Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (9 page)

He coughed. “Don’t get all freaked out.”

“Hard not to.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled, his voice gravelly. “Me too. When I’m not there and something happens, I—my mind goes to the worst thing I can think of.”

“I know.” After a minute, I took a breath. “So I called you?”

“Yeah.”

“How did I do that?”

“You pushed the button on your screen, I suspect.”

“You’re such a wiseass.”

“Yeah, well,” he conceded. “Can’t be helped, born this way.”

We were both quiet for a long moment.

“So,” he began, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice. “You called by accident.”

“Yes.”

“You happy I picked up?”

Stupid man, stupid question. Only Ian asked when the truth was so very obvious. “Yes. Very.”

“’Cause why?”

I swallowed first so I wouldn’t make a desperate, urgent sound in the back of my throat. “I miss you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Like bad?”

“You have
no
idea.”

He was silent again, and it hit me how whiny I must have sounded. “Sorry. I don’t mean to come off so needy. You’ll be home as soon as you can, I know that.”

“Miro!” he snarled.

What was I missing?

“I want you to miss me.”

“Well, that’s good, then.” I chuckled.

“And you know when I’m coming home.”

I did? “How?”

“When have you ever been able to fuckin’ call me when I’m deployed?”

“Never.”

“So what does that tell you?”

The answer occurred to me, and it wasn’t good. “Awww, man, did you accidentally leave your phone on? Did I uncloak your dagger?”

“You’re fuckin’ hysterical.”

“No, I mean, since when do black ops guys get phone calls?”

“We don’t when we’re out in the field.”

“Which means what?”

“Put it together, Jones.”

It hit me after a second. “You’re somewhere you can talk?”

The noise he made confirmed my deduction.

“
Where
?” I asked before I thought about it, desperate to know his location.

He coughed.

“No, wait,” I muttered. “I’m… sorry. I’m just bein’ stupid. You’re probably on an unsecured line and so—forget I said anything.”

He sighed, sounding exasperated. “Where are you exactly?”

I swallowed down my heart. “I was about to get on Lakeshore.”

“Okay,” he said simply. “Come home, then. I’m here.”

I froze, afraid to even breathe.

“Miro?”

“Ian—”

“For crying out loud, are you coming or not?”

“You’re at home?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Then get yours home!” he snarled.

I was silent a moment. “Well, that was clever,” I apprised him, smiling like an idiot. My man was home.

“Yeah, well,” he began, his voice bottoming out. “I missed you too.”

And since there had been actual pining on my part, I made a very unmanly noise I wasn’t proud of.

“Hurry.”

He had no idea how fast I could make my truck go.

O
PENING
THE
front door of the Greystone townhouse Ian and I had done some work on over the summer—we’d painted the doors and cornice a deep purple-red, trimmed the boxwood hedges, and put in window boxes—I was happy to see his duffel bag and boots lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. The dog beat me to him since I had to close and lock the door behind me. Chickie rushed across the space, whimpering and whining, and flung himself at his master, knocking him down onto the couch hard.

“Stupid dog,” Ian said affectionately, laughing as he hugged his werewolf. If I didn’t know what I was looking at, it would have been scary. The licking looked like mauling, and honestly, if Chickie wanted, Ian was dog food.

I hung up my jacket on one of the pegs we’d added to the entryway and put my keys and wallet on the ledge above it before toeing off my sneakers. Ian had made changes to try to get me moving faster in the morning. He timed my rituals, which included putting product in my hair and figuring out what I was going to wear, and had made improvements. One of his biggest changes had been to put things by the front door: keys on hooks, badges on chains as well, wallets on the shelf above, IDs, earpieces, and pens in the cup. The only items that didn’t live there now were phones and guns, and I had to give it to him, not having to hunt all over the house had sped up our exodus each day.

“Hey.”

When I turned, Ian was standing there barefoot in frayed jeans and a plain white T-shirt, holding out his arms for me. Chickie was eating, which was good, and noisily slurping water.

Moving fast, I lunged when I was close enough, catching him hard—but more gently than the dog had—hugging him tight, soaking up the contact and the heat I was wrapped in as Ian squeezed me back.

“Fuck, I’m so happy you’re home,” I choked out, shivering with the feel of him, the strength of his body and the smell of his skin.

He turned and kissed behind my ear, my cheek, under my jaw, my chin, and then thrust his tongue in my mouth as he took me in a frantic, devouring kiss.

My brain shorted out because it was still new and still a dream: Ian all over me, easing me down onto the couch, following close, never breaking contact, pinning me under him. The movement was seamless, fluid, and the kiss deepened, became wild, ravenous, making me clutch at his back, dig my hands into the powerful muscles to keep him there, close to me. His knee wedged between my thighs, parting them, and I opened them wider so he could rest there, all of him on me, my feet on the backs of his calves.

I reached down between us and found the hard line of his cock straining against only denim before sliding my fingers under the waistband of his jeans, realizing instantly there was no other barrier there.

Quickly, with deft fingers, I unbuttoned his fly and worked the zipper down quickly, his erection filling my hand as I squeezed tight. The noise he made was pure ruthless need as he jolted forward, wanting the friction, driving into my fist as he ground out my name.

“You missed me,” I said, trying to keep the smugness out of my tone as I stroked his dripping shaft.

His lashes lifted languorously as though he was drugged, and I was drowning in deep, dark blue. “I missed you,” he whispered in agreement.

“Get your ass in my bed,” I demanded, then softened my command with, “please.”

“No,” he said, his breath catching, shoving his hand behind one of the couch cushions and pulling out a small bottle of lube. “Here.”

He pushed it at me. The fact that he’d had the foresight to put it there because he wanted me to take him on the couch was crazy hot. His desire for me was a gift.

