Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(79)
Damien took one step down to stand on the marble bench that a stonemason had constructed very quickly for a very high fee. This put Damien’s lovely male organ more or less at Penelope’s eye level.
She gazed at it in fascination. His entire length was as tight as could be, the tip smooth. From this, his seed would spill inside her as it had two days before, when they’d made love in the sultriness of the afternoon.
Penelope wanted to understand what he was, even if she never understood why he captivated her so. She ran dripping fingers lightly along his shaft, leaving a streak of water behind. Damien drew in a quick breath, and she looked up at him.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked in concern. “I am not schooled.”
Damien watched her with warm eyes. “Do whatever you like.”
Whatever she liked. Good heavens, she could imagine all sorts of wicked things, which made her blush.
She was happy that Damien had showed her he was no stranger to wickedness and liked wickedness in her. He would not be a conventional husband and would not expect her to be a conventional wife.
Perhaps Damien did not even know how to be conventional. If what she’d heard from the ladies at the fête about Nvengarians and their lovemaking practices were true, Damien would not expect propriety in their bedroom. Or this bathroom. Penelope could be as daring as she wished.
Her heart beating in strange, quick beats, she traced the length of him with one finger, then she leaned forward and kissed the tip.
Damien touched her cheek, his fingers warm. Quickly, before Penelope could sway herself from her path, she grasped him lightly with her fingers and pulled him gently into her mouth.
Chapter 22
Heaven exists after all.
It existed in the form of this exquisite woman taking Damien and teasing him with her hesitant, inexperienced tongue.
Damien let his head drop back, eyes closing, hands curling to fists. Love, love, I treasure you more than kingdoms.
He made himself hold still and let her play, as much as he wanted to drag her up to him, to crush kisses to her mouth. Penelope licked the sensitive place under his tip, making him jump. Sweet woman. He slid his hand to her hair, curling his fingers in the silken strands, loosening the bindings that held it in its knot.
Damien was well experienced in the touch of women. He knew what they liked and what they wanted from him, and it varied little from country to country. Easy to remain in control of himself with a woman who knew exactly where and how long to stroke, how to press her fingers to both arouse him and keep him from finishing too soon.
Penelope was innocence itself. She’d never touched a man before, that was certain. Her questing fingers brushed his stretched skin, the tight hotness of his balls, the underside of his shaft. Her tongue moved around his tip, exploring it, dipping behind it and back over the top. The occasional scrape of her sharp teeth was unbearably exciting.
Damien felt his seed start to build, wanting to spring out and flow into her mouth.
Control, control. The charming Prince Damien was ever in control.
His body was not listening. It wanted the beautiful woman whose fingers and mouth quested, curious, his blushing bride learning what it was to be with a man. This daring woman he’d enticed into sin was catching on very quickly.
“Penelope,” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “You must stop.”
He spoke in Nvengarian, because he’d descended to a basic level where he could not think about words and what they meant.
Penelope drew back, removing the glorious touch of her lips, her cheeks pink. “I am sorry,” she said in halting Nvengarian. “I do not know how to make … pleasure to you.”
The garbled grammar and her oh-so-sweet accent snapped the last of Damien’s restraint. He dropped into the water from the marble seat, sending a wave over the edges of the bath to soak his dressing gown on the floor. He lifted Penelope, the water giving her buoyancy.
Holding her firmly, Damien guided Penelope’s legs around his hips, opening her to take his thick cock inside her. He moved his fingers out of the way, clasped her buttocks, and pushed all the way in.
Penelope’s eyes widened. Water was not the best of lubricants; it dried delicate skin, and Damien had the sudden insane wish to be in a vat of scented oil with her. They’d slide together without friction, and he’d be in her, tight and hard, with no impediment. The lovemaking would be slippery and wild, and they’d no doubt drown for their pains.
“Damien.” Penelope’s breasts pressed his chest, droplets trapped between them.
Inside her, tight and warm. Damien was surrounded by her, skin and breath and scent. Penelope pressed her cheek to his and wrapped her arms around him, holding on.
Damien said breathlessly, “You are only allowed to speak Nvengarian when we make love.”
Penelope raised her head and looked at him, perplexed. “Then I must have more lessons,” she answered in that language.
Damien pressed deep inside her, fingers on the softness of her backside. “Yes, Many, many lessons.”
“You are …” Penelope fumbled for the phrase. “You fill me.”
Damien made a raw noise, unable to think anymore. He turned with her, setting her back against the lip of the bath. Her legs wound firmly about him, small feet pressed into his thighs. Damien wanted to stay inside her forever, to let this moment go on and on. But his body had other ideas.