Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (21 page)

“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.

“Pleased with yourself?”

His voice was hoarse, and I liked the sound, gravelly and deep. “Yeah,” I answered, dragging myself from his channel this time, and then again, in and out, screwing him slow so he could feel me.

“Miro, could you just—fuck!”

I pulled out and rolled him to his hands and knees before I pistoned back inside, using him as hard as he craved.

“Don’t,” he warned me, and I understood. I was taking a chance with my life if I stopped.

“Ian, I can’t… you feel too good.”

“I want you right here,” he pleaded, his voice barely registering. “It feels like I can’t—like you’re pulling away.”

And I had been, little by little, scared to death of him coming between me and Hartley. We had resolved the geography issue because yes, he was here with me, but emotional distance was a whole other thing. Because I loved him, the idea of him getting hurt was making me instinctively guarded, and I was distancing myself without even meaning to.

For instance, normally I would have insisted that we go home alone after a rough day, but just the night before, I’d wanted a buffer in Segundo and Hewitt. We would have eaten together, it would have been intimate, but I didn’t do that at all. I was filling up our time, taking him to restaurants with me when he wanted to veg on the couch on the off chance that I’d start to worry. But now Ian was telling me he felt it and he wouldn’t have it. Not ever.

Neither would I.

Pressing along his back, hand on his shoulder so I could drive into him and hold him still at the same time, I ordered him to grab his dick and jerk off.

“Miro—”

“Now!” I roared, demanding his submission.

I felt his inner walls clamp down, ripple around my length as he came, violently, semen splattering the carpet beneath him. I plunged deep, climaxing just as hard before collapsing on top of him and then lifting his hand from his dick to my lips so I could lick clean each of his cum-coated fingers.

“God, Miro, that’s so fuckin’ hot.”

I loved the taste of him.

He turned to look at me over his shoulder, and I kissed him, long and slow, sucking on his tongue, tasting him all over again.

His whole body thrummed beneath mine, the shudder that ran through him causing his muscles to spasm, squeezing me almost painfully tight once more.

Finally easing free of him, I went down on my back, ready to fall asleep right there in the parked Cadillac, the air conditioner thankfully still running full blast.

“No, don’t lie down,” he cautioned me softly, twisting around to straddle my hips, hands splayed out on either side of my head as he bent forward to stare down at me. “You’ll never get up.”

“Drive to the hotel and carry me to the room,” I mumbled, my eyes fluttering shut.

“No.” He snickered. The sound was so joyful I opened my eyes to see his smile, the wicked one that curled his kiss-swollen lips and arched an eyebrow.

He was so beautiful—sometimes just looking at him took my breath away. “You walk to the room, I’ll order room service. We’ll eat and sleep and do this again.”

“We could swim,” I suggested. “I hear they have a nice pool.”

“I think they have, like, eight or something.”

“Eight’s too many,” I said to be contrary.

He leaned over and kissed me. “Whatever we do, you gotta put your clothes on first.”

I made a noise somewhere between a groan and a purr.

He trailed kisses along my jaw to the side of my neck. “The quicker you get up, the faster we can be eating and sleeping.”

That got me moving.

I
DIDN
’
T
see the pools. I didn’t see anything but exactly what Ian said: I saw the room, the guy who brought up room service, the shower, the bed, and a great view of the mountains. That was all.

I listened as Ian talked to Calhoun, and after I ate and cleaned up, I pulled on sleep shorts and passed out in Ian’s arms. His breath on the back of my neck, his strong arms wrapped tight around me, and his thighs pressed to the backs of mine was all I needed. I slept hard, but when Ian woke me in the night, rolled me to my back, slathered my cock with lube, and rode me, I came alive for that.

Holding his thighs tight, I watched him above me, bathed in moonlight, head back, eyes closed, lips parted as his breath started and stopped, and I knew that whatever I had to do to keep him for the rest of my life, I would.

“You’re so fuckin’ stuck with me,” I told him.

