Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(49)

Damien lifted her again, the water making her buoyant. Her wet lips brushed his as she wrapped her legs around him again. She was no longer shy about kissing him.

“I love you, Penelope,” Damien said softly.

Penelope’s eyes were half closed, her face flushed. “Say it in Nvengarian. I want to learn.”

Heat stirred within him. “We say amor. Like the French, you see? For I love you, it is Amor dem.”

She smoothed his wet hair from his forehead. “Amor dem.”

Damien laughed. “No, that is what a man says to a woman. To say it to me, you would say amor das.”

Penelope wrinkled her nose. “I do so hate conjugation. My French tutor always derided me.”

“It is English that is confusing,” Damien said. “With no gender. Saying the same thing to a woman or to a man sounds very strange to us, as though you are hermaphrodites.”

Penelope gave him an amused look. “I never thought of it like that.”

Damien waited, and her faint smile faded. “Damien.” She brushed her finger down his nose and then over his lips. “Amor das.”

“I love you too, Penelope.”

She did not ask again if he truly did. She traced the lines of his face, her eyes intent on him. “How do you say, I want you?”

He brought his lips close to hers. “You would say to a lover, gushan das.”

“Oh.” Penelope kissed him lightly.

Damien’s heart beat faster. “Will you say it?”

Penelope’s eyes were downcast. “You already know.”

He did, but likely that was more to do with magic than Damien. No matter—he planned to take her to bed and love her for days until she wanted him in truth.

“If I were cruel,” she said softly. “I would ask you to make love to me now, and so break the prophecy. Then I would not have to go with you to Nvengaria.”

Damien pretended to consider the strategy. “True. But it would not work.”

Penelope raised her head. “Why not?”

She sounded offended. Damien said, “Because I intend to marry you and take you home with me, prophecy or no prophecy.”

Her brows drew together over her enchanting eyes. “You are giving me no choice.”

“You do have a choice.” Damien tightened his arms around her. “Your choice is to come with me willingly, or to come with me unwillingly. I can imagine entertaining possibilities in both directions.”

Penelope looked bewildered. “Why would it entertain you if I were unwilling?”

Damien’s body throbbed. “Because then I could have the joy of taming you. If I must throw you over my saddle, as I suggested, and ride off with you, you will learn my true nature. The one that tells me you are mine, and I will teach you to be so.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. The idea frightened her, but not entirely.

Damien ran his fingertips down her back. “I can think of many ways to tame you. In fact, I somewhat hope you will be unwilling.”

“Ways?” she asked, the word shaky.

Damien ran his hand up to encircle her wet wrist. “Bind your hands, perhaps. Not release you until you do my bidding.”

Penelope moved in his arms, brushing his aching cock. “How could I do your bidding with my hands tied?”

All the saints help me. Damien kept his voice steady. “Now that, my love, I will have to teach you when I have you in my bed.”

Penelope would be bare, her hair down, her eyes defiant as she waited for him to tell her what he wished them to do. The vision was compelling. Damien gritted his teeth. Penelope was driving him over the brink, but he was so enjoying the fall.

“You are a dangerous one,” he said. “But remember, whether I compromise you too soon or no, I will take you home with me.”

Penelope opened her mouth to argue, but Damien kissed her before she could say a word. She got lost in the kiss, her body grasping what it was meant to do.

He thought of the way she’d said in his own language that she loved him. He also liked the way the tongue that spoke the words moved in his mouth. Damien would teach her more Nvengarian, every naughty phrase she could repeat to him when they were in bed on long winter nights … and short summer nights … and all the nights in between.

Damien deepened the kiss, feeling Penelope’s fingertips on the scratches she’d put on his back. Yes, this mating would be fierce indeed.

Up on the hill, three female figures emerged at the top of the path.

“It is the most cunning pool, your ladyships,” Meagan Tavistock’s voice floated to him.

Damien knew the women—one was the Russian countess he’d been in bed with when Misk had brought him his father’s ring. The other was English, a baroness who had a fetish for sleeping with foreign nobility. She collected them, she bragged.

Penelope heard them and jumped. He thought she’d fling herself from him, but after one startled look up the bank, Penelope tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him with all her might.

Damien started, but he gave in without protest and kissed her back. She must know that these women had been his lovers—their nature was such that they’d have wanted her to know it. Instead of having a fit of the vapors, Penelope was holding her own. Good for her.

Damien heard Meagan’s exaggerated gasp. “Oh, heavens. Oh, my. Oh, dear. I do believe it’s Miss Trask and the prince.”