thumb had barely left the screen when the phone rang.
Him.
She froze.
Panic warred with anticipation in her chest. Her thumb hovered.
Then — pulse pounding — she answered.
“…Hello?”
His voice came through the speaker, low and obscenely amused.
“Good morning, darling.”
She winced. “You’re not allowed to sound that smug.”
“You’re not allowed to forget conversations where you told me you were in bed with no bra.”
“I didn’t,” she whispered.
“You did.”
“God.”
“I liked it.”
Penelope made a strangled noise somewhere between horror and arousal.
“Relax,” he said, gentler now. “You were charming. Teasing. Beautiful.”
“You couldn’t see me.”
“I didn’t need to,” he said. “I could hear you smile.”
That undid her just a little.
She tucked her knees to her chest and wrapped an arm around them, curling tighter in her sheets. “I’m not normally like that.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he said, voice smooth, velvet with something darker beneath. “You are exactly like that. You just finally let it out.”
Penelope was quiet. She wasn’t sure what this was — this heavy warmth in her chest, this electric buzz in her limbs.
“You called me,” he said softly. “And I’ve thought about it all night. About your voice. The way it cracked when you yawned. The way you said my name.”
She swallowed. “I don’t know your name.”
“Would it matter?”
“…No.”
“Say something else,” he murmured.
She hesitated.
Then, softly: “What do you want me to say?”
“Say what you’re wearing.”
Penelope closed her eyes.
“I just showered. I’m… in a towel.”
There was a pause.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
“You asked,” she said, suddenly breathless.
“I know. I regret nothing.”
He was quiet for a beat. Then his voice dropped, low and sure:
“Put me on speaker.”
She obeyed.
“Now lie back.”
She obeyed again, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I want you to close your eyes,” he said. “And imagine I’m there. Kneeling at the edge of your bed. My hands on your knees.”
Her breath hitched.
“Slowly pushing them apart. Watching your towel slip open. Just a little. Enough to see skin. To see you start to fall apart.”
“God…”
“You’d arch, wouldn’t you?” he said softly. “Just a little. Not for show. Just because you can’t help it.”
Her hand gripped the sheet. Her body was humming.
“I wouldn’t even touch you yet,” he continued. “I’d just look. Tell you not to hide. Not to be shy.”
“I’m not shy,” she whispered, voice shaking.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re wicked. Sweet and soft and sinful beneath it all.”
She whimpered.
“I’d kiss your inner thighs,” he said, voice like smoke. “Slow. Open-mouthed. I’d drag my teeth over your skin. Leave marks.”
“Please…”
“Would you ask for it?”
“…Yes.”
“What would you say?”
She closed her eyes tighter.
“Touch me.”
He groaned. “Where?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.”
She heard him swallowed hard. His voice was hoarse when he said, “Not yet.”
“Why?” she asked, desperate.
“Because I want you trembling. I want you to ache for it. I want you to beg.”
Penelope gasped, chest heaving, lips parted.
And then, suddenly, a silence fell.
Both of them hovering on the edge of something dangerous.
He was the one who pulled them back.
“Not like this,” he said finally, breathing hard. “Not on a drunk memory and a morning hangover. Not the first time.”
Penelope exhaled, a little gutted, a little relieved.
“But soon?” she asked, so softly it nearly broke him.
She heard him smiled. “Very soon.”
They were quiet again, the weight of their words filling the space between them like silk.
“I want to see you,” she said.
“I want to touch you,” he answered.
Penelope pressed her hand over her heart and closed her eyes again.
“Stay on the line?” she whispered.
“As long as you want.”
And so he did.
While she curled into herself, breath still shallow, towel barely clinging to her skin.
He stayed until her voice turned slow and sleepy again.
Until she said, “You make me feel... dangerous.”
Until she slept.
Anthony's POV
Anthony had endured many family dinners in his life. Most were tolerable. Some were chaotic. Tonight’s was simply… boring.
The roast was dry. Hyacinth was monologuing about her latest social experiment at school. Colin was attempting to charm Francesca into trading places because she was closer to the wine decanter, and Eloise was arguing with mother about whether or not the word bluestocking should be retired.
Anthony sat at the head of the table, swirling his wine, entirely disengaged.
