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His plan failed miserably. Before the end of the first hour with the stylist, Pen looked ready to either cry or throw her own hissy fit, having been stuffed into soulless dress after soulless dress as the woman politely but completely ignored her requests. The outfits looked like something Simon’s grandmother would wear: stiff, impersonal, and boring as hell. The current gown was a muted brown—which also completely muted Pen’s airy, fun personality—with only a single heavy emerald necklace and no bracelets because the Castle had apparently phoned ahead to ensure Pen was outfitted with minimal jewelry so she wouldn’t be tempted to play with it like she always did when she was nervous.
The stylist stood back, putting one hand to her chin while she looked Penelope up and down. “You know, dear,” she mused, “it would help if I knew what you wanted to hide, what you wanted to work on. Maybe your thighs? Or that arm flab?”
What the hell was the woman talking about? Arm flab? And Pen’s thighs were so perfect that Simon ought to hire an artist to sculpt them in tribute right this second. Even if the stylist really did see some sort of invisible flaw in Pen’s hot-as-hell body, why did she need to highlight all the negatives that way? Pen already had a fragile body image, not to mention confidence issues. How on earth had the stylist stayed in business so long if all she did was insult her clients?
Then the stylist sealed her own fate. “Do you think you need a bigger size Spanx?” she asked, and Simon inserted himself between the two women.
“I think that’s enough for now,” he said, smoothly ushering her toward the door of the large dressing room. “Pen will go over the outfits you’ve set out for her and make a decision shortly. Thank you for your time.” The woman protested, but he gently shoved her out the door and locked it behind her. “Good riddance,” he muttered once she was gone.
Pen was looking down at the dress. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice so uncertain and small it made Simon ache. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should just wear whatever they put me in. I mean, they’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have.”
Simon advanced on her, furious at the stylist for making Pen think less of herself. “They certainly haven’t. You’re the Queen, not them. You should decide what you want to wear. And I have to say, even though you could wear literally anything and still be the most gorgeous woman in the country, that dress is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
She smiled a little and glanced up. “It kind of is, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. Personally, I loved that lacy thing you were wearing when we first met. It really showed off your lips—and whoever thinks your lipstick isn’t the right color for royalty can shove their alternate shade right up their ass, by the way—and hair.” He was surprised at how much heat was behind his statement. Normally, he’d be completely on board with the stylist and PR department, wanting to ensure that the public’s expectations of modesty and decorum were met. But that was before public expectations had insulted the woman he was starting to care deeply about.
Pen snickered, some light coming back into her expression. “Thanks,” she said.
He tilted his head, examining the discarded dresses spread across the bench in the corner. “You know, that second dress she had you try on wasn’t half bad. Maybe we should ask whether she has it in white, and maybe have her alter it to add more sheer lace to the sleeves and take out some of that poofy fabric around the bust.”
Pen nodded enthusiastically. “I could totally see that working. Come here, help me get out of this monstrosity and I’ll try that one on again.” She reached around to her back, the tight corset preventing her from reaching the zipper.
Simon stepped around and pulled it down for her, suddenly very glad he’d made the stylist leave the room. Pen had undressed a dozen times in the last hour and he’d had to force himself to look away and do mental algebra to avoid getting a boner in the presence of a stranger, but now he suddenly had all sorts of ideas for ways to spend their newfound alone time—and to show Penelope how beautiful and desirable and perfect she really was.
Pen turned her head and met his gaze, her eyes going smoky as she read his intent. He traced his thumb down her spine, following the path of the zipper, and she shivered. He leaned down to kiss that spot on her shoulder blade that he’d been wanting to kiss forever. Then he slid his hands under the sleeves and pushed them slowly down her shoulders. The fabric dropped to the ground, leaving her in only her shapewear and bra, which he unhooked.
He pulled her back against him then, showing her his swiftly-hardening desire for her. She wiggled her ass a little, dropping her head back, and he groaned. “You love torturing me, don’t you?” he murmured.
She wiggled more, smirking. In retaliation, he reached around and caressed one dusky pink nipple, rubbing it, gently twisting it, watching it pebble for him. Not wanting to play favorites, he moved to the other side and gave it the same treatment. Her breathing got a bit heavier as he teased her. She pressed herself further into him, ground her ass hard against his cock, and it took everything in him to not bend her over the bench, nudge her knees apart, and take her right then and there. But he held himself back, because he had something else in mind.
He hooked his thumb under her Spanx and pulled them off, then her panties. Then he wrapped his arms around her, picked her up, and set her down on the bench.
“What are you doing?” she asked, in a husky voice that shot straight to his aching dick.
“Showing you how beautiful you are,” he answered, and ducked down to kiss her. She eagerly met his lips, nipping on the bottom one. He slipped a hand down her delicious curves, to the spot that was already slick and wet for him. She made a little noise in her throat as he touched her, whimpered when he brushed a finger over her clit.
“Simon…” she gasped.
“Right here,” he murmured. “Always.” He traced his fingers around her, over her folds, teasing her. She spread her legs wider, her breath coming in pants now, her kiss deepening with her desire. He rolled her clit between his thumb and forefinger and she muffled a moan. When he dipped a finger inside her, though, she couldn’t stay silent.
“I need you,” she panted. “Fuck me, Simon. I want your cock inside me right now.”
“That’s where I want to be too, but not today.”
“But what are you…”
“I want to go down on you.” He added another finger to the one that was already inside her, stretching her wider as his thumb worked her clit.
She inhaled, her eyes darkening. “Yes,” she managed.
He kissed his way down her neck, took one nipple in his mouth and then the other. Then he was kneeling before her, watching his fingers work inside her, overcome by her beauty and the way she felt—and the way she made him feel. It had never been like this, not with any other woman. He wanted to give her so m
uch. All of him. Forever.
“You are amazing, Penelope. You’re fucking beautiful,” he said in awe, and then he took her clit between his lips, sucking gently. Her taste was intoxicating, perfect, just like her.
She gasped, her back arching against the wall. She shoved the dresses that had been lying next to her off the bench so she could grab the wood, use it to anchor herself as she spread her legs wider and squirmed beneath him. “Fuck, yes, just like—Simon, that’s so good—oh God…”
