All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Okay?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

His hands slid up my sides. “You gotta talk some.”

There was so much to say, to ask for, and I was afraid of hoping for too much.

“Will you get in the car?”

“Sure,” I answered as he stepped away. It was ridiculous, but I already missed his hands on me.

“How ’bout the silver one?”

“Whatever.”

It was a Dodge Avenger, and when we got in, he made sure I was comfortable, checked that I liked the interior before he eased the car out of the parking stall. We had to stop at the gate so the attendant could check that we had a contract, ask us to confirm the mileage in his computer, and make sure we had a full tank of gas. Once that was done and we were on the street, I got my phone out to check the GPS and see where we were in relation to Elizabethton.

“It looks like it’s only like forty-five miles or so away.”

He grunted.

“So it’s like one thirty or so here. I’m sure we can be there in an hour, easy.”

“Uh-huh.”

Ian wasn’t really listening to me.

“Tell me when you’re ready for me to navigate.”

“Yep.”

I sat back and got comfortable. “We should stop and get water.”

Another sound of concession to acknowledge he was listening. Sort of.

Giving up, I looked out the window at the gray March afternoon, wondering how cold it was outside. The weather had been so odd, and in January, with the freaky cold snap, it had been nuts. It was probably in the thirties now, snowing a little.

Ian stopped at a Walgreens, ran in, came back out with a bag, and tossed a bottle of water at me as soon as he was back inside the car.

“Chips? Vitamin Water, other snacks? What are you, a communist?”

He snorted out a laugh but got the car moving and pulled out of the parking lot fast without even putting on his seatbelt.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Nothing.”

“What’s wrong?”

But he didn’t answer, and I noticed he was not getting back on the highway.

“Ian?”

THE STARLIGHT Motel had one of those old neon signs that looked like it belonged in Vegas, not downtown Blountville. It was three stories of mauve and pink, and when he pulled into the driveway, parked beside the office, under a carport, I wasn’t sure what was going on. But he got out, forked over some cash, got a key—on one of those plastic numbered plastic tags the likes of which I had only ever seen in a movie—and then got back in the car with me.

“What’re we doing here?”

I got nothing from him.

He moved the car and parked again, grabbed his backpack, and ordered me to get out and grab my duffel.

“Ian,” I began, doing as he asked, closing my door as he made the alarm chirp. “We need to go and get our—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, starting up a flight of stairs that had a chipped white paint railing I would not trust my weight to. It seemed more decorative than anything else.

At the top, he strode fast and reached the door he wanted, 15A, opened it, and disappeared inside before I caught up.

“Holy shit,” I groaned, following him in, amazed at the pink shag carpet, floral print curtains, and the mauve quilted polyester bedspread. “This is like the hotel we stayed at in Fort Lauderdale, you remember?”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, slamming the door and sliding the chain lock on before he rounded on me.

It was dark inside, but enough faint light filtered through the front window’s drawn curtains for me to see him staring at me—his eyes glittering—tracking my movement, listening to me breathing. Like I was prey.

Sometimes I didn’t pay attention when I really should.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, my voice low and rough.

He huffed out a breath as I took a step forward, closing on him.

“Ian?”

He raked his fingers through his hair and then laced his fingers together at the back of his head. It was new, the uncertainty on him, and I found it endearing.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Lube.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue in surprise.

“What? We need it, right?”

“If we… yeah,” I stammered. “I hope you got the right kind.”

“Me too.”

“You could have sent me in.”

“I wasn’t really thinking.”

I liked hearing that.

“It might not… happen, yeah?”

“Sure.”

“And I maybe won’t be able to… all of it.”

“I know.”

“But we’ll still be… all right.” It was both a question and a statement.

“Yes,” I said with absolute certainty.

“Okay.”

“You’re sure?”

He licked his lips, nodding slowly.

I slid a hand around the back of his neck and drew him to me. His eyes drifted closed as I slipped my tongue in the seam of his lips. His moan was soft and sweet as he parted them for me, kissing me back, his hands on my hips.

“Ian.”

He grunted, not stopping the kiss, moving me back toward the bed.