He missed her.
Not in a soft, romantic way. In a visceral, twitch-in-his-fingers, where-is-she sort of way.
They hadn’t texted all day. After yesterday's call — the breathy things she’d said, the way her voice had wrapped around his control and squeezed — he’d expected her to reach out. Or at least send something wicked and smirking and her.
But nothing.
He reached for his phone under the table.
Opened the thread.
Smirked.
Typed:
THE RAKE:
This night is unbearable.
I’m surrounded by loud women and bland poultry.
Save me. Tell me what you’re wearing.
He hit send. Looked up.
And everything changed.
Because exactly two seconds later, from the other end of the table, Penelope Featherington glanced down at her lap, where a phone was cradled delicately between her fingers.
She blinked once.
Tapped the screen.
And smiled.
Not just smiled, that smile. The soft one. The private one. The one he’d heard in her voice when she whispered, I’m not wearing a bra.
Anthony froze.
Penelope.
He stared.
She didn’t notice — or if she did, she was too distracted.
He watched her type something back. Then look up. Then take a sip of her wine with that same faint flush he now recognized.
His blood turned molten.
No. It couldn’t be. Not Penelope. Not Eloise’s friend. Not the shy, sharp-eyed, infuriatingly overlooked girl who always sat two chairs away and never quite met his gaze.
Except now she did.
She looked across the table, right at him, just for a flicker of a second.
And something passed between them.
Recognition? No. She didn’t know. Not yet.
But he did.
His phone vibrated.
INKHEART:
Navy blue. Soft cotton. Innocent neckline.
Completely wasted on this crowd i'm with.
Why?
He nearly choked.
Penelope Featherington was Inkheart.
She, with her fiery little smirks and tragic hairpins and dresses that never did her justice, was the same woman who’d undone him with a breathless moan and a whispered please.
Anthony sat very still.
Thoughts roared through his head like cavalry.
She’d called him darling.
She’d told him her secrets.
She’d begged him — begged him — to tell her what he’d do if she were beneath him.
And now she was sitting ten feet away, sipping wine and talking to Francesca about summer plans.
He looked down at her message.
Then back at her.
He smiled.
A slow, private, predatory thing.
She doesn’t know.
And oh, he was going to have fun with this.
He picked up his phone. Typed carefully. Deliberately.
THE RAKE:
Now I can’t stop picturing you.
You’re killing me, sweetheart.
Across the table, Penelope blushed.
Anthony watched her press her lips together to hide a smile.
And in that moment — that very moment — he fell.
Not just in lust.
But in something far more dangerous.
The discovery changed everything.
Knowing that Penelope Featherington — overlooked wallflower, Eloise’s best friend, quietly brilliant, maddeningly curvy, and so unaware of her own power — was his Inkheart rewired Anthony Bridgerton's entire internal compass.
He watched her differently now. Moved around her differently. Thought about her constantly.
And began, with the precision of a predator and the patience of a poet, to close the distance.
He wouldn’t reveal what he knew.
Not yet.
No, this part was far too fun.
-
Penelope was pouring tea for Eloise when Anthony passed behind her on his way to the bookshelf.
His fingers brushed the small of her back.
A nothing touch. Socially acceptable. Not even inappropriate.
But he felt her inhale sharply. Just a hitch. Just enough.
He said nothing.
But later that night, he sent her this:
THE RAKE:
What I wouldn’t give to run my hand down your spine.
Slow. Deliberate. Just to see how straight you’d sit.
Or how long you’d last before leaning back into it.
-
The family had insisted on fresh air after supper. Penelope had lingered at the back, trailing fingers over rose petals, lost in thought.
Anthony approached from behind, just loud enough for her to hear his steps, then said casually, “You look better in navy than most.”
She turned, startled. “Pardon?”
He shrugged. “It suits you. You should wear it more often.”
He walked away before she could respond.
That night:
THE RAKE:
Were you thinking of me when you chose your outfit for the day?
Because I was thinking of you while imagining how easily it would slip off your shoulders.
-
He was seated across from her this time.
She was telling something to Colin — animated, eyes shining, cheeks flushed.
Anthony watched her lips move.
And when she laughed, really laughed, he smiled without realizing it.
She caught him looking.
He didn’t look away.
