Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“Fuck!” he yelled, writhing against me as I pulled him away from the door just enough to run my hand down his abdomen, savoring the feel of his muscles flexing beneath my fingers.

I let go of his wrist and worked open his belt and jeans and got under the elastic of his briefs to take hold of his gorgeous cock, already dribbling precum.

“Someone’s ready for me,” I husked into his ear before he tilted his head back and to the side and offered me his mouth.

I milked his length as I devoured his lips, breaking the kiss only after he was squirming against me.

“Let me—I need to get these down,” he whispered before shoving his jeans to his knees. When he reached behind him and pressed a lube packet into my hand, I was surprised.

“Where the fuck did this come from?” I asked, my voice thick with need as I let go of him, only moving away far enough to shuck my pants and briefs down and slather my dick.

“I carry these for you,” he said, splaying his hands on the door, arching his back, offering me his hard, beautiful body, “just in case.”

“Very smart,” I growled, taking hold of my slicked, seeping dick and pressing slowly into his body.

“Miro!” he gasped, shivering, jolting back against me, impaling himself on my length, pushing in deep, hard, wanting me, needing me to fill him fast, the gentle and slow saved for another time. “I wanna feel it when I’m gone.”

“I would never hurt you,” I whispered, thrusting quickly, holding on to his lean hips tight, dragging myself from him gradually on the retreat, only to piston back inside a moment later.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped brokenly, the yearning there. “Don’t… stop.”

He was slick and hot, and I wanted to be gentle, but he wouldn’t let me.

“Miro, fuckin’—hurry!”

I could do nothing less. His demand, with the dark strain in his voice, the breathless catch, the way he trembled—I wanted all of him.

I drove into him over and over until we were both sticky with sweat and he was braced against the wall with one hand, jerking himself off with the other.

“I’m gonna… come,” he ground out.

I ran my hand up the back of his head into his hair and fisted tight, yanking hard to claim his mouth. He opened for me and I sucked on his tongue, the kiss brutal and desperate. I wanted to absorb him into my skin, have him with me all the time, and it was heartbreaking and joyful all at the same time.

God, I loved him.

His muscles clamped around me as he broke the kiss to yell, spurting onto the door, shuddering against me as my own orgasm followed his and I pumped into him, filling him up, semen dripping hot and thick between us.

I leaned heavily, still buried in his ass, and kissed along his jaw as he let his head fall back on my shoulder. “I love you,” I said, licking the sweat from his skin. “Be careful while you’re away from me.”

He moved his head, just barely acknowledging my request. “Kiss me more.”

It was all I wanted to do.

IT WAS standing room only on the opposite side of the vet’s office downtown off Cicero. Even though my boyfriend, and therefore his dog, now both lived with me in Lincoln Park, we hadn’t looked into finding a new vet for the werewolf yet. So Chickie and I made the trip out to frighten the locals even without meaning to.

No matter what I said, no one believed that the bear-sized dog sitting beside me wasn’t going to eat anyone. He was simply too big. His paws were as large as my hands splayed out, his head dwarfed mine, and up on his back legs, he could drape his front legs over my shoulders—and I was five eleven in my bare feet. It wasn’t his fault that he made two, or even three, of most dogs. He wasn’t a creature out of a horror movie; he just looked like one.

“Hybrids are illegal in Chicago, you know,” a woman scolded me from where she was cowering with her cat carrier against the far wall.

“Yes ma’am, I know,” I said, letting my head thunk softly back against the wall, as Chickie Baby stretched and put his head in my lap, the movement causing a gasp from the entire left side of the room.

“Someone should report you to the authorities,” another concerned pet owner chimed in.

“Mrs. Gunderson.” Susannah, the perky vet tech, sighed as she walked into the lobby and toward Chickie and me. “If this dog was, in fact, a wolf hybrid, do you think we’d be taking care of him or reporting him to animal control?”

No answer to that.

She reached us and squatted down beside Chickie, who wagged his tail but otherwise didn’t move. “What’s the matter with Ian’s baby?”