All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“Eat,” he ordered with his mouth full.

I swallowed down my joy so I could.

I cleaned up afterward while he carried our bags upstairs, and threw things in the laundry, our stuff together, as he hung up his suit in my closet.

“Christ, I’m so happy to be home,” I said happily, taking a seat on my bed, unlacing my boots and letting them clunk down on the floor. “I swear I’m never—Ian?”

He was standing next to the railing, staring at me but not moving.

“Come here,” I suggested, patting the space beside me on the bed.

Rushing across the small room, he shoved me down, climbed on and straddled my hips, holding me still.

“Something you want, Marshal?”

“Miro,” he croaked. “This bed is—oh.”

I wriggled under him, gripping his thighs and pressing my quickly hardening cock up against his crease. “This bed is yours, too, from now on. You understand?”

“Yes,” he huffed, arching his back as his eyes closed and his mouth fell open.

“I’m yours too.”

His lashes fluttered open, and his gaze locked with mine. “Swear,” he said, his voice hoarse and full of gravel. “You and me.”

“I swear,” I promised, reaching up for his face.

He bent into my hands, letting me ease him down, his lips parting the moment they touched mine.

“Miro,” he breathed into my mouth.

He tasted like beer and salt and Ian, and when I rolled him to his back, I deepened the kiss, mauling his mouth as he wrapped his long legs around my hips and ground up against me.

God.

Ian, in my bed.

“Jesus,” I moaned, shoving away from him before I came in my jeans just from thinking about it.

He smiled as he panted under me. “You like having me here.”

I couldn’t speak, instead rolling off the bed and stripping fast. He sat up and did the same, as rough as I was, tugging off his clothes. Grabbing the lube from my nightstand, I turned and found him stretched out, waiting.

“I wanna see your face when we do this.”

He nodded and reached for me.

I pounced on him, taking his mouth, parting his thighs so I could move between them, raising his knees so his feet were on the backs of my calves. His cock was pressed between us as I devoured him, missing nothing, giving him bruising kisses until he had to turn his head to gulp for air.

“Kiss me again,” he pleaded.

I sat back, flipped open the cap of the lube, and as I slicked my cock, his eyes narrowed to slits of feverish dark blue.

“Miro.”

“I need to make you ready.”

“No,” he insisted. “I can’t wait—don’t want to.”

Tossing the lube aside, pressing against his entrance, he bowed up off the bed, wanting me.

“Pass me a pillow.”

He handed me mine and I shoved it under him, changing the angle as I pushed gently forward, slipping inside. He grabbed hold of my biceps, slid his legs up my thighs and locked them around my hips.

“I’m gonna go slow and—”

“You know, sometimes I’ll notice you walking beside me, and I’m so proud.”

I dropped my head forward, needing to be buried in him but holding back, keeping my entry slow, steady, feeling his muscles ripple around me.

“And now… it’ll be more, ’cause I know you’re mine.”

“Ian,” I ground out.

“I need… Miro… c’mon, man, just take what you want.”

I thrust hard, as deep as I could, and he yelled my name before coiling his arms around me.

I was wrapped up in him.

“You have to move.”

“Then you have to let go.”

“No,” he rasped, lifting for my mouth.

Jesus.

He didn’t want to let go of me?

“Miro,” he said, thick and dark. “Show me—”

That I loved him? Wanted him? Needed him? What did he have to see? Feel? Taste? Hear?

“—your heart.”

But I had. For three years, every day, I had shown Ian Doyle the depth of my love.

Unwinding his arms from around my neck, I curled my fingers into his, marrying our palms, and pressed both hands down onto the mattress.

“I love you, Ian,” I rumbled, my voice gritty with feeling as I stared into his eyes. “Don’t ever doubt my heart.”

He squinted fast but it didn’t work: a stray tear leaked out and ran down his temple. I caught it with a kiss before I drove into him, desperate to make him feel my love.

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding broken, crackly. “Always.”

Our hands fused together, both of us holding as tight as we could, him lifting, meeting every rolling thrust, and me trying to anchor him, his knees spread wide, my mouth slanting over his, laying claim to every piece of Ian. Heart, mind, body, soul—all mine.

I ground into him, the motion slow and sensuous, and he took me, his muscles holding me tight as I pushed and pushed deeper, taking as he gave until he went stiff beneath me in his release, pumping hot and slick between us.