She blinked, then glanced down at her plate, suddenly shy.
Ten minutes later, while everyone argued over pudding and Hyacinth launched into a passionate defense of gooseberry tart, Anthony leaned ever so slightly toward Penelope across the table — not enough for anyone to notice, not enough to alarm her.
Just enough for her to hear.
He kept his tone casual, smooth as aged brandy.
“That shade suits you,” he murmured, eyes fixed on his spoon. “You should wear it more often.”
She looked up at him, startled.
He didn’t meet her gaze. He simply took a bite of pudding, as if he’d commented on the weather.
But Penelope’s breath hitched.
She reached for her water with a hand that wasn’t quite steady.
And Anthony smiled to himself, already composing the message he’d send later:
THE RAKE:
If I kissed you right now, I wouldn’t stop until your lipstick color was smudged across both our mouths.
Tell me where you’d want me to start.
Neck? Lips? Lower?
-
He passed behind her again, leaning in as he reached for a scone on the other end of the table.
His voice brushed her ear.
“Darling, would you pass the cream?”
It was the darling that did it.
Penelope froze, just for a breath.
Then passed the cream with trembling fingers.
He didn’t say it again. Just smiled.
That night:
THE RAKE:
Do you like when I call you pet names?
You melt for it. I can tell.
What would you do if I said it with your thighs around my shoulders?
-
She was across the room, standing alone near one of Benedict’s more ridiculous abstract pieces. Anthony slipped beside her.
“Looks like a drunk peacock exploded.”
Penelope startled, then giggled — real and warm.
He smiled. “I like your laugh.”
She looked up at him, wide eyed.
He tilted his head. “You should use it more often.”
And walked away.
Later that night:
THE RAKE:
Tell me how you laughed today.
Tell me what you'd do if I made you laugh while you were beneath me.
Giddy, breathless, shaking.
Say it.
Each day, each moment, Anthony kept pushing — just enough.
A look. A word. A touch. A text that made her breath catch and her thighs press together under her skirts.
She was unraveling.
He could see it in the way she looked at him now. Quicker. Hungrier. Confused. As if some part of her sensed what he knew but didn’t dare believe it.
And all the while, she kept texting him like he was far away. Like he didn’t sit across the room memorizing the way her hand curled around her teacup.
He could have told her.
But this was better.
Because when she breaks… she’s going to break for me.
And soon — very soon — he would show her exactly what it meant to be known.
And claimed.
Penelope's POV
The dinner table had become a blur.
Penelope smiled where she was supposed to smile. Laughed at Colin’s jokes. Nodded politely at Violet’s updates about peonies. But her heart wasn’t in it.
Her heart was in her phone.
Specifically, the message she’d received not ten minutes ago under the tablecloth, a message that had made her thighs clench and her breath shallow.
THE RAKE:
If I had you to myself right now, I’d push that dress up over your hips and make you forget how to speak.
Tell me: would you let me?
She hadn’t responded yet.
Her fingers were still tingling from the heat of it, her entire body buzzing with tension. Every heartbeat pulsed between her legs like an echo.
God, what was he doing to her?
He wasn’t even there. Not really. Just a name in her phone. Just a voice. A phantom she poured herself into.
And yet…
Her eyes flicked across the table — involuntarily, stupidly — and caught on Anthony Bridgerton.
He was speaking with Benedict. Nothing unusual. Nothing flirty. Nothing wrong.
And yet…
Why has he been looking at me more lately?
She shook it off. It couldn’t be. Anthony barely noticed her — or at least, he hadn’t, until recently. Now he was... present. Observing. Brushing too close when he passed. Offering the occasional compliment she didn’t know how to categorize.
But he couldn’t be her Rake.
No. Absolutely not.
Penelope stood, smoothing her hands over her skirt, and excused herself softly, murmuring something about needing to freshen up.
No one questioned it. Eloise had already launched into another story about the idiocy of titled men and the perils of wearing too much velvet.
She slipped down the hallway and stoped near the guest powder room — a small, elegant chamber with a marble sink and a gilded mirror that had definitely seen better secrets.
She pulled out her phone before entering.
And finally, finally decided to answer.
Her fingers danced over the screen.
INKHEART:
Only if you were very persuasive.
