He kissed her toes, one at a time, then lifted the other foot and did the same.
She watched him, smiling slightly, the hem of her dress dangling in the water. His hardness grew unbearably tight.
“I want to see you,” he said.
He held each small foot in his palms. Gently he pulled her legs apart, the loose skirt sliding to her knees. Her chest rose with quickened breath.
He stepped between her legs, turning his head to lick droplets of water from her calf. The salt taste of her skin
made his blood hotter still. He slid the skirt upward, dipping his tongue behind her knee.
She gasped. He expected her to pull away, perhaps to kick water into his face, but she remained still. The pulse in the fold of her knee beat faster.
“I want to see you,” he said again.
She had every right to refuse him and send him away. They were not yet betrothed. Even in Nvengaria, an unmarried woman would admonish a man for making improper advances, unless she wanted them, of course.
Slowly Penelope reached down, and with slow fingers, drew her skirt up to bare her thighs.
Damien exhaled. Her lovely legs stretched to him, long and just a little plump. He kissed her thigh above her knee, and drew his tongue all the way along it to the shadow under her skirt.
She stiffened, but did not pull away. He spread her legs wider, palms resting on each thigh. He watched her fingers close on the cloth, and then, as his heartbeat soared, she pulled the skirt the rest of the way up.
A thread of sweet curls swirled over her mound and twisted along her opening. His arousal strained toward her, knowing where it wanted to go. He dragged in a breath.
“Penelope, I have not the words in English to say how beautiful you are.”
She said nothing. Her face was rosy pink, her greengold eyes fixed on him as though she worried what he thought of her.
He braced his hands on either side of her opening, and pushed her still wider. He let his thumbs come together in the middle, stroking down over her mound.
She gasped, eyes widening. He was, without a doubt, the first person to ever touch her there. Her honey flowed onto his hands, sweet and warm.
“Penelope, do you know what release is?”
“No,” she whispered.
“You have never touched yourself? Felt the release of it?”
“Never.”
Surprising. The ladies of London and Paris liked to tell him at length how much they enjoyed themselves alone in their beds. So much so that at times, he left them to it while he sought a tavern to enjoy ale and conversation.
From the look on Penelope’s face, the thought had never occurred to her.
“I will teach you what it feels like,” he said.
Her gaze locked with his, as though she was afraid to look away. Her lips parted, moist and red.
He could touch and taste her all he wanted, as long as he didn’t ram his greedy hardness straight into her. Being inside her might negate the prophecy, but staying outside would not.
He rubbed her mound again, loving the hot folds that wanted to close over his thumbs. He lifted his hand and licked her moisture from it, spicy, salty desire.
She put out her hand in protest. “Damien, your bodyguards.”
“Cannot see a thing.”
They had been trained to look out for danger but to give him his privacy. Life did not go well for a bodyguard who did not. Some of them were left over from his father’s rule, fanatically devoted to the Imperial Prince, whoever he happened to be. They would not ogle her; they’d be more worried about her trying to harm him.
They would have to learn that Penelope was on his side, an extension of him, not his enemy. She had been made for him. He tasted her on his skin and felt her become part of him.
He stroked her again, letting his fingers nudge a little inside of her. She closed her eyes, one hand threading his hair.
“That is the way, my love,” he whispered. “Feel the joy of it.”
She arched toward him, wanting him. He draped her legs over his shoulders, and lowered his mouth to her.
Sweet, hot, fiery taste. He loved her gasp of startled pleasure, and the deeper moan that followed it. Lovely innocent, feeling for the first time. She was his, and no other man’s. The fervent possessiveness of his people welled up inside him, and he didn’t bother to control it.
Her scent surrounded him, her taste drove him wild. He suckled her, earning small cries of pleasure while her hips rocked forward. She wanted him with the same mindlessness with which he wanted her.
Unlike when they’d been in her bedchamber, though, he knew he could control himself. For now. Then, a dark need had swept through him, as though a force from outside had taken over his thoughts. This time, he could fully enjoy her without the crazed clutch on his mind.
He flicked his tongue over her beautiful mound, faster and faster, smiling as she jerked and moaned. She twisted her hand in his hair, but he ignored the pain. She was ready, ripe for it.
Beautiful, beautiful woman.
She dragged in a long breath, and then she came, her first surprised cries ringing out to the quiet rush of the river.
Damien grasped her hips and dragged her down into the water with him. His mouth landed hard on hers, taking her screams of delight into him. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, clinging to him, positioning her needing opening directly over his arousal.
He rocked his hips, loving the friction, while he kissed her. He drove his tongue in deep, pressing her, making her taste him as much as he tasted her. Her nails bit his skin, sharp points digging into his back.
Eventually, her cries lessened, her frantic hands stilled, and at last, she eased her lips from his. She regarded him
languidly, her lips swollen, a woman first awakened to the wild feelings inside her.
“Did I have a fit?” she asked, breathless.
He smoothed her hair and kissed the corner of her mouth. “That was release. Do you understand now why we crave it so?”
She nodded. “It was most strange.”
“Would you like to do it again?”
Her eyes widened a little. “I can do that again?”
“As many times as you want, vixen.”
“As many times?” She drew a breath. “I do not know if I can. I feel quite exhausted. And at the same time…”
“You feel, as you say, exhilarated?”
“Yes. Exhilarated.” She lay her head on his shoulder. “Do you feel the same?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.
“I will feel it on our betrothal night. I will teach you how to bring me to release.”
“I see.” She looked shy and fetching.