“Get off me,” I said, my voice gravelly and low.

“When?” he asked. Beads of precum rolled over my fingers as I continued to fondle his rock-hard erection.

“Now, idiot.” I snickered, letting him go and trying to wriggle out from under him at the same time.

“I want you to… I want—” he rasped as he stood up beside me. “Miro.”

Twisting free, I got up behind him, shoved him forward, bent him over the couch cushions, and rucked his T-shirt up at the same time I shucked his jeans to his ankles. He lifted one foot free so he could widen his stance, and I flipped open the bottle of lube.

“Hurry,” he pleaded, and I heard the hard edge to his voice, the frustration mixed with the desire riding him.

“We should go slow. You’ve been gone.”

“Screw that, just show me,” he begged.

I didn’t need to ask—I knew. He wanted me to show him that I’d missed him.

Slicking my cock fast, I clicked the bottle closed before dropping it to the wood floor. There would be no prep, no slow loosening of his muscles; it wasn’t what he wanted or needed.

“Miro,” he choked out, gripping the front of the couch tight, letting his head fall forward and lifting his ass, wanting me there, ready.

Taking hold of my painfully hard dick, I guided the dark, flared head to his entrance and pressed slowly inside.

The garbled noise he made worried me.

“Are you okay?” I asked, curling over him, my lips on his back, licking, kissing, and finally sucking.

“Yes,” he groaned sweetly. “Just—I missed you being inside.”

And I’d missed being there. “Hold on, baby.”

“You feel so good. I need you to move… faster.”

His body would not get time to adjust to the intrusion, I couldn’t wait even seconds more. I thrust into him hard and hot, burying myself to the balls in one snap of my hips, his clenching muscles unable to keep me from the breach. The inexorable slide, me filling him, all at once, had taken his breath.

“Fuck,” he growled, muscles cording as he squeezed the frame of the couch, bracing there.

Slipping out a fraction, I shoved back inside, stuffing him full, my flesh slapping against his, the powerful motion making him call out my name.

“Miro, just fuckin’ use me.”

Taking hold of his hips, I began a slow, rhythmic deep pumping, driving to the hilt over and over, loving the feel of the slick heat rippling around me as well as knowing that it was Ian taking me in, wanting me.

“Miro, I can’t—”

“You can,” I ground out. “Don’t you dare come.”

“But I’m so close.”

“Yes,” I agreed, convulsing all at once, no warning, simply
there
, climaxing deep inside his body.

He shivered as he held on through my aftershocks and my withdrawal, the cum dripping from his ass to between his thighs.

“Miro,” he whispered as I sank to my knees behind him.

“Turn around and feed it to me.”

He moved with all the coiled power in him, pivoting as I parted my lips, and shoved his thick, heavy cock into my mouth. It was lucky I had no gag reflex to speak of, or he would have choked me without thought. As it was, I sucked and laved, swallowing around his length as he grabbed hold of my hair and held me in place.

“Take it all,” he growled roughly as he smothered my face in his groin.

I made the suction strong and felt him tremble against me. As much as Ian enjoyed me buried in him, watching my lips stretch around his cock never failed to get him off. He liked it too much, exerting power over me while he watched.

“S’good,” he groaned before exploding down the back of my throat.

I swallowed fast, not breathing, only drinking, realizing after long moments that I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears as air went from a low priority to the only priority. It was a fight to get loose. He had me and he wanted me there, sucking his dick. But I shoved him back and gulped oxygen, slumping to the floor, my arms spread across the seat cushions of the couch.

He followed, sliding into my lap, straddling my hips, his saliva and cum-slick cock trailing a wet line down my abdomen as his ass wedged over my groin.

“I know why you didn’t let me come,” he said raggedly, his voice hoarse as he took my face in his callused hands.

“Why’s that?” I teased, licking my lips, semen in the corners.

“’Cause you didn’t want me to make a mess on the fuckin’ couch,” he said with a snort.

I nodded, grinning at him.

He released a low growl before tilting my head back to kiss my throat, making me laugh.

“Fuckin’ Miro,” he griped, kissing me, tasting himself in my mouth, licking me clean, sucking on my tongue until there was no air in my lungs and I was left panting.

“You sound mad,” I said, chuckling, my hands on his granite thighs. “But I’m being rewarded, so I’m getting conflicting messages.”

With a firm hand buried in my hair, he held my head in place, pinned to the couch cushion, and continued his sensual onslaught. He kissed me slow and deep, each kiss longer than the last until I lost track of starting and stopping, knowing only Ian and his hot, wet, ravaging mouth on mine. There were things I wanted to say, to tell him, but I couldn’t keep a thought in my head as every inch of skin he touched felt branded by the hard grip of his hands on my body.

I couldn’t stop him, even for air, but my stomach growled loudly, breaking the spell. I groaned and leaned back, severing the suction of our lips, laughing at the same time.

“You want me to stop kissing and feed you?” he asked softly, biting my bottom lip, tugging gently before leaning back to meet my gaze.

“No,” I insisted, sliding a hand around the side of his neck and easing him close until his bruised, swollen lips hovered over mine. “Kiss me some more.”

His smile was deliciously evil as he bent and took my mouth again. I would have gotten another kiss after that one, but the doorbell rang and startled us both.

“Miro?” someone yelled through the door. “Are you home?”

“Who the fuck is that?” Ian growled.

My phone, on the ledge by the door where I normally didn’t leave it, rang a second later, and moments after that, whoever it was started knocking. I’d left my gun there as well, more intent on getting to Ian than putting it away in my nightstand.

“Why is there some—”

“It’s Drake,” I said quickly.

“Drake? Why?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. He called me yesterday and asked if he could come by. Apparently there’s a new thing.”