IT WAS one of those things. After the guys beat me so hard that my entire body throbbed and I could only see out of one eye, I was left hanging there, feeling like a side of meat, and that’s when I noticed the door.
It was open.
Not hanging ajar, not enough so you’d notice—enough like someone had meant to close it behind them but had not hung around long enough to hear the click. And no click meant it was not locked.
I had to gauge my motion, because after nothing but glucose and saline for I wasn’t sure how many days, my body was not mine anymore. It was ravaged. He had me full of drugs, I’d been beaten, bitten, strangled… tortured… the baseball bat to the ribs had gone on for what seemed like days on end, and now… now I needed to move.
I needed to lift the chain that bound both wrists to the hook above me up over the end, drop down, and run. When I’d first gotten there, I would have been able to do it easily. It was a dead lift up, and I could have managed that, but now, I wasn’t sure. And if I did it and that was all I had, then what? Once I was out of the room, where did I go? There were so many variables and I had so very little energy.
It was so much to imagine and—
Ian.
It was everything, a whole universe of sound and images and smells and all of it assaulting me and pummeling my brain and then—quiet.
Ian.
There was only his face and the curt nod I used to get that I knew now was special and arrogant and the way he was with only me.
He’d worked so hard to keep himself away, and then when he simply couldn’t, when I’d broken through and held him, kissed him, loved him… all that puffed-up macho pride became clear as what it was—his desire. Ian wanted me, and I was the first person he’d let down that wall for. I would not be responsible for him locking himself away again. Even if I died, he’d know I’d been trying to get to him, and that would tell him he was worthy of love and so he would someday love again. It was my hope, anyway.
I had to try. There was no way out of that.
Every muscle in my body screamed that it could not do what I wanted. My heart pounded, I shook like a leaf in the wind, and sweat poured off me. I lost the grip on the hook three times—gripping, pulling, and then falling back down. But on the fifth try, on the one I was going to quit after, I heaved my body up, pushed through a pressure in the back of my head that felt like someone was driving a spike through it, and fell hard to the concrete floor.
I heard my left ankle snap, and the pain was instantaneous. If I’d had my regular strength, I could have compensated for my descent. But as weak as I was, I slipped, and it was over. I crawled to the doorway because I wasn’t ready to put any weight on it.
Hearing voices, I rolled sideways and waited.
“You get the water. I’ll go call the doc and tell him that he’s ready for him.”
“Good.”
Only one man reached the door and noticed it was open. He pushed it open and leaned in. “Dr. Hartley, are you already in—”
He went down hard when I grabbed his left ankle and tripped him face forward. But even with how hard he hit, he still had his gun out when he rolled over. I took that easily; I was trained for the contingency, but in so doing, I missed the spear-point knife. It was only five inches long, but when it was buried in my right shoulder, it hurt like hell. When he shoved on it, making the cut longer, I threw an elbow to his face, and that time he hit the ground with enough force to knock him out. I sat there for a long moment before I searched his pockets and came up with my salvation. Not an Uzi or more mags for his Beretta 92FS, but instead, his iPhone.
I couldn’t get Ian because the phone was password-protected, but as I struggled to my feet, checked the clearance on the gun and the mag, and leaned against the wall, the call to 911 went straight through.
Quickly, efficiently, I rattled off my badge number, explained I was a marshal, and went on to say that I was critically wounded and needed help at my location.
“Stay on the phone with me, marshal,” the operator ordered.
“I can leave the phone on, but I have to put it under my arm so I can have both hands on the gun.”
“Okay.”
“Normally I can shoot with one hand,” I told her.
“Of course.”
“But I’m shakin’ kinda hard right now.”
“Yes, I would suspect so,” she said, taking a breath.
“So you might hear armpit noises.”
“That’s quite all right.”
“Are you sure?” I teased and realized I was bordering on unhinged.
“Yes, marshal,” she answered, her voice soothing. “I wish you could put me on speaker.”
