by T. A. Grey
“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 t
itle, 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.
The pistols were useless at any distance more than a couple feet.
Clever girl.
At such close range, she’d drop him like a heavy sack of grain. And her smug grin said she knew it too.
He took a step back from her while lifting his hands to face her. His cane dangled from his right wrist by a thin leather strap. His own silver blade hung inside, thin but deadly, if he required it. “Easy there, dove. No need for violence. Tonight is supposed to be a night for celebration and remembrance.”
Soft laughter trickled over him. “You don’t have to tell me that.” Her pistol arm remained unwavering.
He didn’t like this at all; one wrong move and she would lay him out.
She continued, “Now that we’re standing on even ground, tell me why you followed me.”
“Like you really need to ask,” he drawled, letting his eyes glide meaningfully down her body.
She didn’t flush, not Lysse. She was used to such attention now. Her smile softened her face while making her sex appeal even better. A true beauty. “You never could resist a nice bum, could you?”
He grinned rakishly, then strolled to the sidebar that was stocked with an aged whiskey and poured two fingers in a short glass. He tossed the drink back, the burning sensation in his throat like scorching fire. “Not yours, apparently.”
Silence found them, his words weighing in the room. Maybe he was seeing things in the dimly lit room, but he thought her gaze appeared warmer than it had a few minutes ago. She still kept the pistol pointed at him but her arm had lowered greatly so he was only at risk of losing his manhood at most.
Fantastic.
She grabbed the doorknob and began to turn it. “Well, if that’s all…”
“I do think you should keep that door closed, Lysse.”
“And why is that, Patrick?” She pointedly used his name.
He decided to let it slide this time. He had other plans for her.
“Unless you want me to tell the king about your secret, then you’ll close that door, turn around, and finish this conversation with me.”
Her shoulders flew back and a growl vibrated from her throat—an animalistic sound—as she spun around, bearing her teeth like a rabid wolf.
He’d struck a nerve. Perfect. He had her in a corner now. He’d deftly taken the upper hand and she didn’t even know it yet. He had her where he wanted her.
Because he knew her secret. A secret so heinous, the king himself would turn her in to see her beheaded. An arena would cheer as they watched her die, so hated would she be. If they only knew what he knew.
Pistol or not, he’d get what he wanted. On second thought, this would require another drink. He finished another swig of fire before continuing with his plans.
She didn’t share the same patience he’d summoned. “My secret?” Her eyes changed then, turning into something cold and deadly. A look that nearly made him tighten his grip on his sword handle—but that’d be silly—she was no real danger to him.
“Yes, your rather ugly little secret. Only, it’s not so little, is it? What would people think if they knew, Lysse? What would they think of you?”
“I’m a whore. It won’t be much different than what they think of me already.” Her eyes rolled. She sighed like a dramatic actress, her expression telling him how very boring this all was to her. How very boring he was to her.
It grated his nerves like eating rocks. She never did take him seriously. His hand curled into a white-knuckled fist. Then he forced it to relax; no use getting riled up. Not when he had her where he wanted her.
“Angry? You always did lose your temper easily.” Her smug laughter rankled him more than he liked.
Patrick glowered, not finding her laughter anything close to humorous.
She tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “You always were oblivious to the truth. As if I’d tell you anything. You’d be surprised at the things I hear. At the thoughts people let slip out around me when they think I’m not listening or too dumb to understand. It’s even better when they think you’re stupid. My dear Patrick, it’s all rather glorious how easily they are played.”
“Even the king?”
“Yes, even Lyle.” Her eyes twinkled with smug satisfaction.
He had no doubt her words rang true.
“Do explain, love. I’m aching to hear all.” Sarcasm dripped from him like ooze.
“Lyle feels quite the affection for his friend, the general. The king had a long list of names he could have chosen from for the Claiming Ceremony. All the women were perfectly attractive and healthy, but he chose Penelope Farris. A ballet dancer from town who’d created quite a name for herself. She’d managed to entrance the attention of the general.”
“I believe that’s because of how high she can kick her legs.”
Before she could blink, Patrick unsheathed his pinpoint sword from his cane and held the tip to her neck.
She sucked in a breath, caught by surprise. Delicately, she arched her neck away from the deadly point.
But he kept the silver-plated tip poised at her neck, his arm ready to finish the deed. Though, it’d pain him to end her. In ways he’d always—appreciated—Lysse and her tenacious personality. It reminded him much of himself. Or maybe it was because they were both on the lower rung of life, in ways, and they shared that in common.
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Ryon’s schedule for the Claiming Ceremony tomorrow.” He tapped the edge of his sword to her throat—a warning.
Her pistol was pointed at his knee, so at least his manhood was safe. For now. “Why should I?”
“I want to know where Ryon will be staying before the ceremony, and when he’s brought to the arena. Surely you know the location. It changes year to year. Which room will he be taken to?”
Co
ld eyes watched him like a hawk to a mouse. Any moment he felt she might pounce on him.
“Why do you want to know about Ryon Ward?”
“Stupid question, Lysse. You know I can’t tell you that.”
She was silent for a minute. He thought she might not speak.
“I really don’t see why I should tell you. If I know anything at all.”
“Don’t be a liar now. You know more about this kingdom and its people than the actuary. It’s a simple request, Lysse. I just want to know where he’ll be. Let’s say I wish to give him a warm handshake before the competition, eh?” His attempt at cracking a smile felt forced, and judging by her expression of disbelief—it hadn’t worked either.
“And do I need to remind you that I know you well, Patrick? You wouldn’t want to know where he was staying unless it was very important to you. It must be difficult to have to succumb to my level, isn’t it? To have to coerce a whore for information via threats.”
His molars attempted to grind into dust as he chomped away with agitation. Why couldn’t this have been easy? Women never made anything easy.
“It’s surprisingly easy to bend down to your level, Lysse. Did I mention my blade is made from silver?”
And like that, any semblance of teasing banter evaporated between them. Leaving her stiff with malice. Her eyes dipped to study the blade and verify the truth in his words. When she looked at him again, he fought not to take a step back at the murder in her eyes. She wanted to kill him, he could see it so clearly. Cold, dead eyes, ready to strike. Sweat broke out over his forehead, the squeezing grip on the leather sword handle growing moist.
“Some mistakes can never be fixed.” Eerie words. Unsettling words.
“What does that mean?” he snapped. “Don’t be obtuse. It doesn’t become you.”
One thin eyebrow quirked up. “You don’t want to see what becomes of me, Patrick.”
His heart skipped a beat—a bolt of fear. He staggered inwardly, his arm wavering around her neck, unable to stay locked straight. No, he didn’t want to see that. He hoped to the Lord he never had to see it.