Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

He sighed, sounding exasperated. “Where are you exactly?”

I swallowed down my heart. “I was about to get on Lakeshore.”

“Okay,” he said simply. “Come home, then. I’m here.”

I froze, afraid to even breathe.

“Miro?”

“Ian—”

“For crying out loud, are you coming or not?”

“You’re at home?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Then get yours home!” he snarled.

I was silent a moment. “Well, that was clever,” I apprised him, smiling like an idiot. My man was home.

“Yeah, well,” he began, his voice bottoming out. “I missed you too.”

And since there had been actual pining on my part, I made a very unmanly noise I wasn’t proud of.

“Hurry.”

He had no idea how fast I could make my truck go.

OPENING THE front door of the Greystone townhouse Ian and I had done some work on over the summer—we’d painted the doors and cornice a deep purple-red, trimmed the boxwood hedges, and put in window boxes—I was happy to see his duffel bag and boots lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. The dog beat me to him since I had to close and lock the door behind me. Chickie rushed across the space, whimpering and whining, and flung himself at his master, knocking him down onto the couch hard.

“Stupid dog,” Ian said affectionately, laughing as he hugged his werewolf. If I didn’t know what I was looking at, it would have been scary. The licking looked like mauling, and honestly, if Chickie wanted, Ian was dog food.

I hung up my jacket on one of the pegs we’d added to the entryway and put my keys and wallet on the ledge above it before toeing off my sneakers. Ian had made changes to try to get me moving faster in the morning. He timed my rituals, which included putting product in my hair and figuring out what I was going to wear, and had made improvements. One of his biggest changes had been to put things by the front door: keys on hooks, badges on chains as well, wallets on the shelf above, IDs, earpieces, and pens in the cup. The only items that didn’t live there now were phones and guns, and I had to give it to him, not having to hunt all over the house had sped up our exodus each day.

“Hey.”

When I turned, Ian was standing there barefoot in frayed jeans and a plain white T-shirt, holding out his arms for me. Chickie was eating, which was good, and noisily slurping water.

Moving fast, I lunged when I was close enough, catching him hard—but more gently than the dog had—hugging him tight, soaking up the contact and the heat I was wrapped in as Ian squeezed me back.

“Fuck, I’m so happy you’re home,” I choked out, shivering with the feel of him, the strength of his body and the smell of his skin.

He turned and kissed behind my ear, my cheek, under my jaw, my chin, and then thrust his tongue in my mouth as he took me in a frantic, devouring kiss.

My brain shorted out because it was still new and still a dream: Ian all over me, easing me down onto the couch, following close, never breaking contact, pinning me under him. The movement was seamless, fluid, and the kiss deepened, became wild, ravenous, making me clutch at his back, dig my hands into the powerful muscles to keep him there, close to me. His knee wedged between my thighs, parting them, and I opened them wider so he could rest there, all of him on me, my feet on the backs of his calves.

I reached down between us and found the hard line of his cock straining against only denim before sliding my fingers under the waistband of his jeans, realizing instantly there was no other barrier there.

Quickly, with deft fingers, I unbuttoned his fly and worked the zipper down quickly, his erection filling my hand as I squeezed tight. The noise he made was pure ruthless need as he jolted forward, wanting the friction, driving into my fist as he ground out my name.

“You missed me,” I said, trying to keep the smugness out of my tone as I stroked his dripping shaft.

His lashes lifted languorously as though he was drugged, and I was drowning in deep, dark blue. “I missed you,” he whispered in agreement.

“Get your ass in my bed,” I demanded, then softened my command with, “please.”

“No,” he said, his breath catching, shoving his hand behind one of the couch cushions and pulling out a small bottle of lube. “Here.”

He pushed it at me. The fact that he’d had the foresight to put it there because he wanted me to take him on the couch was crazy hot. His desire for me was a gift.

“Get off me,” I said, my voice gravelly and low.

“When?” he asked. Beads of precum rolled over my fingers as I continued to fondle his rock-hard erection.