“Maybe you would have liked Becker with you better,” he muttered under his breath.
“Becker keeps his clothes on in the middle of airports,” I said petulantly, the only thing I could think of to say, smiling for the gate agent who scanned my boarding pass.
“Have a nice flight, Mr. Jones.”
“Thank you,” I said crisply, striding forward quickly, putting a little distance between me and my partner.
He caught me quickly on the Jetway, his hand on my left shoulder, his fingers digging into the muscle there. “Why’re you….”
He didn’t finish and neither did he move his hand, and after a moment I registered that he was using a lot of pressure to hold me still. I could feel the heat from his hand through the zippered cashmere cardigan and T-shirt, and a throb of need spurred by the rough caress went straight to my groin.
I’d never survive ten to twelve hours in a car with him if I didn’t get myself under control. I should have slept with someone, anyone, even Brent, while he was gone. As it was, friendship and lust were riding me at the same time. It was a bad combination.
“You’re so hard all over, M,” Ian said softly, brushing against me as we moved forward. “I bet you could….”
I waited, but he didn’t say more. “Could what?”
He shrugged.
“No, c’mon. Could what?”
Quietly, he cleared his throat. “I always wonder how you can move so fast and run guys down and go deep when we play ball, being as bulked up as you are.”
It had been a conscious choice. When I was little, I was small, and people took things from me. They took shelter, food, and money, anything that was mine, because I was weak. Now that I was older, between the strength in my body and the gun I carried, I would never be anyone’s victim again.
“It’s because I’m all power, buddy,” I teased, bumping him gently, wanting us to be back to how we were before he left, so desperately, but knowing it would be weeks before we would be okay. “You know that.”
“I….”
When I turned, he caught his breath, and for a second, I let down my guard and gave him my total and undivided attention. I was usually so careful: I reminded myself often not to stand too close, not to turn my head so my lips accidentally grazed his ear or jaw or cheek when he leaned in to tell me something. I didn’t touch him too much, I hugged him only when he left or came home or when one of us almost died. I didn’t study the clear blue eyes or notice the flecks of silver in them or admire how dark they shaded when he was worried or excited or angry. When we played football, I always played on the same team so I would never have a reason to tackle him. And most of all, I never, ever, manhandled him. I knew if I ever put my hands on him, I’d never take them off. But his sharp inhale, the sound of it, wasn’t like fear, but like vulnerability and need, like submission…. My hand moved before my brain caught up.
I grabbed his bicep and yanked him sideways against me. I immediately saw the confusion on his face, but even more importantly, I noted the blown pupils, the parted lips, the flush that blotched his throat, and the shiver that ran through him. And for once I didn’t think about what it would mean if it was anyone but Ian, and instead thought about what I would do if the beautiful man beside me was a stranger.
Breathe in—
My vision blurred for a second, like the beat of my heart was an electromagnetic pulse, and everything stopped. I was frozen, trapped, aware of nothing and no one but Ian Doyle.
—breathe out
The rush of movement and color and sound was fast, so fast, but it was enough. I wouldn’t have to start over with him this time, but only if I changed everything. I had a decision to make: Pretend I had never glimpsed any want in the man or take the leap of faith.
All of it hit me within seconds of recognizing what I had been missing when I was with him.
“Miro?”
Maybe it was a mistake, but I had to know. Because if there was even the slightest chance that Ian could be mine—I had to take it.
The people in front of us moved and he made to follow, but I tightened my grip and didn’t let him.
I received a quick exhale followed by another sharp intake of breath.
God, how blind had I been?
“M?”
“Sorry,” I said quickly, letting him go.
It was almost scary to realize that if I was reading him right, if Ian wanted what it seemed like he might, then this would be the very last time I wouldn’t be able to touch him whenever I wanted. Everything would change, because Ian Doyle would belong to me.