Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“Because,” I began, taking a bite and getting frosting on my nose, “Chickie enjoys doing all those things with Aruna and her family because he knows he’ll get to come home to you.”

“No, I—”

“Think about it,” I insisted, licking off more icing. “You run with him every single night that you’re home. You take him with you everywhere, he sleeps at the foot of the bed, and he would protect you with his life. He can be a sweet ole dog to Aruna and her family because he knows he doesn’t live there. He lives here.”

“But is that fair to him?”

“You ever notice how happy he is when you pick him up?”

“Sure, he’s a dog. Dogs get happy when they see you.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t make a total ass of himself for anyone but you,” I concluded. “He likes a lot of people a whole lot—me, Aruna, Liam—but you’re the only one he’s stupid in love with.”

He snorted out a laugh before turning to look at me. “You think my dog is—what are you doing?”

I couldn’t answer; I had a mouthful of cupcake. I was really glad I’d sprung for the jumbo size.

“Why’re you eating that right now?”

I swallowed enough to speak. “I was eating this before.”

“You were?” Which told me everything I needed to know: he’d been completely lost in his thoughts and hadn’t noticed me even when he was looking right at me.

Smiling so he could see how full my mouth was, I went back to chewing, glad that me acting like a dork was jogging him out of his crappy mood. I wanted the hot, sexy Ian from earlier in the day, not the introspective brooding guy worried that he wasn’t good enough for me.

“Your lips are blue, do you know that?”

I laughed. And when I did, some of the crumbs sprayed out.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Stop it,” I tried to get out, because he was making me laugh, but it was muffled, and his expression—total revulsion—cracked me up more.

“Put that—gimme that,” he grumbled, reaching for what was left of the cupcake, only to see me pivot so I had my back to him. “What the hell, M?”

I cackled and he reached over my shoulder for the cupcake, but I danced away, cast thumping on the floor as I moved awkwardly, slipping by him to lean on the other side of the counter by the refrigerator.

“You’re gonna ruin your appetite and you’re getting too skinny.”

I straightened up and lifted my shirt, showing off the hard abdomen I knew he was a fan of so he could see that “skinny” was not the appropriate word. He needed to grasp that I was strong and healthy, and though I didn’t have the defined six-pack he did—there was no washboard there—I was by no means underweight.

“What’re you—”

“Can you see me?” I asked, releasing my shirt, arching an eyebrow, and waiting.

“Of course, that’s a stupid question.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you’re stuck in a time loop.”

“What?” He made annoyed-Ian face that was part scowl, part squint, with a little bit of judgment that I was a dumbass thrown in for good measure.

“You need to stop remembering me in a hospital bed or focusing on the cast and bandages when you look at me, and just focus on me being the guy who sleeps with you.”

He nodded.

“Can you do it?”

Second nod.

“Are you sure?” I asked softly as I reached down and grabbed my already semierect cock. Just being anywhere near Ian turned me on a little, so the fact that I was hardening was not a surprise.

In response, I saw the muscles in his neck cord as his gaze zeroed in on my hand.

“Ian?”

“Yeah,” he rasped, head snapping up. “You, not your injuries, I got it.”

It was excellent news.

“You need to eat your dinner,” he said automatically, even though I watched his pupils dilate and saw him swallow hard, like maybe his throat was dry.

“I will,” I promised, licking some frosting off my lip.

“Is it good?”

“Yeah, come here.”

He closed the distance between us fast and leaned in and kissed me hard, tasting my mouth, sucking on my lips and then my tongue as I opened for him. I went boneless under the onslaught, and when he tipped my head back, I had to grab for the counter beside me so my knees wouldn’t buckle.

When he tore his mouth free, I yelled in protest. “How dare you stop!”

“Shut up,” he groused, moving the pan with the two steaks in it off the fire before plating each one.

“I don’t want to eat,” I growled.

He put both plates in the oven, didn’t even try to add the tossed green salad or the asparagus tips I’d bought earlier in the day at the farmers’ market. Instead he turned off the burner, wiped his hands, turned, and lunged at me.