All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)
Page 63
“How come you never did that before?” he asked quietly.
“Because I never thought you’d let me.”
He eased free of my arms. “You should’ve known better.”
And he was right. I should have, and would have, if I had been paying attention at all. As it was, I had been so wrapped up in my feelings that I had completely missed his.
Small things, like the way he gave everyone else space but me, how proprietary he was about all my things—from coffee cups in the office to books I loaned out—and how he never, ever, missed a chance to go anywhere with me if he could help it. Ian was my shadow, and I’d never seen it for what it really was.
“I’ve wanted to touch you,” he said hoarsely.
“You have no idea about wanting,” I replied, my voice rough.
His lip curled into a slight smile as he looked down the length of my body and watched his hand move over my chest, my abdomen, and finally lower to my swollen cock. “It felt different.”
“What?”
“You.”
“How do you mean?”
“Your skin, your hands… no one ever held me down before.”
Big question. “And was it okay?”
“Yeah, it was okay,” he groaned brokenly, shifting and settling over me, laying his head on my chest, and wrapping his arms under me.
God.
I was so done. If my life ended right then, I was good.
“You make the best noises.”
“Pardon me?” I hadn’t been listening.
“You do. Maybe you don’t think you do, but you do.”
“Not following.”
“I can tell you’re content right now ’cause of the noise you made.”
“Which was what?”
“Like purring.”
I scoffed, but he tightened his hold and I liked that. “Tell me about this club you went to. I wanna hear the story.”
“Well, there was a woman at the first one I went to, a dominatrix, yeah?”
“And?”
“I let her chain me up, and she had all these paddles and whips and stuff.”
“Ian, you’ve been hit enough in your life—tortured when you’ve been on missions—and you shouldn’t—”
“Who’s telling this story?”
I shut up but ran my hand over the raised scars on his back.
“I told her I changed my mind, and she was cool about it when I left.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Because I knew she couldn’t actually keep me there if I wanted out, and it’s not pain that does it for me,” he said, edging out of my embrace and rising as I shifted a bit, staring down into my face. “I mean I never got off when someone was torturing me or beating the shit outta me.”
I nodded quickly, swallowing my sympathy.
“I don’t like to be hurt—don’t wanna be.”
“Sure.”
He licked his lips nervously. “Is it okay if I touch you?”
It was all I had ever wanted, so yes, he could touch me, lick me, kiss me, bite me, hold me down, snuggle up into my shoulder—anything. Anything at all. I was simply desperately ready to accept all he offered. But the excitement and longing that roared through me would scare him to death if voiced. So I whispered instead. “You can do whatever you want.”
He traced a finger down the side of my cock before leaning close to examine me. “This is impressive, Miro. Not only long, but thick. No wonder you made sure I was ready, huh?”
“I made you ready because I would never treat you any other way,” I chided.
“And you liked doing it,” he said, his gaze snapping to mine, daring me to lie.
As if there was any question. “Yes.”
“Did I taste good when you blew me?”
“Yeah.”
“I wanna try,” he rumbled, bending over me, his tongue flicking over my cockhead.
“Wait,” I rasped, my breath stuttering.
“Why?”
“Put your hand around me so you don’t choke.”
He took the direction and licked and sucked, laving me with his tongue, swallowing the precum that dribbled from the head.
“It’s thick and salty, but it doesn’t taste bad.”
“All guys taste different,” I managed to get out.
He made a face. “Like I would know.”
“Do you want to?”
The half grin flipped my stomach over as he sat up, straddled my thighs. “I went to a gay club because I figured maybe that’s what I needed.”
Breathing was overrated, and I could hold out until I heard what he had to say.
“And I realized when I was in there that it turned me on.”
“What? The men?”
He shook his head.
“The submission,” I concluded.
“Yeah.”
“But not to a woman.”
“No.”
“Because a woman wouldn’t actually ever be strong enough to make you do anything.”
“Not without a weapon or something.”
“But that’s not what we’re talking about.”
“No.”
“The illusion of power won’t work for you.”
“No. It has to be real.”
“Okay, go on.”
“So this guy, he starts manhandling me and shoving me forward like he’s gonna belt me onto this St. Andrews’s Cross, and I’m thinking—yeah, he’ll have to have all those buckles and shit to keep me from moving. And there’s probably real ones that I couldn’t get out of. But I can see that it’s not riveted, so I can pull out the carpenter nails easy, flip it, do something. That wouldn’t hold me.”