“We will use that night to learn one another,” he said, trying to stifle his anticipation. “That is what the betrothal ritual is for. To show the world that we will be bound in marriage, and to learn to pleasure each other’s bodies. After that night, we will have no fear of the carnal pleasures we will seek in our marriage.”
She smiled into his shoulder. “That sounds much different from English marriage.”
“Nvengarian husbands enjoy making certain that their wives are pleased in bed, and they invent many and varied ways to do it. Do English husbands not do this?”
“I have not heard so. But my married acquaintances tell me very little.” She sounded frustrated.
“Do not worry. I will tell you everything you need to know.”
She lifted her head and smiled at him, eyes starry, then
she suddenly realized that he’d pulled her into the pool and they were up to their shoulders in water.
“Damien, my dress!” she gasped.
“Take it off.” He scooped her against him and began unfastening the hooks in the back.
She did not protest much as he helped her untangle her arms from the gown and pull it from her legs. He lifted it from the water and laid it across the log, where it hung, deflated and wrinkled with water.
She wore no stays under the light summer gown. Her shift molded to her body, the tips of her breasts dark and large. The wet cotton clinging to her was almost more erotic than if she’d been bare.
He lifted her again, hands under her buttocks, the water making her buoyant. Her wet lips roved his as she wrapped her legs around him again; she was no longer shy about kissing him. “I love you,” he said.
Her eyes were heavy, face flushed with heat. “Say it in Nvengarian. I want to learn.”
He smiled. “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.”
He laughed. “No, that is for a woman. To say it to me, you would say
amor das.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I do so hate conjugation. My French tutor always laughed at me.”
“It is English that is confusing. With no gender. Saying the same thing to a woman or to a man sounds very strange to us. As though you are hermaphrodites.”
She laughed, a sound like sweet chimes. “I never thought of it like that.”
He waited. Her laughter faded. She studied his face, as though memorizing it. “Damien.” She brushed her finger down the bridge of his nose and over his lips. “
Amor das.”
“I love you, too, Penelope.”
She did not ask again if he truly did. She traced the outline of his face, her eyes intent. “How do you say,
I want you?
”
He brought his lips close to hers. “You would say to a lover,
gushan das.”
“Oh.” She kissed him lightly.
He smiled. “Will you say it?”
“You already know I want you.”
“Yes.” He was going to take her to bed and love her for days.
She laid her head on his shoulder. “If I were cruel,” she said softly, “I would ask you to make love to me now, and so break the prophecy.” She lifted her head. “Then I would not have to go with you to Nvengaria.”
He pretended to consider the strategy. “True. But it would not work.”
“Why not?”
She sounded offended. He laughed. “Because I am in love with you. I will marry you and take you home with me, prophecy or no prophecy.”
“You are giving me no choice.”
“You have a choice.” He 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.”
She looked puzzled. “Why would it entertain you if I was unwilling?”
His entire body throbbed. “Because then I could have the joy of taming you. If I must throw you over my pommel 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.”
Her eyes widened. The idea frightened her, but not entirely.
He ran his fingertips down her spine. “I can think of
many ways to train you to be mine. In fact, I somewhat hope you will be unwilling.”
“Ways?”
“Yes.” He ran his hand up to encircle her wrist. “Bind your pretty hands. Not release you until you did my bidding.”
She moved a little in his arms, brushing his aching groin. “How could I do your bidding with my hands tied?”
“Now that, my love, I will have to teach you when I have you in my bed.”
She would be naked, her hair down, and she’d squirm against her bonds. She’d look up at him and ask him, in faint trepidation, what he wanted her to do.
The vision was compelling. He 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.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he kissed her before she could say a word. She got lost in the kiss, her body grasping what it was supposed to do.
He thought of the way she’d said in his own tongue that she loved him. He also liked the way her tongue moved in his mouth. He 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.
He deepened the kiss, feeling her 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, Countess, my lady.” Meagan Tavistock’s voice floated to them.
He knew the women, one the Russian he’d been 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 gasped. He thought she’d fling herself from his arms, but after one startled look upward, she suddenly pressed her mouth to his and kissed him with all her might.
He wanted to laugh, but he let her kiss him. He’d known that she’d discover things he’d done before he’d become the Imperial Prince. The ladies the Regent had brought with him were not known for keeping secrets.
This was her defiance, then. Let them see.
He held her tightly and kissed her back with enthusiasm.
He heard Meagan’s gasp. “Oh, heavens. Oh, my. Oh, dear. I do believe it’s Miss Trask and the prince.”
More brush crackled as the three turned and hurried back to the path. Meagan’s voice floated back to them, swelling with triumph. “Well, they
are
going to be married. A grand romance, is it not?”
Later, Penelope trotted downstairs in the house, her hand skimming the stair rail. She’d dried herself and changed her clothes, damp and refreshed from her impromptu swim with Damien. She’d put on a clean gown and brushed her hair, fastening it in a long tail to let it dry.
Damien had gotten Penelope back to the house, both of them sneaking in like naughty children in their wet clothes. She, who never giggled, hadn’t been able to stop. Damien had had to kiss her to keep her quiet.
She felt strange, tired and yet rested, her body trying to grow used to the new feelings Damien had invoked. She’d never known, until he put his mouth on her, what wild thoughts could fly through her mind, and how excited and flushed and wonderful her body could feel.
When his tongue pressed into her, she’d thought madness had overtaken her.
The intensity of what her body could experience frightened her a little, but at the same time, she longed to feel it again.