Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(64)

“I would like to lick between the cleave of your breasts. And the cleave of your buttocks.”

She stared, startled. “Goodness, why?”

His eyes darkened, and he abruptly withdrew from her, leaving her empty. “Turn over, and I will demonstrate why.”

Penelope hesitated. He watched her, likely deciding whether she were brave enough. She imagined his tongue tickling the base of her spine, and suddenly she realized very much indeed why she’d like it.

The loops of the silk rope had loosened—he hadn’t tied them tight. She slipped her hand out of the bond and rolled onto her stomach.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him. Damien knelt on the bed, his erection standing out from his body, black curls at the base, the shaft slick and wet. His entire body was sculpted muscle and flesh, brown from the sun. All bits of him were bronzed, as though he let the sun kiss his entire body.

The image made her gulp. Picturing Damien bare in the sun was not the thought of an innocent young lady. Although, Penelope supposed, she was no longer innocent.

When Damien touched his tongue to the hollow at the top of her buttocks, she gasped. The spark was even more intense than she’d imagined it would be.

Damien laid a soothing hand on her back. “Lie still.”

His tongue slid further down, right between the cheeks of her backside. Penelope dug her fingers into the coverlet, a moan escaping her lips.

He lifted his mouth. “I have barely done a thing, love.”

Truly? She squeezed her eyes shut and held on tighter, as he bent his head again.

This time he licked all the way down, flicking his tongue over her backside, dipping between the cheeks, licking one side, then the other. Little cries escaped her, which she muffled in the bedclothes. She’d never felt anything like it, never imagined anything like it.

And then his fingers gently drew her apart, and his teasing tongue touched her in a very intimate place indeed.

Penelope gave a little scream and crawled away from him, coming to rest on her hands and knees, facing him. “Why did you do that?”

Damien sat back on his heels, his arousal not abating one bit. “If you do not like it, I will not do so again.” His eyes were a mystery. “But you must tell me truthfully that you did not like it.”

Penelope opened her mouth to say so, then she closed it. A strange, hot sensation swept her. “I am not certain.” She gave him a shy look. “Am I depraved?”

“Depraved?” Damien laughed in pure mirth. “Why should you think you are?”

Penelope drew a ragged breath. “Because I might have liked it.”

Damien covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook. When he looked up again, his eyes were bright, his face flushed. “I assure you, Penelope, that for a Nvengarian, I am almost tame.”

“Oh, yes? What about for an Englishman?”

“That, my sweet, I do not know. I have met Englishmen whose tastes would make the most healthy Nvengarian cringe, and I have met Englishmen who do not seem to know or care what a woman is for. I suppose I am somewhere in between.”

Penelope’s face heated. “I think that I am not supposed to be discussing this with my husband. My betrothed, I mean.”

Damien’s smile vanished, to be replaced by a scowl. “With whom do you propose to discuss it?” he growled.

She regarded him in surprise. “No one, of course.”

“Why should I not talk about bed things with the woman I love?” Damien reached for Penelope and drew her to him. She liked how she fit in the curve of his arms. “I want to know everything you like and everything you do not. I want to touch every place that makes you joyous, and I want to teach you to do the same to me. I want to give you as much pleasure as a man can give a woman, but I need you to guide me, so it will be the best I can make it.”

Penelope’s heartbeat sped. If this was depravity, it was much more pleasant than she’d feared. She might be ashamed of herself later, but for now, she was quite enjoying it.

“Lie down,” Damien said.

Penelope took his hand and brushed a kiss to his palm before she complied. “What are you going to do now?”

“Wash you,” he said unexpectedly. “You bled a little.”

Surprised, Penelope raised her head and looked down at herself. She remembered a fearful debutant whispering to her about the knifelike pain a woman must endure when her husband broke her maidenhead, and the gush of blood that would follow.

Penelope had felt a dull ache rather than bright sharpness, and she saw only a few smudges of dried blood on her thighs.

Damien took up the cloth she had used to dab his wounds, rinsed it in the basin, then brought it back to the bed. It dripped on the coverlet, leaving round, dark spots that thinned as they spread.

Gently, Damien smoothed the cloth over the inside of her thighs, wiping away the stains that meant she was no longer an innocent.

So many debutants fretted over the transition between maidenhood and womanhood, fearing it would hurt, knowing people would know, wondering how profound that night would be that changed them forever.

Penelope had missed the moment of the transition—she had been so caught up in holding Damien and feeling him fill her. She supposed that was the change—from blushing girl to a woman unashamedly embracing the man she loved.

This was a change now, as well; she lying on her back, while Damien knelt, unclothed and unembarrassed, and bathed her with the cloth.