“So do I.”
As if on cue, two guys came hauling ass around the corner, and I dropped them both with shots to the legs and shoulders. I had them throw aside their guns and their phones, and after slowly moving over to them, dragging my fractured ankle behind me, I put the muzzle of my stolen Beretta to the forehead of the closest guy and asked him which way was out.
I was worried I was in some underground bunker or an enormous abandoned warehouse or God knew what, but it so happened that I was being held in a trailer like they had on a construction site, just much bigger, with the bars built into the top of one room. Apparently sheet metal and pipes and other things were usually stacked in them, straight down and then pulled up through the roof for use. What I had thought was a torture chamber was merely functional.
All of that I found out once I was outside in the dirt. I had to thank God it was Arizona. If I was home in Chicago, I would have gotten hypothermia. As it was, at eighty degrees or so at night, I didn’t freeze my balls off, even naked as I was, waiting for the cavalry that the lovely Gloria—the 911 operator—told me was coming.
When I saw lights in the distance, because I heard no sirens I moved faster, hobbling, and after Gloria confirmed that her guys were still ten minutes out—I was up in the foothills somewhere—I got down on my hands and knees and crawled as fast as I could. I didn’t care how much it hurt with the rocks cutting into my skin because nothing was as bad as putting any weight on my ankle. I got torn up scrambling over rocks and between bushes and through thorns and branches, and it was dark out there in the desert. I would have used the flashlight app on the phone, because who didn’t have that, but I was still on the emergency call, so it was me feeling around blindly and soon bleeding. Again. More.
I fell down a short ravine and decided to wait there. My adrenaline was shot, my muscles were done, and I could barely get any air moving in my lungs. At least I still had the gun, so whatever got near me I could kill, even a rattlesnake or wild boar or whatever other kind of animal was out here waiting to prey on me, and that included the kind that walked on two legs. I really hadn’t meant to pass out.
AFTER ALL the trouble I went to to get out of the trailer, I was horrified when I woke up with lights in my eyes and Hartley greeting me.
I jolted hard, struggled against the hands helping him hold me down, and shouted at him to let me go.
“I’m not him, marshal! Please,” the voice gasped, and it hit me that maybe we’d been going over this more than this one time I was aware of. “You have to believe me! Open your eyes! Please! Open them!”
If I could just get up….
“Marshal Jones!”
My name… not the fake one, the real one.
“Open your eyes!”
But what if I was dreaming?
Someone brushed my side and the pain was excruciating. I couldn’t hold in the scream.
“Let me in!”
I instantly stilled because I thought I heard—
“Move!”
I was straining to hear, trying to smell him if I could, anything to not open my eyes.
“I swear to—fuckin’ move!”
“Ian!” I shrieked.
After his frustrated roar, I was released. Everyone let go at once, and I would have fallen off the cot or whatever I was on if Ian hadn’t been there to take my face in his hands and kiss me.
I had no idea that one simple kiss could warm my entire body so thoroughly and fast.
His lips pressed to mine before moving to my cheeks, nose, eyes, forehead, and then made the quick trip back. I wanted to put my tongue in his mouth; I wanted to taste him and remember everything that had been taken away in the past few days.
“I’m so glad he didn’t hurt you or—”
“Quiet now,” he ordered.
“Ian,” I whined, my hands on his wrists, holding on for dear life as his breath mixed with mine.
I opened my eyes a slit. I had to see him.
He was tired, I could tell. There were dark circles under the red-rimmed blue eyes I loved; the normal stubble would be better described as a beard given a couple more days, and his hair was a riot. It was clear Ian Doyle had missed me terribly. It was all over him.
“I need you to stay still so they can check you out and run a tox screen and see what the fuck is under this bandage on your side.”
“He bit me.”
Ian cleared his throat. “I can see that.”
“And he choked me.”
“I know.”
“And he operated on me, too, I think.”
