Mate Claimed

Nicole spotted Iona in the doorway. “Come on, Iona,” she yelled. “You know you love to dance!”

Iona shouldn’t. Too dangerous. But the music called to her, the rhythm synching with some rhythm inside her body. The thrum, thrum, thrum was fierce and primal.

The ladies whooped as Iona kicked her shoes off and danced in. The stripper grinned, a good sport, and wrapped the end of his fire hose around her waist.

Iona raised her arms in the dance, her blood getting hot, but not because the guy was attractive. He smelled too much of human sweat and cologne, not a good combination to a Shifter. Eric always smelled clean, like wind and the night.

But Iona was loving the dance, her hips swaying, the beat of the music like the rhythm of sex. The stripper was a good dancer, smoothly pulling Iona into synch with him. He had Iona straddling his knee, locking her in close as they rocked together. The other ladies whooped and screamed.

The noise and heat grew suddenly too intense. The panther inside Iona wanted to tear away from the man who held her, swat him aside, and then run around the room, ripping down decorations like an unruly kitten. Then she’d devour the entire hors d’oeuvre tray, especially all the shrimp cocktail. Yum.

Control, Eric had told her. You can control it.

Maybe if she’d grown up Shifter with years of training and discipline, she could have.

The fireman leaned in and tried to kiss her. Iona forced a laugh, though she wanted to bite his face off. She whirled so hard she untangled from the hose and was halfway across the room before he could stop her.

She nearly ran away from him, but two of the other girls instantly took her place, and the fireman turned to them, not minding. Breathing hard, Iona slipped out of the room into the back hall, seeking peace in the relative coolness and darkness.

Two strong arms folded around her from behind. Iona found herself trapped back against a hard male chest, while a grating voice said in her ear, “No, Iona. You belong to me.”

CHAPTER NINE

“Eric, what the hell are you doing here?” Iona asked in a loud whisper.

For answer, Eric turned her around and pressed her into the wall.

His kiss stole her breath, his lips forcing her mouth open, teeth scraping. The thump of the music in the other room pulsed through her, and she curled her fingers on Eric’s chest. Fingers became claws, tearing Eric’s shirt.

Eric shed the shirt and turned them together so that now his back was against the wall. “If you want to feast on someone, you feast on me.”

I didn’t want to, she tried to say, but the words stuck in her throat.

Iona put her nose to the curve of his neck, inhaling his scent as he’d taught her to. Eric smelled of the outdoors and a little wildness, no cologne or too much sweat to cover it up.

She licked him. Eric made a noise in his throat, hand coming up to cradle her head.

Feast on him. Yes. Iona licked again, tasting the salt of his skin. She moved her mouth to the tattoo on his bare shoulder, tongue finding the outlines of the ink. She tasted and licked, more salt and the taste of Eric, then she nibbled his skin. A growl escaped his lips, drowned by the music.

They stood only a few yards from the living room, hidden in the darkness in the narrow passage, while Nicole and her friends laughed and screamed, and the music throbbed.

Iona nipped Eric’s throat while he held her against him. She licked her way down to his pecs, fingers playing with the wiry hair dusting his chest.

She moved to his flat nipple, teeth finding the point. Eric jumped. “Sweet girl.”

Iona flicked her tongue over his nipple, liking how it tightened under her attention. He tasted darker here, the tip of the nipple smooth under her tongue. Eric’s heart pounded, his breath coming fast.

His fingers furrowed her hair, his touch strong. Eric didn’t gentle himself, Iona thought with rising excitement, because he knew she could take it.

She wondered what he could take. She played her tongue over his ni**les a little longer, before she licked her way back to the hollow of his throat.

At the same time, she slid her hand downward, tracing the narrow line of hair that pointed to his belt buckle. Eric moved his legs apart as Iona took her hand past the buckle to the hard ridge that pressed the zipper of his jeans.

Eric’s head went back against the wall, eyes half closing. He twitched her hand aside so he could unbuckle and unzip his jeans, shoving them and his underwear down before he guided Iona back to him.

Iona closed fingers around his rigid cock. She thought again of her Shifter-loving friends giggling that Shifters were extra long. Eleven inches was common.

Iona found every inch while Eric leaned back and let her, his eyes green slits in the darkness.

The shaft of his c**k was smooth and firm, sleek and hot. Iona slid her hand all the way around him in wonderment, feeling the pulse beat through it in the darkness. She worked her fingers upward to the spongier texture of the tip and ran her thumb back and forth over the head. A bead of moisture slicked the tip, and Eric bit back a groan.

Iona skimmed her hand down again, liking the contrast between soft head and extra-hard shaft. Eric couldn’t stop the next groan when Iona reached the base of his cock, fingers finding and cupping his balls.

“You’re going to kill me,” he said in a low voice.

Iona stilled. “I can stop.”

“No.” Eric’s grip bit into her wrist. “You can’t.”

Iona closed her fingers around his shaft again. Eric loosened his hold a little but kept his hand around her wrist while she glided her closed hand up the cock. Eric shuddered, his head moving against the wall.