Which I suspect you are.
But if you do ruin this dress, I expect compensation in the form of wicked apologies and a great deal of begging. 😈
She hit send with a smirk.
And froze.
Because a voice, low and velvet wrapped, murmured behind her ear:
“I’d rather whisper my apologies directly into your skin.”
She didn’t turn.
Couldn’t turn.
Because she knew that voice.
Her blood turned to fire. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
A hand reached past her and gently unlocked the door.
It opened.
Anthony Bridgerton gently pushed her in and stepped inside behind her.
And shut it again with a click.
She turned slowly, horror rising up her throat.
He stood inches away — too close, too real, too him. That same faint smirk on his lips. That same devastating calm in his eyes. And her message — her filthy little text — was still visible on his phone in his hand.
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“You—” Her voice cracked. “This was a joke to you?”
Anthony’s expression darkened in an instant.
“A joke?”
“You’ve been watching me—saying things—touching me—and—”
He stepped forward.
She stepped back.
Until her spine hit the wall.
He didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
He just looked down at her, eyes blazing, voice low and lethal.
“You think this was a game to me?”
She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
“You think I’ve been texting you at two in the morning with a hard on and a heartache because I wanted to laugh?”
Penelope flushed from head to toe.
“I figured it out weeks ago,” he said, advancing until his chest was nearly brushing hers. “You, Penelope Featherington, are Inkheart. And every time I see you now, I want to ruin you a little more.”
Her mouth fell open.
His hand lifted, knuckles trailing gently — reverently — along her jaw.
“I’ve wanted you for months,” he whispered. “I’ve loved you through words. Fallen for you in paragraphs. Drowned in your voice.”
She was shaking.
“You should have told me,” she said, tears threatening the corners of her eyes.
“I wanted you to fall for me too. And you did.” He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “Now stop pretending you didn’t.”
Penelope exhaled a shaky breath.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t hesitant.
It was devouring.
His hands cupped her jaw, then slid down to her waist, gripping tight, pulling her flush against him as his mouth claimed hers with raw, devastating hunger.
She moaned into it — one helpless, shocked sound — and then surrendered.
Her hands tangled in his hair. Her hips arched into him. And she kissed him like he was her last breath.
He pressed her harder into the wall, one thigh slotting between hers, grinding just enough to make her whimper.
“Say it,” he whispered against her lips.
She blinked, dazed. “Say what?”
“That you’re mine.”
Penelope’s mouth parted.
And then, quiet, trembling:
“I’m yours.”
He groaned, low and dangerous, and kissed her again — slower this time, deeper.
Not just possession.
But truth.
When he pulled back, she was panting. Unsteady. Eyes wide and wild.
He rested his forehead to hers.
“This wasn’t a joke, Penelope,” he whispered. “It was the most real thing I’ve ever felt. And now that I know it’s you—all of this is mine.”
She nodded, barely.
And somewhere in her chest, everything she thought she knew about herself — and him — began to burn.
Anthony's POV
She was still breathing hard when he kissed her again — deeper this time, slower. His hands cradled her jaw like she was both fragile and molten, a paradox of innocence and filth.
Anthony pressed her into the wall, his thigh between hers, her body pinned in place. Her curves fit him like memory, like every message they’d ever exchanged had been practice for this exact contact.
She whimpered as he bit gently at her bottom lip.
And he smiled against her mouth.
“God, you taste better than I imagined,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint.
Her hands gripped his shirt, clinging. She was flushed, trembling, eyes wide with shock and hunger.
He slid one hand down, slow, over her waist, down to her hip, then lower, pressing between her thighs through her dress.
She gasped.
“Already wet for me,” he murmured darkly. “Of course you are.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. “Anthony…”
He growled softly, her saying his name like that shattered every ounce of patience in his blood.
He rubbed slow circles against her heat, over the soaked fabric of her underwear.
She arched, breath hitching.
“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” he whispered. “Late at night. After we text. Your hand between your legs. Whispering my name into your pillow.”
She didn’t deny it.
Couldn’t.
He kissed her jaw, her throat, nipped at her pulse point. “You belong to me now. No more hiding.”
“Please…” she whimpered, hips rolling into his hand.