Ian bent close to me. “M—”
“It was Wojno, he was the leak!”
“Yeah, the Feds figured that out already.”
“They did? How did—”
“Could you please stop talking and let these nice people do their jobs.”
“Yeah, but you won’t—”
“I won’t what? Go?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“But what if you get a call?”
“Deployment call, you mean,” he said solemnly, leaning in close to me, nuzzling my cheek, my ear, and kissing along my jaw.
“Yeah.”
“I will not move from your side.”
“Promise.”
“Oh yes. Not on your life.”
“Okay.”
“Good.”
I had to ask, as much as I didn’t want to. “Did they catch him?”
“No, love, he’s in the wind.”
I took that in. “How long was I with him?”
“Four days.”
It had felt like so much longer.
“Breathe,” he whispered.
I nodded.
“I’m here now. You know I’ll protect you. I’m not going anywhere.”
It was good enough for me.
IT WAS later when I heard him speaking soft and low, the tone lulling and resonant, and it wasn’t enough. I wanted to see him so I opened my eyes slowly, carefully because I wasn’t sure what the light situation would be. But the room was dim, it was dark outside and there was only a small bedside lamp on. Ian was at the window looking out as he spoke on his phone.
I watched him, appreciating the strong lines of his frame, the T-shirt he was wearing clung to his broad shoulders and the sculpted muscles in his back and biceps. The faded jeans hugged his lean hips, ass and long, powerful legs. My breath caught as I stared because yes, I knew all about his heart and that made me love him, but the body on the man made my pulse race.
He turned at the sound I made and the smile lit his face.
A throb of arousal rolled through me and I was so glad that everything still worked. Responding to Ian in such a primal way, a physical way, made me feel like me again.
“He’s awake,” he said into the phone, “I have to go, but I’ll send my report later tonight.” And with that he ended the call before crossing the room quickly to me.
I lifted a hand toward him and he took it gently when he reached me, bending to kiss my knuckles before leaning in further to kiss me.
The need for more was instantaneous but he pulled back to look at my face. I wanted him closer, on me, in me… and that was new. Not that I had never thought about Ian topping before but for whatever reason, at the moment, the idea was almost overwhelming for how much I needed him to.
“What’s going on?” I tried to ask, but my voice wasn’t working all that well.
“I think you need some water,” he concluded, turning to the pitcher on the nightstand to the left of him. He filled the cup with the straw and made sure I could drink easily, watching me intently. I drank slowly, and when I’d had enough, I leaned back and cleared my throat.
“Hi,” I said hoarsely, smiling at him.
“Hi back,” he sighed, trailing his fingers through my hair, pushing it off my forehead, over and over, languorously, seemingly content to do nothing more.
“Who was on the phone?”
“Kage. I’ve been giving him hourly updates.”
“Is he mad? I bet he’s mad.”
“Yeah, I don’t see either one of us—or anyone who works for him—on a FBI or DEA task force in the near future. Only ops we run that are secure.”
Ian had shaved, and his hair in its usual tapered crewcut was no longer standing on end. He still looked beat, but he was smiling rakishly at me, the lines in the corners of his eyes were crinkling and his lip was curled dangerously, and listening to him talk, with the rumbling growl, was making my body heat. Oh, I needed to heal faster.
“M?”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, but no op is completely secure. Even when we’re in charge of them, shit can happen.”
“I wouldn’t try and play devil’s advocate with Kage right now. He’s kind of pissed at everybody and you don’t want to be on his list.”
“Point taken,” I agreed, taking hold of the hem of his T-shirt, tugging just a little so he moved closer. “So tell me what happened to Hartley.”
Instant scowl. “He was gone when the FBI got to the place where you were held.”
“There were others guys. Did they get them?”
“Everybody was dead when they went in.”
“Oh shit.”
“But we figured that, right? I mean, Hartley, he’s not the forgiving type, and they let you get away. They were dead the second you went out the door.”
