Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“Fuck, you’re loud,” he crowed as my muscles clamped down around him, and he came in a roaring climax that nearly deafened me.

We collapsed together in a sweaty, sated, panting heap, Ian still buried in me as we tried to pull air into our lungs.

“I missed you,” I told him.

“Yeah,” Ian replied as he slid gently, tenderly from my body, rolling me to my side so he could plaster himself to my back. “I can tell.”

My eyes fluttered shut as he tipped my head back and began to place languorous kisses up the side of my throat.

“I missed the hell outta you too.”

I knew that as well.

Chapter 6

THAT SUNDAY morning, I walked into the refrigerator, bumping it hard, no idea what it was doing there. Ian’s snort of laughter didn’t help, and I turned away, facing the cupboard as he walked up behind me.

“Lemme see.”

“You’re an ass,” I grouched, lifting my head, turning it to the side so he couldn’t touch me.

“Come on, I’m sorry.” He snickered, grabbing my bicep, forcing me to face him. “I wanna make sure you’re all right. Did you hurt your nose?”

I shoved him off me and his head fell back and he laughed hard and loud, at me, not with me, as I told him to go straight to hell.

The laughing did not subside. Apparently the tension relief was a welcome diversion. Charging over to the couch where my black cashmere overcoat lay, I pulled it on over my black Hugo Boss suit and began buttoning it up. The cab was coming to pick us up momentarily.

“You’ve got a uniform kink,” Ian teased, crossing the floor to reach me and put his hands gently on my hips to hold me still.

He was stunning.

Between the Army dress uniform, the blue pants and navy jacket, along with the green beret, Ian was mouthwatering. I would certainly not be the only one who noticed.

“What are these, again?” I asked, sliding my fingertips over the multicolored pins attached to the left side of his uniform.

“Service ribbons,” he answered, stepping in close.

“But you have medals too.”

He nodded.

“One of these is a Bronze Star.”

“Yes,” he agreed, but he didn’t point it out.

“And you have a Silver Star, too, don’t you?”

“I have a Valorous Unit Award, as do all the guys in my unit from that time.”

“When was that?”

“A while ago,” he murmured, cupping my chin and dragging his thumb gently across my bottom lip. “You look terrible.”

We both did, which was why each of us needed to hide behind sunglasses. Between Cochran’s sucker punch and Ian’s ravishing kisses, my lips looked just as bruised as my face. Likewise someone had taken a lot of rage out on Ian, as evidenced by the discolored patches—everything from black and blue to crimson—everywhere under his clothes. His body was battered and scarred from combat.

“You don’t look so good yourself.”

He shrugged. “You’re still hot for me, so what do I care?”

I put my hands on his chest and thought for the millionth time how beautiful he was. The blue-blue of his eyes, the crow’s feet that showed how much he laughed, the sculpted cheekbones, the lines on his face that also denoted how often he squinted and scowled, and his irresistible lips and the way they curled when he smiled, hinting at all manner of decadent pleasures. I loved to trace the thinner top lip with my tongue or bite the puffy lower one when he was trying to break a kiss. His currently freckled and sunbaked skin told me he’d been in the desert, no matter where he tried to tell me he’d been.

“Hey,” I began, my gaze meeting his. “Did you go more than one place this last time out?”

“Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“You wore your ACUs home, but you’re all brown from baking in the sun.”

“You’re not supposed to notice that kinda stuff.” He winked at me.

Ian being playful was as seductive as him holding me down in bed. It was all I could do not to jump him. “I notice everything about you,” I said before I leaned in and kissed him.

It was sweet, loving, and when I heard a horn from outside, I eased back. I was surprised when he followed, keeping contact.

“Get off me,” I whispered. “You’re gonna get me all wrinkled, and what will your friends think?”

I was surprised how fast he scowled. “These are not my friends.”

“How come?”

He turned, grabbed his military-issue black trench coat with belt and slipped it on as he headed for the door. “I’ll tell you in the cab, come on.”

Ian gave the driver the name of St. Paul Catholic Church over on West Twenty-Second, and we settled in for a ride that shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, but in Chicago, who knew.

He sat close to me, knee against mine, and I noted the hard clench of his jaw.