“You want my fingers?” he asked, voice low, wicked. “You want to come for me right here?”
She nodded, brokenly. “Yes. Please. I can’t—”
He stopped.
She froze.
Anthony stepped back slightly — not far, but just enough to let the tension spike cruelly.
He looked at her.
Eyes dark. Breathing heavy.
“No.”
Her brows pulled together, stunned. “W-what?”
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You don’t get me for the first time in my mother’s powder room.”
Penelope trembled.
“I’m not going to fuck you against a marble sink like some fantasy, as much as I want to,” he murmured, voice rough with need. “I’m going to have you properly. In my bed. Naked. Open. Ruined.”
She whimpered at that last word.
He kissed her again, slow and possessive. Then pressed his hand once more between her legs. She moaned.
“I want to taste you when you beg,” he whispered. “I want to watch you fall apart. And then I’ll fuck you so deep you forget how to spell your name.”
She exhaled like he’d stolen her lungs.
He eased back — slowly, like a man savoring the act of restraint. His hand left her soaked panties. He looked down at his fingers. Smirked.
“Later tonight,” he said softly, but with steel underneath. “After dinner, you’ll leave first. I’ll wait ten minutes. You’ll go to the side entrance, knock once. I’ll let you in.”
Her mouth parted.
“Say yes, Penelope.”
She swallowed.
And nodded.
“Yes.”
He kissed her one last time — barely a brush — then unlocked the door and slipped out, leaving her trembling against it, panting, dazed, and soaked through.
And Anthony — Anthony walked back to the dining room with murder and hunger in his eyes.
Because soon…
Soon, she would be his.
The house had quieted.
Dinner had faded into brandy. Eloise and Colin were deep in some aggressive debate about pamphlets and poetry. Mother had retired early with a headache. The younger siblings had drifted upstairs in varying states of dramatics and digestion.
And Anthony?
Anthony waited.
He sat in the armchair by the fireplace in his private wing, the one no one entered without invitation. A book rested forgotten in his lap, his phone beside it. Every creak of the floorboards outside, every shift of wind, his head lifted.
Would she come?
He hadn’t doubted her. Not really. But there was still that ache in his chest, taut and tight with something close to hope. Something close to need.
Then —
A soft knock.
Once.
He moved before he even realized it, crossing the room in three strides, unlocking the side entrance of the wing.
And there she was.
Penelope.
Hair half up, half down, curls falling soft around her shoulders. Her coat was buttoned high, but he could see the flush in her cheeks, the flutter in her chest.
She looked up at him like he’d stepped out of her dreams.
He didn’t speak.
He just reached for her hand.
“Come,” he said quietly.
They walked in silence through the private corridor, the house dim, the hall lit only by low sconces. She didn’t speak, didn’t ask questions. She just followed him.
He opened the door to his bedroom.
Spacious. Dark wood. Clean lines. Warm firelight. The kind of masculine luxury no woman ever saw without invitation.
He let go of her hand and turned to face her.
She looked around — not nervously, but with curiosity. Then her eyes found his again.
And stayed there.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice quiet, grounding.
She nodded.
“I want this. You.”
His jaw flexed. Something deep in his chest twisted.
“I need you to know something first.”
She stepped forward, heart in her throat.
“This won’t be casual,” he said, voice firmer now. “Not for me. Not after everything. If I have you—this way—it means you’re mine. And I’ll be yours.”
Her breath caught.
“Is that what you want?” he asked.
She nodded again.
But he didn’t let her get away with that.
“Say it, Penelope.”
She swallowed.
“I want to be yours.”
That was it.
He moved.
His hands were in her hair, on her hips, pulling her up, kissing her like he hadn’t let himself at dinner — fierce and full, tongue sliding past her lips as she gasped, as she gave.
She melted into him. Her arms wound around his neck. She kissed him like she couldn’t believe it was real, like every fantasy they’d written was crashing into the present and she had no idea how to handle it.
He did.
He kissed her until she whimpered. Until she was pressing into him, thighs brushing, chest heaving.
Then, slowly, he peeled off her coat.
And stared.
She wore a silk slip under it. Emerald green. Thin straps. No bra. The fabric clung to her like water.
Anthony let out a quiet, broken sound.
“Turn around.”
She obeyed.