It was true.
“What about Wojno?”
“He wasn’t there.”
“Okay. So what’s the next—”
“Enough,” he said gruffly. “There’s marshals and the FBI and the state police and Phoenix PD all out looking for Hartley and Wojno. You and I can’t do shit about that.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I don’t wanna waste time talking about them. I have something else to say.”
Whatever it was couldn’t be good, from his irritated expression, the squint, the frown, and the clenched jaw. “Okay.”
He took a breath. “You gotta marry me.”
It took me a moment, because even though I’d heard him, and what he was saying was amazing, I was also very concerned that he’d lost his mind. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he grumbled, moving his hand to my cheek, stroking over my skin. “But listen, there were decisions that had to be made about you.”
My throat hurt and my mouth was dry, but I was afraid to ask for another sip of water because I didn’t want him to stop talking.
“And they had to get in touch with Aruna,” he said, his voice cracking just a bit. “I was right here, but what I thought, nobody gave a shit about.”
I nodded.
“You want another drink?”
“Yeah,” I croaked.
He poured more water for me, then maneuvered the end of the straw to my lips and watched as I took several sips. Taking a breath after he replaced it on my nightstand, he slipped his hand into mine.
“So will you?”
Could he have looked any more miserable?
“M?”
I chuckled softly. “Listen, I know you were scared, but—”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Ian—”
“Just say okay, you’ll marry me.”
“No.”
His head turned sideways a little, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “No?”
I couldn’t hold back my smile. “You wanna marry me so you get to say what happens to me, and I get that. But you don’t have to—”
“No, I—”
“We can get a power of attorney and—”
“You wanted to marry me before you were kidnapped,” he said defensively.
“And you didn’t,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, but now I do.”
I shook my head. “You wanna have a say—the say—and I’m telling you, you can have it. You don’t have to put a ring on my finger just to be the guy who’s in charge of pulling or not pulling the plug.”
“Miro—”
“It’s okay,” I soothed him, lifting my hand to his face. “God, I’m so glad to see you.”
He closed his eyes a moment, leaning into my hand, and then sighed deeply as his gaze met mine. “I thought the marriage thing was stupid.”
“I know you did, and do.”
“Yeah, but now I’m thinking I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s put this whole discussion on hold until you figure it out, okay?”
“But I wanna be… closer.”
“Oh, marshal, you have no idea how much I want that.”
It took him a second. “I’m unburdening my heart and you’re being pervy.”
I didn’t want to laugh because it hurt. “Ow-ow-ow… stop.”
“You’re thinking about sex.”
“What?” I teased innocently.
“Jesus, only you.”
“Come here and kiss me,” I mumbled, my energy level dipping, making it hard to keep my eyes open.
“I think you need to rest.”
God, I was tired. “Yeah, okay,” I agreed, hearing my voice crack as I closed my eyes. “But kiss me first.”
His lips brushed my forehead.
“Not what I mean,” I yawned in conclusion.
“I know,” he agreed huskily, pressing his lips to my temple. “Sleep now.”
“You’re staying, right?”
“Yes, love, you don’t have to worry.”
And I didn’t. It was Ian after all.
THERE WERE things that surprised me and things that did not. Like I was not shocked to find Ian passed out on one of those recliners beside my bed when I woke up, but I was surprised that one of my best friends, Dr. Catherine Benton, was standing there hovering over me, resembling a wrung-out old mop.
“You look terrible,” I commented, my voice scratchy, full of gravel.
“Well, you’re not looking so hot yourself,” she volleyed, never missing a beat.
“Why’re you in scrubs?” I asked, wondering why she was there.
She stepped closer, brushed my hair back from my face, and then bent and kissed my forehead. “Because I just operated on you,” she answered when she straightened.
“How come?”
“That man took a rib out of your body and I wanted to make sure there were no sharp edges left inside,” she said flatly.
I grinned up at her. “Who called ya?”
She lifted an eyebrow.
