Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“How?”

“This was from when you were a cop, right? When you first put Hartley in jail? You were working with the FBI then.”

I nodded.

“Yeah, so when we first became partners, that was still going on, and he called a couple of times,” he revealed, eyes on my mouth. “And when I asked him what it was about, he said he just needed to talk to you and to tell you not to blow him off.”

“Yeah, but that could have been about anything.”

“Not with how persistent he was,” he apprised me, leaning into my space, his lips hovering close to mine. “When you need something, cop to cop, if someone isn’t helping you out, you call their boss. With how many times he called your desk and your cell and not one call to Kage—I knew what it was about.”

“You’re very clever,” I said before I pressed my mouth to his.

He tipped my head back and attacked me, his tongue invading, tasting, rubbing as he kissed me, hard and thorough.

I lost myself in his hunger, in his urgency and taste, his hands all over me as he tugged and yanked until my shirt was rucked up and my pants were open. “What’re you doing?”

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he growled before he bent over my lap and took me down the back of his throat.

“Ian!” I cried out, back bowing, jolting under him and burying myself in the liquid heat of his mouth.

He made the suction powerful, his lips stretching around me, and the sounds that came out of him as his mouth slid up and down on my shaft, along with the bruising grip on my thigh, were overwhelming.

“I can’t—Ian!”

A shiver raced through my body as I came, frozen for a moment, my hand palming the back of his head as he swallowed.

“Jesus,” I moaned as he laved me clean, finally rising, his tongue at the corner of his mouth, licking away the very last drop of me. “Come here.”

His smile was wicked as I claimed his lips, hands on his face, keeping him still. One kiss becoming another and another until he was squirming in my grip.

“We should—” He gasped as I got into his pants and wrapped my hand around his hard, drooling cock. “—go to the hotel.”

“Tinted glass,” I reminded him. “Get in the back.”

He didn’t hesitate; he scrambled between the seats and dropped to the floor in front of the next row that thankfully had been pushed all the way back, giving us room.

“Take everything off.”

“No, we—” He grunted, rolling over on his stomach, lifting to his hands and knees. “Just fuck me like this so—”

“Are you in charge?” I asked angrily, my voice thick with desire. “Tell me if you are.”

He exhaled sharply and got to his knees, pulled the Hattington wingtip boots off his feet—they were mine—and then stripped. Only his socks stayed on, and that would have made me smile if I was not so caught up in looking at him.

Sometimes I examined all the many scars that crisscrossed his olive skin, and my heart hurt. I wanted to hunt down and kill everyone who had scarred him. But other times, the marks made me that much hotter, as his power and survival instinct right there on display was sexier than anything.

“Miro,” he rasped as I reached over him to the seat for my bag, digging into the side pocket and retrieving the lube.

“Open your legs for me,” I demanded, “and hold on to your thighs.”

Immediate compliance. The sight of him, ready, his hooded eyes, panting, flush on his chest and neck as he waited for me, made my mouth dry. How in the world I’d ever gotten Ian Doyle to not only see me but want me was mind-blowing.

He caught his breath when I was naked, too, and when my slick fingers slid over his puckered opening, he bucked off the carpeted floor of the SUV.

“Gonna go slow,” I promised as I curled over his hard, muscular body, wanting his mouth and his warm skin on mine.

“No,” he whispered, wiggling under me, notching his entrance with the head of my cock. “Fuck, no, Miro, I need you now.”

I kissed him hard at the same time as I pressed inside the tight, hot passage, not stopping until I was buried in his body.

The garbled noises he made as he held himself spread open for me, his groans hitched, caught on the sharp edges of his short gasps, and his muscles flexing around my length all urged me to move, but instead I waited, remained still, letting his body get used to me.

“Make me,” he husked. “Miro—fuckin’ make me.”

After easing free just a fraction, I thrust home, pounding down into him, pegging his gland, making him shudder with the sensation and howl my name. He made me feel ridiculously powerful, and my smug rumble was loud in the small space.