His hand slid her hair off one shoulder. His lips followed — brushing her neck, her spine, all the way down to the small of her back.
Then he turned her back to face him.
“On the bed.”
She went, eyes wide, breath shaking.
He followed. Crawled over her like hunger incarnate.
“You know what I’ve imagined?” he asked, voice rough, hand sliding up her thigh.
She shook her head.
“Your thighs,” he whispered, biting her earlobe. “Wrapped around me. Shaking. Your voice, rasping my name.”
“Anthony…”
“I’m going to ruin you,” he said, pressing her down into the mattress. “Thoroughly. Repeatedly.”
She arched under him.
And then he did.
His mouth found her chest first — dragging the slip down, teeth and tongue and lips teasing her nipples until she cried out. His hands explored her thighs, her hips, her waist — gripping, spreading, worshiping.
He kissed down, slow and merciless, until he was between her legs.
Looked up once. Met her eyes.
Then licked a stripe along her center over the silk.
She gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
He smiled.
“You taste like a promise.”
Then he pushed the fabric aside and devoured her.
Long strokes. Deep pressure. His tongue relentless, his hands anchoring her as she writhed and sobbed and broke beneath him.
He didn’t stop when she came.
He held her there. Pushed her over again.
And again.
She was wrecked when he kissed his way back up her trembling body, her skin dewy with sweat, her lips parted in silent disbelief.
He kissed her hard.
Then whispered against her mouth, “Not yet.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I told you. I won’t take you until you’re in my bed. Under the sheets. Naked and mine.”
She groaned, half laugh, half frustration.
“Anthony—”
He grabbed her jaw gently.
“No. Not just your body. I want all of it. I want you to know what this means.”
She nodded, dazed.
“Then say it.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered.
And then — softer, honest, reverent — “I’ve always been yours.”
His heart thudded once, hard.
And he kissed her forehead.
“Good girl.”
He tucked her into his sheets, wrapped his body around hers.
And whispered his next promise into her hair.
“Tomorrow night, I’ll make you mine completely.”
Penelope's POV
The house had never felt so loud.
Not in sound, but in awareness. In eyes. In the way Eloise had teased her over breakfast, in the way Colin had asked if she was feeling well, in the way Anthony…
Anthony had been nowhere.
Penelope hadn’t seen him once since slipping out of his bed.
But she’d felt him. Every step. Every room. Every glance she feared and longed for.
They left separately, just like they planned. She returned home with Eloise, made her excuses, pretended to nap.
Then, after dusk, she slipped out of the apartment and made her way through the London streets in a cab, heart a caged thing behind her ribs.
To him.
To his apartment — the one next to his private offices, the one no one but his closest family ever entered.
She had barely raised her hand to knock before the door opened.
Anthony stood there.
Shirt half open. Hair tousled from his hands. Eyes already hot with intention.
“You came,” he said.
She nodded, breath shallow.
“I always will,” she whispered.
He didn’t smile.
He just reached for her hand and pulled her inside.
The door clicked shut.
He pressed her gently back against it — not roughly, not like a thief — but like something inevitable.
“I’ve waited all day to undress you,” he said, his voice like velvet soaked in whiskey. “And I’m not waiting anymore.”
Penelope gasped as his mouth met hers.
Hot. Hungry. Claiming.
He kissed like he touched — with complete control. His hands slid down her arms, around her waist, tugging her coat loose, then her dress.
One shoulder.
Then the other.
The silk hit the floor in a hush.
He stepped back just enough to look.
She stood in nothing but her slip and trembling skin.
“God above,” he whispered. “You’re made to be ruined.”
Then he did.
He walked her backward through the apartment — lips on her neck, hands on her hips, growling praise against her skin — until the backs of her knees hit his bed.
She fell back. He followed.
The room smelled like cedar and heat. She barely registered it, too busy feeling him.
His hands.
His body.
His voice like sin poured hot into her ear:
“Tonight you’ll come on my tongue again . On my fingers. On my cock. And when I’m done — when you’re shaking and marked and mine — I’ll hold you until you fall asleep in my arms.”
Penelope moaned.
He spread her legs with a single command — “Wider” — and she obeyed before she even realized it.