Shit. “Aruna,” I answered my own question.
“Yep. She’s your emergency contact; she’s who they called to ask what to do.”
“And she called you like a second later.”
“As she should have,” she answered.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s worried, as were we all.”
By all she meant my coven, Catherine and the three other women who had been my family since college. “But you told them I’m okay.”
“And they all agreed to stay home as long as I made the trip.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course,” she murmured, glancing over at Ian.
It was ridiculous, but I sighed deeply. “He’s pretty, huh?”
“Gorgeous, yes.”
“I think he loves me.”
“Yes, I would agree.”
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I wanna marry him.”
“You already got him moved in. I think you’re on the right track.”
Thinking for a moment, I looked down at the hospital gown, the cast on my left leg from right below the knee down, and then returned my gaze to her face. “I’m kind of out of it.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Is that why I’m so calm?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think I’m stoned.”
She waggled her eyebrows at me.
“Hartley gave me drugs when he had me too.”
“He certainly did.”
“It’s why I didn’t die from sepsis or something when he took the rib, right?”
“I refuse to give that psychopath credit for anything,” she replied, her voice icy. “I don’t even believe in the death penalty, but in his case… I’m ready to make an exception.”
“No, you’re not.”
She went quiet a moment, thinking. “No, I’m not. I’m sure I could think of many more creative alternatives to death.”
I reached for her hand and she grabbed it tight. “Siddown.”
She perched beside me, and I finally noticed how tired she looked. “My fault, I’m sorry.”
“For what? Being kidnapped? Really?”
“You really do look terrible.”
“I know. Normally I’m stunning.”
She was right, she normally was. With her long, thick black hair swept up into a side braid with a low bun, her eyelashes so perfect they appeared fake, and the slightest blush to her cheeks, she was a goddess in the flesh. Even in pale blue scrubs she was usually quite alluring, and now that I was really studying her, I could still see her innate beauty, but her concern, her worry, her fear… for me… had changed her appearance. Furrowed brows, lips set into a tight line, dark circles under her eyes, and how pale she looked all worked together to show me a picture of grief. I’d scared the crap out of her.
“Forgive me.”
“Stop,” she said simply.
“You’re beautiful,” I croaked.
She covered our entwined hands with her other before her gaze met mine. “Stop talking, you’re not strong enough yet.”
“You, then.”
Quick inhale of breath. “He took out your number twelve rib, what’s called a floating rib, and if you have to lose one, that’s the one I’d pick.”
“Okay.”
“It’s called a floating rib, or a false rib, because it’s attached only to the vertebrae, not to the sternum or to any cartilage of the sternum.”
“So?”
“So it’s not like you snapping the ones near the top, this one is small.”
“It was the best one to lose.”
“Right.”
“And so why’d you open me up?”
“I told you already—I wanted to make sure he did it right and that you were okay, nothing punctured inside, nothing bleeding, and nothing left behind. I needed to see for myself.”
“You couldn’t just do an MRI or something?” I prodded. “You had to open me up again for fun?”
“Yes,” she said dryly. “I did it for fun. I’m a sadist, I thought you knew.”
I scoffed. “And?”
“And it looks fine and two other surgeons agreed with me.”
“Okay.”
“I won’t even guess why he needed your rib.”
“Best not to.”
“You had to have been in shock afterwards because the pain would have been unbearable.”
“He gave me lots of drugs.”
“I saw—he had quite the cocktail going.”
“But nothing that could hurt me long-term, right?”
“I think it messed with your memory a little, but other than that, no.”
“What else is wrong?”
She explained that my left ankle was broken, as were the ring finger and pinky on my left hand—that Hartley had already told me about. I was covered in scrapes and bruises; I had a concussion. I’d been stabbed in the shoulder and it had required nineteen stitches to close, but her dear friend, Gavin Booth—who was some kind of miracle-worker plastic surgeon who worked in Scottsdale—had come when she called and sewed up everything on me that needed mending.