“Yes,” he agreed, spurting over my chest as he came. I followed seconds later, filling him up, much to his happiness. He loved it—it grounded him somehow, showed ownership, and he craved that. For my part, I was simply happy. I almost had everything I ever wanted; now all we had to do was hope they found Hartley soon. After close to a month, I was so ready to go home.

Ian was in the shower when I woke up to the sound of knocking. I ducked into the bathroom, told him someone was at the door, and shut it before answering. Standing outside in the hall was our contact, DEA Agent Orton Taggart, posing as Brock Huber, high-profile drug dealer from Dallas.

He came in and I closed the door behind him, taking in his surfer-cut blond hair, the navy blue Hugo Boss suit, and his black wingtips.

“No tie?” I asked.

“I’m keeping it casual,” he said, patting my abdomen as he moved in closer to me. “Hey, man, I’m counting on you and Morse to keep me alive on this op, right?”

Hey, man?
Christ. “No worries,” I assured him, hopefully keeping the annoyance out of my voice. “So where are we going this morning?”

“The guy we’re meeting is Luis Cano, and he’s sending guys to pick us up in the bar in twenty minutes. Are you and your partner ready to go?”

“Always,” I assured him.

He squinted at me. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

“No,” I said irritably, since I was in my sleep shorts and a T-shirt. “Obviously not.”

“Well, let’s go, man.”

It was way too much familiarity and trying to sound street.

In the bar lounge twenty minutes later, I was having coffee and scarfing down a croissant along with Ian, and Taggart was smiling.

“What?” Ian asked.

“You two clean up nice.”

Ian did look stunning in his brown Gucci suit with a brown pinstripe dress shirt underneath. He looked uncomfortable, as he always did in anything but fatigues or jeans, but he wore it well and that was all that mattered. According to him, the best accessories he had on were the two gun holsters—one under his jacket, the other around his ankle.

“You look better than he does,” Taggart said, smiling at me, leaning forward into my space. “What is this, Armani?”

I was wearing my gray three-piece suit with a white dress shirt underneath and, unlike Ian, I had on a tie. It was yellow, as was the pocket square, and I knew I looked good because my boyfriend had made that noise in the back of his throat when I came out of the bedroom to head down to the bar with him and Taggart.

As we were leaving the room, Ian let Taggart out and then closed the door before I could follow him. I turned and he’d stepped in close, bumping his nose along my jaw, inhaling me.

“Yes?”

“I should take you places where you wear suits more often.”

“Why’s that?” I fished.

“You know why,” he said, his voice husky, coaxing.

“You like what you see.”

“I do.” He took a step back, his gaze running down my body. “Very much.”

“I’ll leave it on ’til you take it off.”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” he said, coughing, opening the door right before Taggart knocked.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he huffed at Ian.

“Following you,” Ian growled back, and because of the ice in his tone and the chill in his gaze, Taggart shut up, pivoted, and walked away. It was the smart choice.

“Smith?”

I came back sharply to the present. “Sorry. What?”

“Is this Armani?” Taggart questioned again.

“Yeah.”

“So, Smith, you—”

“Oh, here we go,” Ian interrupted as two men stepped up to the table.

Eventually we would meet with Wilson Roan, but before that his second-in-command, Cano, had to vet us to make sure we were who we said we were.

We were greeted by the men who were clearly bodyguards, like Ian and I were pretending to be, and then escorted outside and put into a Maserati Kubang SUV that was roomier inside than I thought it would be for one made by a sports car company.

They drove us to Paradise Valley, a stunning area full of million-dollar homes, finally turning onto E. Caballo Drive and rolling through the enormous wrought iron gates of a house I could never hope to afford unless I won a lottery.

“Holy crap,” I said under my breath as we all got out of the car.

“This is how the other half lives, M,” Ian teased, bumping me with his shoulder as we trailed behind the others.

“This is incredible,” I went on, glancing around. “Are you seeing this?”

He huffed out a breath. “I’d rather have the townhouse with you.”