Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming) (8 page)

When he praised her tongue skills, she
moaned and cooed some more, vibrating his cock. Wicked. Delicious. His thighs
tensed.

“Nice and slow,” he said, wishing it
could last forever. Wet, suctioning heat sucking him up and down over and
again, was almost too much.

Penelope moaned as he popped free from
her mouth. She ran her hand up his wet shaft, pumping him while her tongue
lapped at his spongy head.

“Suck me. Deep. Don’t stop,” he panted.
Lord, he was going to come. Just a little more…and he’d explode. Hell, he’d
make it up to her later if she but finished him now.

Her mouth swallowed him whole, tongue
slick and stroking. A growl took him as his orgasm neared—hard and ready. He
fell into the rhythm of erotic ecstasy; into age-old, primitive emotions. Using
his grip in her hair and his hips, he began working his cock in and out of her
mouth. He loved watching it disappear then reappear. She let him do it for only
a moments before cutting him with her nails again. A warning.

“Hold on and let me see.” What was the
sound?

Ice filled his veins.

Was that—did he just hear—
people
on
the other side of the door? Cursing, he tried to remember if he’d thrown the
lock or not.

“Someone’s here,” Penelope whispered.
Fear turned her face pale as a sheet. “You didn’t lock the door at my dressing
room!”

The door handle jiggled.
Click.
It
wouldn’t turn. The man pounded his fist against the door. “Who’s in there?
Whoever it is you’re not supposed to be in there. I’m getting a key straight
away!”

Shit. Damn. Bloody murder. There weren’t
enough curse words to cover how he felt about this interruption.

“God
damnit
.”

When she sucked him down the back of her
throat, his vision wavered. She started bobbing up and down, her mouth a hot,
tight vice of suction that was leading him into dangerous territory.

Voice hoarse, he gritted out, “You have
to stop before this becomes a mess for us all. Pen!” He tugged on her hair to
send her a message to pull away, but she only brought her hand into the mix,
stroking his cock in tandem with her mouth sucking on his tip.

His balls tightened into heavy, full
sacks. His manhood pulsed in her mouth. There was stomping out in the hallway
and loud, raised voices. They were coming in here and nothing he could do would
stop that now. Whoever was there was causing quite a raucous over this.

“Pen, they’re coming back,” he warned
her. She did a twirling dance with her tongue and he bit his lip to keep from
groaning aloud. It split and bled at the pressure.

Damnit
,
no matter how much he hated it—he had to end this. He jerked her away by the
hair. If she didn’t stop, he really would come. And this was not the right
time. “This has to stop now, Pen,” he panted. Hell, were his thighs twitching?

She looked up at him with round,
innocent eyes,
his
swollen cock in her small hand, her
lips wet and puffy from sucking him, and her breasts heaving inside her tight
dress—it was too much. He’d wanted her for too long.

The door handle rattled. “We’ve got the
key now and we’re coming inside! If you have any weapons lay them down now and
you might not be harmed by the king’s guard!”

“Oh, Ryon,” Penelope said, and then she
pumped his cock in quick, hard motions.

His breath caught. Oh no. It was here.
It was coming.
He
was coming.

“Pen,” he managed to choke, his grip
bruising soft strands of her hair.

He came suddenly in shotgun blasts. He
gasped through the erotic pulses as his vision blackened and all he could feel
was the hard orgasm pumping and pumping. Shooting from his cock in bursts of
white. She made a delighted sound as he erupted in hard streams, squirting her
with hot, white ropes across her neck and the tops of her breasts. She
continued to gently pump his shaft, prolonging the ecstasy.

His thighs were trembling, he
verified—hard.

Calmly, she stuffed his cock back in his
pants and pulled the zipper up. He was incredibly impressed at her ability to
move and think, let alone function at all.

He felt like a zombie. Standing like a
wobbling statue of a man.

What was his name again?

He’d just been sucked dry by a vacuum
and might keel over and die now.

The door jiggled as it was unlocked.
People were shouting outside, charged up about the secret invaders hiding in
the study.

A tinny of sound, a high-pitched
frequency, resonated in his ear. It made all other noise sound as though it came
from the long end of a narrow tunnel; far, far away.

Penelope didn’t stand from her kneeling
position though she had time to. Instead, she looked up at him—and winked.

The door flew open hard enough to crack
the wooden frame.

“What on Earth!” exclaimed the butler as
he stormed into the room, then
froze.
His face paled.
He first took in Ryon, recognition settling in, then to the back of the woman
kneeling before him. A flush came over him. He surmised the situation fairly
well.

Penelope spoke over her shoulder, but
didn’t turn to reveal her face. She spoke using a false-girly voice, nothing
like her own deeper, husky tone. “I’m sorry about all this. I was just giving
the general a
special
thank you for all he’s done.”

The butler sputtered something of an apology
and quickly backed up. The door slammed shut behind him. The crowd outside was
hushed and escorted away.

“I think you scared him away,” Ryon
said.

Penelope went to grab a towel from the
attached bathroom to clean herself off. He didn’t want her to. He wanted her to
keep wearing his seed. Such brutish thoughts she made him have. He smiled and
she noticed it.

“How disappointing for them.” She smiled
back. “I suppose I don’t have to ask what you’re smiling about.”

He laughed. “I don’t think you do.”

“Well, I do have to be going. Enjoy your
speech.
General.
” She ducked out of the door.

By time he made sure his clothes were
straight, she had disappeared altogether. Little devil. He didn’t stop smiling
for the rest of the night.

