Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(80)

Prince Damien’s legendary self-command vanished. He kissed and nipped Penelope’s lips, impatiently tasting, thrusting into her at the same time. The noises that came from his throat were animal-like, and he could not stop them. Perhaps Nvengarians and logosh weren’t so far removed from one another after all.

Penelope silently rocked under him, her frantic fingers on his back letting him know she felt the madness too.

“Ah, damn,” Damien growled as his seed released. He clenched his muscles, trying to stop it, trying to stay locked with her longer. But his hips rocked in uncontrolled rhythm, his body doing what it was meant to do.

Blood roared in his ears, dimming the sounds of the sloshing water, Penelope’s cries, his own groans.

Want you, want you, love you, love, love, love. The words marked Damien’s thrusts. He wasn’t certain if the sounds came from his mouth or only whirled in his brain. Love. You.

One final, savage push, and suddenly everything was done. Damien held his new wife as long as he could, his breathing hollow, his legs shaking. He was still hard, still needy, but the fever had dwindled the slightest bit. Only a bit—droplets of sweat and bathwater trickled from his skin.

One by one, Damien released his fingers from Penelope’s back, smoothing the skin he’d likely bruised. Her legs still wrapped him, his arousal firmly inside her, as though he couldn’t let her go.

Damien raised his head to kiss her and found Penelope’s face streaked with tears. They trickled from her eyes, her lashes wet.

The sight smote him. “Penelope—love—did I hurt you?”

Penelope hesitated then shook her head, moving her mouth in a little smile. Steam curled the ends of her hair, water dropping to her skin.

“I have never done it like that,” Damien said, his heart squeezing in remorse. “I am strong, I meant to gentle myself for you …”

Penelope put her wet fingers to his lips. “You did not hurt me. Not like you mean. I am crying because you make me feel beautiful.”

Tears spilled from her eyes. Damien kissed one away. “You are profoundly beautiful, my Penelope,” he said quietly. “That is not the prophecy speaking for me. This feeling is deeper than magic.”

Penelope traced his cheek. “I never in my wildest dreams thought I could have a man like you.”

“Do not flatter me yet, love,” he said, trying to find the humor of the situation. “You have still to live with me.”

Penelope shook her head. “I thought I was not the sort of woman a man could love. I broke my betrothals because I did not want to settle for someone who did not want me.”

“I know.” Damien regretfully slid out of her, still aching for her.

“And then I saw you.” Penelope’s legs unfolded, but he kept her against him, the water letting them easily remain face-to-face. “It might have been the magic, but I wanted you in my life. Something in me cried out for you, though I tried to pretend to everyone, myself included, that I did not care.”

“Sweet love.” Damien gave her a brief kiss. “I made no secret that I wanted you.”

Penelope cupped his face in her hands, looking deep into his eyes, her green-gold ones wet with tears. “I still crave you, and I am jealous, and I hate those women who have been with you. I have become charged with emotion, wild with it, and I never was so before.”

She looked confused and indignant, and Damien restrained his smile. He trailed a lazy finger down her throat. “Yes, you were, love. You locked all those emotions inside you, until a mad Nvengarian came to let them out.”

“You have disrupted my entire life.”

“I know.” Damien kissed the line of her hair. “I know, my love.”

“I fear I will make a terrible princess. I have no idea how to be a princess.”

Penelope’s voice was tinged with panic. Damien slid his hand down her back, trying to soothe her. “It does not matter. Sasha and I will guide you.”

She gave him a worried look. “The prophecy sent you to find a young woman with a silver ring, but that does not mean I will be a good princess. Someone like the Russian countess or the English baroness would at least know how to give banquets and receive ambassadors. I was raised to be a housewife to a country gentleman.”

“Penelope.” Damien slowly eased his body from hers, though he kept his hands on her shoulders. “The last thing I need is a countess with ideas of letting Russia get its great teeth into my little kingdom. Nor do I need an English aristocrat handing me his daughter for some sort of political gain. A simple English miss is exactly what I need, and you are the English miss I want.”

Penelope’s brows drew down. “I know nothing of political intrigue.”

“I know,” Damien said. “That is one of the reasons I like you.”

Penelope looked thoughtful. “If not for political intrigue, I would never have met you.”

“That is likely so.” Damien brushed a gentle hand across her cheek. A woman did not want to hear that she was a safe bride. She wanted to hear that she was irresistible and maybe even forbidden, so that the gentleman risked much for her in the name of love.

The truth was, Damien had risked everything for her, including his life. “I need you,” he said simply. “Not for Sasha’s prophecy, not to be a princess. I need you for myself.” Damien leaned to nuzzle her neck so he would not have to look at her while he spoke. “I need you to save my life.”