“The scarring should be very minimal,” she informed me.
“I don’t care.”
“I do,” she retorted sharply. “It’s bad enough this animal had you. I won’t allow him to leave any marks.”
“He took a rib.”
“And no one can see that from the outside, but scars they could,” she said adamantly, and I could see how upset she was getting. I really had scared her to death, and she hated that. She liked things she could control; it was why she was a neurosurgeon. “Now it’s your story to share or not, as you see fit.”
“Okay,” I soothed her, squeezing her hand tight.
We were quiet a moment.
“So how come they let a neurosurgeon operate on me?”
“Because I’m good,” she snarled.
“Okay, okay.” I chuckled “So am I gonna live?”
“Of course,” she assured me with a glare.
“Good,” I sighed as I closed my eyes. “Tell me before you go home, okay?”
“Yes, dear.”
I felt her lips on my forehead again before I fell asleep.
SHE STAYED three days and then had to go home to her job and husband. It was for the best; she was driving my physician bonkers and annoying the crap out of Ian. Catherine had a way of getting under your skin, and even though she was really trying with him, she blamed Ian for not being with me on the op. Had he been closer, maybe I wouldn’t have been taken. It was nuts because it was no one’s fault, particularly not his, but she needed someone to blame and he was handy. But really, he blamed himself enough as it was, not missing even one opportunity to berate his own actions.
“So,” I began, because my friend was gone and we could talk freely. “Any news on Hartley?”
“He’s still at large,” he answered woodenly.
“Ah.”
“You like that? It’s how the FBI announces shit. Dr. Craig Hartley is still at large.”
“And?”
“He’s considered very dangerous though not armed.”
“I see.”
“You know how we know he’s not?”
“Not what?”
“Armed, idiot.”
I snorted. “Tell me.”
“Because your gun was recovered at the scene.”
“No shit?” I was happy for some ridiculous reason. “You have my gun?”
He nodded. “I have your gun.”
“Why is that such good news?”
“Because it’s one more thing he didn’t take.”
Exactly. “Yeah.”
He stared at me a moment and then stalked over to the window. “You know this whole thing… Phoenix—” Ian fumed as he turned and paced my room, “—was a disaster from the beginning. We should have stayed home.”
“Which would have worked if there was no big-ass scary leak the size of Cleveland in the mix,” I countered.
“This is the furthest from funny that something could be.” His voice was dark and the accompanying snarl warned that he should not be teased.
I went ahead and baited him. “You didn’t have to come.”
“This is fuckin’ serious.”
“I know.”
“You could have died!”
“I know,” I agreed, waiting for him to get closer.
“You were—I couldn’t—” he rasped, pacing closer to the bed. “You were gone. You just disappeared. It took a minute to lose you.”
“I wasn’t lost. I was taken.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” His voice got big.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Don’t say that to me,” he warned.
“You didn’t have—”
“I’m not kidding!”
“You didn’t—”
“Miro!”
“You—”
“This is funny to you?” He was incredulous, and it showed in his flushed face, furrowed brows, and hands balled into fists.
I shrugged with one shoulder, since the other one was covered in bandages and tape.
He moved fast and hovered over me, hands on either side of my head. Up close, I saw the pain in his eyes, how puffy they were, raw and red, and the slight tremble in his lower lip, the muscles cording in his jaw and neck. I heard how rough his breathing was.
“Miro,” he rasped.
I slipped my hands around the sides of his neck and slowly lifted toward him.
“It’s not—I can’t—you’re not replaceable.”
“I know,” I said, smiling as I brushed my lips over his.
“It’s not funny.”
“No,” I agreed, coaxing, my voice husky as I kissed him again, longer the second time, my tongue running over his bottom lip.
He shuddered, the full body kind, and I felt the roll of desire tumble through me. His need was obvious; he had to be shown that I was okay, and me holding him down was necessary. The problem was, at the moment, I couldn’t.
