Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

“Miro, come on, I—”

Leaving him while he was still talking, I walked back through the living room toward the kitchen, moving fast.

Sean stepped into my path. “Hey, Miro, I really think that—”

I went around him and got to the back door, unlocked it, and went out on Barrett’s back patio, down the steps to the cobblestone path that led to the small garden the last owners had put in, and then off into the lush, wet grass.

I bolted to my back steps that simply ended in the grass, went up them to the deck that was the second thing I had built when I moved in, and was fumbling for my keys, thankful for the porch light that went on automatically at dusk, when I heard Barrett yell my name.

I didn’t turn. I just kept trying to get my keys out but the pants were tight anyway and now they were sticking to my sides like a second skin.

“Miro,” Barrett said, arriving at my side. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re not capable or that you would ever do anything foolish. Please, I’m just worried.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” I almost snarled, finally getting the ring out of my pocket. “I have Ian for that.”

“Oh? Is that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right!” I flared, glancing over at his covered back porch and seeing the crowd clustered there. “And you should go back to your party.”

“I don’t want to go back to my party, I want to fix this with you,” he insisted, grabbing my bicep and yanking hard to get me to turn to him.

“It’s fine, it’s fixed.” And it was. He and I were done except for me to wave at him as I passed his house or saw him on the street. No one got to second-guess my job or the guys I worked with or how I conducted myself.

“No, it’s not, you’re mad because I questioned you and now because I’m questioning Ian’s commitment.”

“Don’t worry about Ian,” I warned him. “Ian and me are great.”

“You’re not great, because he’s never here.”

“He’s here more than enough,” I said, slipping the key into the bottom lock, opening it and then going to work on the dead bolt with another key.

“What do you expect?” he asked curtly. “Here you are all alone night after night, this handsome, sexy, dangerous man who needs a keeper more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life, and I’m just supposed to do what? Never say anything? Never put the idea in your head that you have other options, that you deserve a better one?”

“Fuck you, Barrett,” I spat, disgusted. “You’re supposed to be my fuckin’ friend! You don’t tear Ian down when he’s not here, that’s total shit!”

He shoved me back against the door… or tried to. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I had a lot of muscle on him and there was no way I was moving.

“Go home,” I said, pushing him off me.

“Miro, just listen to—”

But the door opened, which cut him off and startled me as we were suddenly both looking at a very beautiful, very angry man standing in the doorway.

“Yes,” Ian ground out, his tone dead and flat. “Go home.”

Barrett’s eyes were huge as he regarded the man I loved, but Ian’s focus was solely on me, as evidenced by the way he fisted his hand in my wet shirt and yanked me into the house. He slammed the door so hard behind me that the glass rattled.

“You’re home,” I breathed out.

The way he was looking at me, predatory and hungry, should have really scared me, but a shiver of anticipation ran through me instead. “Where the hell have you been?” was the first thing out of his mouth.

It wasn’t warm or loving, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t care. He was home.

Chapter 14

I STOOD there dripping in the living room, smiling like an idiot and wiping the water out of my face and eyes. “I’m so happy to see you!”

He scowled at me.

“What?”

“If you’re so happy, come the fuck here.”

“But I’m all wet,” I said, shivering not with cold but with happiness.

“Yeah, I don’t care,” he murmured, lifting his arms.

I lunged at him, grabbing tight, and he hugged me back just as hard, the both of us trying to absorb the other. “I’m gonna explode I’m so happy.”

His grunt was all Ian, smug and sexy. “Don’t do that. I like you all in one piece.”

I kissed the side of his neck, his jaw, and then took his mouth so he’d know he was missed and cherished and so very needed.

“You taste like scotch,” he said, breaking the kiss, needing air, “and salt.”

“Potato chips,” I said, grinning, just looking at him, his face, his hair, and his eyes. God, he was pretty.