Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

We were on a bust with another team and one of the reporters tried to film Ian and me capturing a suspect. After he put on a pair of latex gloves, Ian took the phone right out of the guy’s hand and dropped it down a storm drain. That time we didn’t get hauled into the office because it was his word against ours and the reporter was apparently kind of a douche. But it became a daily occurrence for us to be sitting in front of Lathan’s desk for something.

Excessive force. Inadequate force. Why did we grapple with suspects instead of simply pulling our firearms? Why did we run warrant checks on everyone at a particular location when we had the person we were there for in custody?

After the second week, Ian started stopping in the middle of putting his foot in some guy’s back and yelled over to me, “Can I do this?”

And I’d nod yes or shake my head no. One of the things frowned upon was taking a guy at the Scottsdale Fashion Square in front of the food court. Ian flew over a table and tackled the guy, picked him up, and flung him back down onto the tile. The “suspect” didn’t move after that. We both had on baseball hats and sunglasses, and when the mall cops showed up, I flashed my badge. As soon as we got back, we were in Latham’s office.

“You should have waited for the suspect to exit the mall,” he lectured us.

“Write that down,” Ian directed me right before he was suspended for a day.

“I’ll put it in a memo,” I advised him, and that did it, I was suspended too.

We spent the whole Thursday in bed ordering delivery and napping.

“Maybe we should have just taken vacation time,” I whispered as I lay on the floor in the living room—the coolest room in the apartment—with Ian draped over me in a sated, sticky sprawl.

He grunted his agreement before tipping his head back to lick up the length of my throat. That was all it took for me to roll him to his back and fuck him again.

Later, while we were lying poolside, a beautiful dark-tanned dark-haired woman who looked like she could model if she wanted walked over and asked Ian if he’d like to have a drink with her later.

“A drink?”

She chuckled. “If you’re not busy, uhm….”

“Ian,” he supplied.

Her smile was wicked, and the way she bit her bottom lip, alluring. “Ian,” she repeated, her voice as seductive as her body. “I’d love to show you the sights. You’re new in town, right?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, I figured. I haven’t seen you around, and I would have definitely noticed.”

It was a nice line.

“I can’t,” he replied, sitting up on the lounge chair, tipping his head back as he looked at her from behind his aviators. “But I’m very flattered and I appreciate the offer.”

“Why can’t you? I don’t see a ring.”

It took everything in me not to pounce on him and yell “Ah-ha!”

Ring. The magic word. She would have stopped and never walked over if she’d seen a ring on his finger.

Fucking Ian.

Getting up, letting him handle the situation he found himself in, I took off my White Sox cap and tossed it on the chair I’d just vacated. After walking to the edge of the pool, I jumped in and let myself sink to the bottom.

It was quiet and calm, and I sat there for as long as I could, eyes open, taking in all the blue before surfacing slowly.

“You’re such an asshole.”

Looking over my shoulder I found Ian, glaring down at me, arms crossed, sunglasses hanging on the collar of his T-shirt.

I swam backward, away from him.

“Really?”

“Aren’t you going for drinks?”

He shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Why not? You can go.”

“M.”

“You got no ring and all,” I couldn’t help adding.

“Just get outta the pool. I’m hungry.”

Instead I did a few laps, and when I finally got out, he was right there with a big fluffy towel to wrap around my hips.

“What’re you doing?”

“You can totally see the outline of your dick when your shorts are wet.”

I shrugged.

He growled. “Don’t be an ass. I told her I was with you, all right?”

I squinted at him.

Turning, he waved, and when I followed his gaze, I saw the woman and her group, all of whom were sitting in the shaded area beneath huge ceiling fans, return the gesture.

“See?”

I nodded and went to move past him, but he stepped into my path.

“Ian,” I said softly.

“Stop,” he ordered gently as he took my face in his hands and stepped closer, into me, into my space, leaving no room to guess what we were to each other. “I know what you need, M.”

“Yeah?”

“I do.”

I liked the way those two words sounded on his tongue.

“Gimme time.”

Whatever he wanted.