“I was gonna give up,” I confessed, and when he leaned back, I saw how focused on me he was, listening. “But then I thought, that’s not me. I don’t do that, and Ian, you, would miss me. I’m not just your partner at home, in bed. I’m your partner on the job and I have your back.”
He nodded slightly.
“So there was no choice. I had to get back to you.”
His eyes filled. “There was nothing I could do.”
Oh, he was hurt down deep. “Are you sorry?”
“What?”
I had to dig it out of him or it would fester and become something we couldn’t get past. “Are you sorry you started up with me?”
He squinted, obviously lost.
“If you didn’t love me, it wouldn’t have felt like that.”
He searched my face.
“But… if you didn’t love me,” I repeated, slower, “it wouldn’t have felt like that.”
It took him several breaths to answer as I petted the sides of his neck and kissed his left temple and his right cheek and nuzzled the corner of his mouth. “Yeah.”
I lifted both eyebrows, questioning. “Yeah, what?”
“Yeah, it’s worth it,” he growled. “Yeah, I felt like I couldn’t fuckin’ breathe, but—I wouldn’t change it or… even if I could go back, I wouldn’t.”
“You could change it now,” I apprised him. “We could go back to being—”
“That would be easy for you?”
“That would fuckin’ kill me,” I swore, gripping him tighter. “But you have to know what you can do, what you can gamble on and what you can live with. I do it whenever you’re deployed. I hold my breath the whole time you’re gone.”
I saw it hit him, the reality of what I was telling him, the truth of it. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting him go. “You think it’s your job and it sucks being away from me and your life, but for me—it’s like that.”
“’Cause you don’t know.”
I nodded. “I never have any idea when you’ll be back.”
“Or if.”
“I don’t do ‘if,’” I retorted, suddenly annoyed. “I never do ‘if.’”
We were silent, staring at each other.
“Okay,” he finally said.
“Okay, what?”
“Don’t be so quick to offer me an out next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Make sure,” he grumbled as he leaned in and kissed me, tipping my head back and opening my mouth.
Dominant Ian full of hunger was a huge turn-on, and my dick noticed, hardening fast.
“Miro?” he asked before he kissed me again, continuing his lazy, decadent assault, each drugging kiss becoming another and another, sucking on my tongue, feasting on my lips, pressing me down, his warm hand on my chest. When he tried to pull back, I fisted my hand in his Henley and held him where he was. “Oh, you want me,” he said arrogantly, breaking the kiss to grin at me, bumping my nose with his.
“Could you—” I had to swallow hard to get my voice back. “Get in my lap?”
His chuckle was deep and sexy, and I couldn’t stifle my groan. “I’m sorry, what did you need?”
I squirmed on the bed, which made him smile, and to see it with how wrecked he looked made me deliriously happy. It was clear that Ian Doyle loved me very much. I could see it all over him.
“Just lay there and be good and don’t tease me. You have at least three more days until you’re even out of here, let alone ready to engage in any sexual intercourse.”
“What if I get a note from the doctor?”
He shook his head. “That fuck took a rib out of you,” he finished, and I saw the pain flicker across his face.
“No-no-no.” I stopped him, hooking my hand on the collar of the Henley and trying to yank him down to me. “Stay hot for me. Focus on that, focus on me.”
“M—”
“Ian,” I begged, hand around the back of his neck, slipping up into his hair. “Don’t get so caught up in what could have been that you lose track of what is.”
“No, I know.”
“I’m here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re happy?”
“That’s a stupid fuckin’—”
“Tell me,” I demanded.
He took a shaky breath. “Yeah, I’m happy.”
“Well, then,” I said before I drew him down to me.
I made enough noise after he ravished my mouth, with endless pleading and suggestions about how he could draw the curtains and lock the door, that he had to stuff a pillow over my face to get me to be quiet. It wasn’t my fault. I really wanted to go home.