His mouth was on her a moment later, tongue gliding up through her folds, slow and deep, until she cried out, clutched the sheets, begged.
He gave her what he promised.
Once. Then again.
She was wrecked before he even entered her.
Then he rose.
Chest heaving. Eyes black with desire.
He undressed like he was unwrapping a weapon.
She’d never seen him like this — all strength and power and sheer masculine grace. His body was sculpted in lines and tension. His cock, thick and perfect, already hard and glistening at the tip.
He knelt between her thighs.
Ran his hand from her throat to her navel.
“Mine,” he said softly.
Then thrust inside.
She shattered.
“Anthony—”
He swallowed her cry with a kiss, grinding deep into her, filling her in a way that felt made for her body.
He didn’t rush.
He owned.
Every thrust was precise. Deep. Designed to ruin her. His hips rolled in slow, devastating circles, brushing something inside her that made her arch, sob, plead.
And all the while he whispered—
“That’s it, Penelope.”
“So fucking tight.”
“Let go for me. Let them hear who you belong to.”
She broke like dawn.
Her orgasm crashed through her so hard she saw stars — body clenching around him, shaking uncontrollably as he rode her through it, gritting her name like a prayer and a promise and a curse.
When he came, it was with a groan torn from his soul — buried deep, hips grinding in brutal rhythm, spilling inside her with a muttered, “Mine. Fuck, mine.”
They collapsed together.
Sweat slicked. Breathless. Bound.
And in the stillness, Penelope buried her face in his chest.
“Do you mean it?” she whispered.
Anthony kissed her hair.
“I’ve never meant anything more.”
They lay there for a long while — tangled, quiet, claimed.
No more secrets.
No more hiding.
Just her and him.
Every inch of her his.
Every part of him hers.
Anthony's POV
The room was quiet.
Not the silence of absence, but the kind that hummed gently after something complete.
Penelope lay curled against him, one thigh tossed lazily across his hips, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. Their skin was still warm. The sheets tangled around them like soft evidence.
Anthony let his hand drift along the bare curve of her back, up to her neck, into her hair.
He was still hard. Not in a desperate way — not anymore — but in the way that came from being home in a woman’s body. From knowing she wanted him just as much. From finally having what he’d craved in every message, every sleepless night.
“I still can’t believe it,” she murmured against his chest, voice half-muffled. “That you were him.”
He smiled lazily, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment.
“And you were you,” he said. “You were Inkheart. The same girl who threatened to weaponize Pride and Prejudice and fantasized about my hands before you even saw them.”
She laughed. A soft, contented sound that rumbled against his ribs.
He looked down at her, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone. “You really didn’t know?”
“I suspected… maybe,” she admitted. “But I thought I was projecting. I mean—you’re you.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
She shrugged coyly. “You know. Viscount. Handsome. Terrifying. You own suits that fit. I didn’t exactly think you’d be writing me sonnets at 2 a.m. and telling me what you wanted to do to my mouth.”
Anthony smirked. “I did more than tell you.”
She swatted him with her hand.
He caught her wrist, pulled her closer, kissed her nose.
They lay in silence for a moment, breathing together.
Then she asked, “Do you remember the ad?”
He groaned. “Do I. It was buried in a pile of mail — wedged between a quarterly report and some nonsense from Colin about investing in sheep.”
Penelope giggled against his chest.
“I nearly tossed it,” he continued, smirking. “But something about it caught me. ‘Words before faces.’ I thought it was going to be a joke.”
“It was a joke,” she said, grinning.
“Until it wasn’t.”
She looked up at him.
And just like that, his heart did that thing again — the ridiculous, aching thing it had done the night he first heard her voice. That it had done when she called him darling. That it had done when she stood at his door and said I always will.
“What are you thinking?” she asked quietly.
He brushed her hair back from her face.
“That this,” he said, “was the best damn accident of my life.”
She smiled.
He added, “Inkheart.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re never going to stop calling me that, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
She leaned up and kissed him — slow, sweet, messy from sleep.
Then she whispered:
“Yours.”
He exhaled, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her under his chin.
“And I,” he murmured, “have always been yours.”
They fell asleep like that — tangled limbs, full hearts, and absolutely no regrets about the anonymous ad that had rewritten both their lives.
The End.