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“We’ve got to go, Tony,” Penelope says sternly, her hands planted on her hips and one sock clad foot tapping against her bedroom carpet, “at this rate we're not going to get to your mother's in time for you to blow your own candles out.”
Anthony, who is wholly affected by her assertiveness - though not in the way Penelope is aiming for right now - simply steps the rest of the way into her space with a lopsided smirk, hooking an arm around her waist whilst his other hand comes up to play with the end of a soft red curl.
“I’d rather stay here and have you blow my candle,” he replies, that smirk growing into a shit eating grin, clearly pleased by his own word play.
“Anthony,” Penelope groans, turning her face into his chest to disguise the silly smile that spreads over her face. She does so love it when he shows his playful side, even if it tends to be at the most inconvenient times - in this instance, that is probably by design, because Anthony knows she so often caves to it.
Not this time, though. There is a string of perfectly punctuated texts in her phone from Mrs Bridgerton that serve as firm reminders of their expected presence at the day’s festivities and she is not prepared to be on the receiving end of Violet’s disappointment.
Anthony, however, is not as concerned.
“Come on, baby,” he purrs, “it’s my birthday, shouldn't I get to choose how I spend it? Where, who with, whether or not clothing is allowed…” he fiddles with the sleeve of her sundress, giving it a playful tug so the elastic snaps back lightly against her arm.
Penelope swats his hand away, twisting in his hold so that she can finish applying her mascara whilst keeping a tight reign on her composure.
“Let’s make a deal then," she suggests, knowing how Anthony loves a challenge. "Smile through the games, blow out your candles and eat your cake without any eye rolling or watch checking,” she pauses for dramatic effect, feeling his intrigue in the way he leans closer, “and when we get home, I’ll blow your candle and you can eat my cake.”
His hands still suddenly, going rigid at her hips, and Penelope glances up to meet his wide eyes in the mirror. She can barely suppress a giggle as she sees the look on his face and thinks it reminiscent of a computer stuck on an error screen. She hears the dial up sound in her head as his jaw remains slack and his fingers start to twitch at his sides.
404, basic human functions not found.
Sucking in a sharp breath - quite possibly his first in several seconds - Anthony finally speaks. “And by cake… you mean…?”
“Mhm.”
She watches as his eyes dip, trailing over the curve of her waist and then lower, landing on what she knows is his very favourite part of her body before his gaze snaps back up to hers.
Knowing her boyfriend - a term that always feels too small to encompass what he is to her - Penelope expects to be spun around and swept into the kind of deep, passionate kiss that will make her toes curl, so she is surprised when, instead, Anthony disappears from her space entirely; his hands, his breath, his heat at her back, gone.
She turns around to find him scrambling around the room, sweeping his hands over surfaces and lifting up pillows and shoes only to discard them just as quickly. His movements remain just as frantic and confusing as they carry him out to the hallway where she can hear him clattering around and continuing to disrupt her trinkets.
“What are you doing?” She calls out, padding over to the door to poke her head out after him. He appears to be routing through the leaves of her dead, brown fern, before lifting up the pot entirely to inspect the contents of its dry brown soil.
“I’m looking for my car keys, if we don’t get moving we’re going to be late,” Anthony replies, his ‘isn’t it obvious’ tone a complete turn around from the mood he was in thirty seconds ago.
Looking at his flushed face and seeing the speed at which his chest falls and rises, Penelope cannot help it any more; she bursts into raucous laughter.
“Oh my God,” she cackles, pointing her finger at him teasingly, “you are such a man!”
“Stop mocking me and put your shoes on, woman!”
That only sends Penelope spiraling further into her pit of laughter, her giggles becoming squeaks and wheezes as she struggles to catch her breath in the midst of her amusement. She is forced to bend forward, planting one hand on her knees and the other around her own middle to keep her balance, which is why she doesn’t notice Anthony’s approach until his shoes come into view.
She shrieks as she suddenly becomes airborne, hoisted over her impatient boyfriend - partner - love of her life’s shoulder. From this angle, she can see that he has got her shoes dangling from his free hand and they sway in his hold as he hurries out to the car.
He doesn’t stop until he’s at the passenger door, and she has a moment of clarity to be impressed that he manages to get it open - and wonder where he found his keys - whilst still holding her and her shoes aloft, before that swooping feeling is back and she is being carefully deposited in the seat, her heels set down by her feet.
“You don’t want me to drive?” Penelope asks curiously - that had been the plan, after all, so that he could at least enjoy as many birthday beers and brandies as he pleased with his brothers. They’d be welcome to spend the night at Bridgerton house, of course - well, more than welcome, as Violet Bridgerton is always ecstatic to have as many of her children as possible back under her roof - but Anthony has been very clear about not being within earshot of any of his family tonight.
It is his birthday and he will not spend it quieting his own noises or - God forbid - hers.
“Change of plans,” he replies, starting up the engine and shifting into first to begin rolling out of her designated parking space. “Do not let me touch anything stronger than diet coke today, okay? I want full clarity tonight. Twenty-twenty vision. Functions completely unimpaired.” His hands tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, and his voice takes on a deep, gravelly tone when he speaks again, “I am going to take my sweet time with you.”
Penelope’s throat goes dry, all of the liquid in her body rushing south, and she doesn’t have to glance at the rearview mirror to know her cheeks are stained red. That stupid (wonderful) grin is back on his face, a reminder of how he loves making her squirm, and it stays there until they are waiting at the final stop light before they’ll reach his childhood home.
His fingers drum against the wheel as they wait for the green light, hers twist in the flowy hem of her dress. Anthony clears his throat, breaking the silence and drawing her attention even as his own eyes remain fixed on the road ahead.
“What would I need to do,” he begins slowly, “to put my candle… in the cake?”
Oh. Well.
“That depends, I suppose…” She tilts her head so she’s looking at him through her lashes when he glances over, a coy smile pulling at the corner of her lips.
The real answer, the only thing he ever needs to do for her to fulfill any of his desires, is ask. However, the heat burning between them is only getting hotter, and Penelope can not help but add a little more fuel to the fire.
“Just how good of a birthday boy are you going to be?”