Chapter 7

Duke
Patrick of the House of Gaines watched General Ryon Amadeus steal away with the
ballet dancer. The woman
he
intended to claim. Penelope Farris was her
name. He knew her name well now, knew much about her. He had not only his
personal accounts from his visits to the club, but from the investigators he’d
paid to spy on her.

He
knew she loved her sisters dearly but that all of them were rather secretive.
They didn’t divulge all the mysteries in their lives as some sisters did. He
found that particularly interesting about the dancing beauty.

She’d first stolen his eye six months
ago when he’d finally broken down and went to
Prima
Donna’s
to attend a show. It seemed he couldn’t go anywhere without hearing someone
baying about the ballet hall with its fine dancers.

“Such graceful lines!”

“Such poise!” the aristocracy gushed.

They said the shows were outstanding and
the music refreshing and lively. As Duke of Gaines House, his entertainment ran
far more expensive—and dangerous, generally. He much preferred wild boar game
hunting, duels with steel blades, and connivery. Oh, but that was his favorite.
It filled him with feeling of wicked glee. It was quite pleasant and, as
natural with all good things, he only wanted to do it more.

But watching General Ward steal Penelope
away from the party did not sit well with him. How dare he? Ryon Ward may not
realize it yet, but Penelope was his. He tamped down the anger that
swelled—that always swelled.

Patrick never had been great at
controlling his temper. His first natural inclination was usually to lash out,
much as his father had at him growing up. Shoving his hand in his jacket
pocket, he tightened a fist to ease the tensions.

Something unexpected happened then.

A flash of bright burgundy hair. A
familiar figure. The king’s attending date tonight had just passed him close
enough that he’d caught the scent of her rosy perfume. He spun on his heel as
casually as any and strolled after the beauty. She was perfectly formed; tall
for a woman but not so tall as to intimidate a man. She had a small waist that
flared out to ripe, round hips, breasts ripe and small. She had a trim figure
which she showed off well. The enticing blue gown she wore with matching top hat
was wrapped with strands of white and blue lace that flowed behind her
scurrying form.

He knew her form well, not from his
cursory glance at her figure, but because he’d seen her wearing far less.

Lysse Karmine, an incredible beauty,
whose sights were aimed as high as Patrick’s, if not higher, in her bid to
marry the king. Unfortunately for her, a peasant, no matter how lovely, will
always be just a peasant.

He was admiring her tight backside when
she suddenly darted inside a room at end of the hall. They had walked some
distance from the center of the celebration. The door didn’t shut but fell
against the hinge slightly ajar.

An invitation if he’d ever seen one.

Never one to spoil a chance at fun, or
an opportunity, Patrick pushed the door open using the tip of his cane. The
room was dark save for a dim glow radiating from a lamp in the corner. He
stepped inside, heard the door close behind him with a decisive snap, and felt
a female form press into his back.

Never to be left in a vulnerable
position, Patrick turned. He stepped into her making her backpedal until the
door stopped her retreat. Her eyes flared in surprise and her hands flew up to
curl in his jacket as he bared down on her.

He turned the lock on the door.

Klunk
.

It was only them now in this quiet space
far from everyone else. He looked into her eyes and saw that they both
understood what had just been done.

They were so close he could see the
speckles of gold in her eyes. A long time ago their bodies had known each
other. Now they were older, more mature. Things changed, people changed.

“Lysse.”

“Patrick,” came her chilly response.

He could feel her body heat. His echoed
hers, turning his blood hot. He placed his hand boldly on the outside of her
thigh. She didn’t move or appear to take notice, but the moment he began
bunching the material up her legs, she grabbed his jacket, nearly hissing.
Lord, she made his blood boil like few could.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?” she hissed, fair mad now.

“My title, dearie. That’s
Duke
Patrick to you.”

“You can take your useless title and go
swill a pig.”

The crude, common slur which he’d heard
thousands of times spoken from man to man had never fazed him, but now, hearing
this lovely woman say the same thing made him burst out laughing. When he could
see straight again, she was glaring at him.

The material bunched up high now, he
finally placed the tips of his fingers on her thigh and felt soft, warm flesh.

It had been a long time, he thought,
his
manhood awakening swiftly. It wouldn’t even take long,
and with the way she was flushed and panting, he bet he could get her off in
even less time. His gaze narrowed dangerously.

She must have seen his expression, for
she cut him off before he could so much as make a move. “You don’t have the
right to touch me anymore.
Patrick
.” She purposely didn’t add his title
and she looked smug about it. He bit off a grin. “I belong to Lyle now.”

“Lyle,” he scoffed. “I know you’re
fucking him, but don’t pretend like you’re on a first name basis with him. You
can’t fool me.”

She hunched her shoulders. “Like you
would know. Besides, your jealousy reeks.”

He squeezed her thigh in a quick,
bruising grip. That got her attention—and a gasp, which, if his ears didn’t
fool him, sounded excited. A sound he could still remember hearing, once, a
long time ago, panting in his ear.

“I know everything about the king,
Lysse. It’s my job. Everything. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. Now remove your hand from my
leg.”

“Or else what? Will you scream? Do you
think your beloved king will come running to save you?”

Eyes colder than ice stared back at him.

Lesser men would look away. He didn’t.

“No, but I’ll pull the trigger on this.”

The unmistakable iron-cold prod of a
pistol barrel was shoved deep into his stomach, and brought him back to
rational thought. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a pistol drawn on him.
The silver-made bullets hurt like hell with even the slightest grazing wound.
Everyone used the silver-made bullets for protection from their worst enemy.