Penelope & Prince Charming by Jennifer Ashley Page B

something else. Ask me a question.”
    “Um.” She drew a ragged breath, her fingers tracing the opening of his shirt. “Oh. Tell me a story.”
    His racing heartbeat slowed a fraction. “A story?”
    “Yes, a Nvengarian fairy tale. You told me you knew them, and that you’d tell me…”
    “In bed. I remember.” His heartbeat increased again, imagining her lying on his pillow, her hair tangled with their lovemaking, while he murmured stories into her ear. “Yes, I will tell you stories. Let me think.”
    Shoving his mind down the road of childhood, to the tales his old governess had told him before the nursery fire, did lessen the pain somewhat.
    He remembered the high room in the Imperial castle, where wind whipped at the eaves. He remembered his creaking old governess, chosen because she was elderly and alone and no threat to the Imperial Prince, spinning stories in her rasping voice. Sometimes the stories made no sense; sometimes she fell asleep in the middle of them, but he remembered how they’d enchanted him.
    He sorted through the memories until he found something appropriate. He noted that his breathing had calmed somewhat.
    Penelope gazed up at him, eyes heavy.
    No, he still wanted her with mindless lust. But it felt more normal, the wanting of a strong man for a sweet, beautiful woman.
    He leaned down, scooped her into his arms, sat himself on the chair, and settled her into his lap. “Once upon a time,” he began. “There was a beautiful princess.”
    Penelope snuggled into him and laid her head on his shoulder. She felt heavy, as though she’d been held up by strings that had been suddenly released. His firm shoulder through his lawn shirt supported her, his arms kept her from falling. Safe, that was it, she felt safe.
    The strong muscles of his thighs pressed her backside, and the scent of him was heady. But the madness had receded a little, settling down into warm, dreaming wanting.
    He’d stopped shaking, as well. When she’d nearly said the naughty word that had sprung unbidden to her lips, his eyes had darkened with crazed intensity, and she realized he could take from her whatever he wanted. She would not be able to stop him from doing anything he pleased.
    Had she been afraid like a sensible woman? No. She’d wanted to be compromised, wanted his hard weight on top of her, wanted his hands and mouth all over her body.
    He mastered himself. She watched his control return, an iron will that told her better than his words, his jewels, and his entourage ever could, that he was a ruler. His ancestors had held Nvengaria against the outside world for eight centuries, and she’d seen in him tonight the strength that could do such things.
    This amazing man now held her, plain Penelope Trask, on his knee, while he told her a story.
    “What did the princess look like?” she interrupted.
    He chuckled. She liked his laugh—his true laugh, the silken, warm one. She studied the gap in his shirt, enjoying the play of shadowed muscle beneath.
    “She had long golden hair and beautiful green eyes,” he purred, “And a body a man would die for.”
    He kept calling her beautiful. He said it like he believed it, his eyes dark and warm.
    “What happened to this princess?”
    “She was locked in a tower, far from civilization. ’Twasa high tower, with no door and only one window. It was surrounded by a huge thicket in the middle of an impenetrable forest. The only person she ever saw was the hideous beast who guarded her.”
    “Why was she in the tower?” Penelope asked, growing curious. “What had she done?”
    “Nothing. Her parents locked her there for her protection, along with boxes filled with treasure. Because she was so beautiful and so rich, you see, they feared that every man in the kingdom would try to snatch her away. So, she grew to womanhood there with the hideous beast to guard her.”
    “Until one day,” Penelope prompted.
    “Hush,” he growled. “I am telling this story.”
    “I