OPENING THE front door of the Greystone townhouse Ian and I had done some work on over the summer—we’d painted the doors and cornice a deep purple-red, trimmed the boxwood hedges, and put in window boxes—I was happy to see his duffel bag and boots lying on the floor in the middle of the living room. The dog beat me to him since I had to close and lock the door behind me. Chickie rushed across the space, whimpering and whining, and flung himself at his master, knocking him down onto the couch hard.
“Stupid dog,” Ian said affectionately, laughing as he hugged his werewolf. If I didn’t know what I was looking at, it would have been scary. The licking looked like mauling, and honestly, if Chickie wanted, Ian was dog food.
I hung up my jacket on one of the pegs we’d added to the entryway and put my keys and wallet on the ledge above it before toeing off my sneakers. Ian had made changes to try to get me moving faster in the morning. He timed my rituals, which included putting product in my hair and figuring out what I was going to wear, and had made improvements. One of his biggest changes had been to put things by the front door: keys on hooks, badges on chains as well, wallets on the shelf above, IDs, earpieces, and pens in the cup. The only items that didn’t live there now were phones and guns, and I had to give it to him, not having to hunt all over the house had sped up our exodus each day.
“Hey.”
When I turned, Ian was standing there barefoot in frayed jeans and a plain white T-shirt, holding out his arms for me. Chickie was eating, which was good, and noisily slurping water.
Moving fast, I lunged when I was close enough, catching him hard—but more gently than the dog had—hugging him tight, soaking up the contact and the heat I was wrapped in as Ian squeezed me back.
“Fuck, I’m so happy you’re home,” I choked out, shivering with the feel of him, the strength of his body and the smell of his skin.
He turned and kissed behind my ear, my cheek, under my jaw, my chin, and then thrust his tongue in my mouth as he took me in a frantic, devouring kiss.
My brain shorted out because it was still new and still a dream: Ian all over me, easing me down onto the couch, following close, never breaking contact, pinning me under him. The movement was seamless, fluid, and the kiss deepened, became wild, ravenous, making me clutch at his back, dig my hands into the powerful muscles to keep him there, close to me. His knee wedged between my thighs, parting them, and I opened them wider so he could rest there, all of him on me, my feet on the backs of his calves.
I reached down between us and found the hard line of his cock straining against only denim before sliding my fingers under the waistband of his jeans, realizing instantly there was no other barrier there.
Quickly, with deft fingers, I unbuttoned his fly and worked the zipper down quickly, his erection filling my hand as I squeezed tight. The noise he made was pure ruthless need as he jolted forward, wanting the friction, driving into my fist as he ground out my name.
“You missed me,” I said, trying to keep the smugness out of my tone as I stroked his dripping shaft.
His lashes lifted languorously as though he was drugged, and I was drowning in deep, dark blue. “I missed you,” he whispered in agreement.
“Get your ass in my bed,” I demanded, then softened my command with, “please.”
“No,” he said, his breath catching, shoving his hand behind one of the couch cushions and pulling out a small bottle of lube. “Here.”
He pushed it at me. The fact that he’d had the foresight to put it there because he wanted me to take him on the couch was crazy hot. His desire for me was a gift.
“Get off me,” I said, my voice gravelly and low.
“When?” he asked. Beads of precum rolled over my fingers as I continued to fondle his rock-hard erection.
“Now, idiot.” I snickered, letting him go and trying to wriggle out from under him at the same time.
“I want you to… I want—” he rasped as he stood up beside me. “Miro.”
Twisting free, I got up behind him, shoved him forward, bent him over the couch cushions, and rucked his T-shirt up at the same time I shucked his jeans to his ankles. He lifted one foot free so he could widen his stance, and I flipped open the bottle of lube.
“Hurry,” he pleaded, and I heard the hard edge to his voice, the frustration mixed with the desire riding him.
“We should go slow. You’ve been gone.”
“Screw that, just show me,” he begged.
I didn’t need to ask—I knew. He wanted me to show him that I’d missed him.
Slicking my cock fast, I clicked the bottle closed before dropping it to the wood floor. There would be no prep, no slow loosening of his muscles; it wasn’t what he wanted or needed.
“Miro,” he choked out, gripping the front of the couch tight, letting his head fall forward and lifting his ass, wanting me there, ready.
Taking hold of my painfully hard dick, I guided the dark, flared head to his entrance and pressed slowly inside.
The garbled noise he made worried me.
“Are you okay?” I asked, curling over him, my lips on his back, licking, kissing, and finally sucking.
“Yes,” he groaned sweetly. “Just—I missed you being inside.”
And I’d missed being there. “Hold on, baby.”
“You feel so good. I need you to move… faster.”
His body would not get time to adjust to the intrusion, I couldn’t wait even seconds more. I thrust into him hard and hot, burying myself to the balls in one snap of my hips, his clenching muscles unable to keep me from the breach. The inexorable slide, me filling him, all at once, had taken his breath.
“Fuck,” he growled, muscles cording as he squeezed the frame of the couch, bracing there.
Slipping out a fraction, I shoved back inside, stuffing him full, my flesh slapping against his, the powerful motion making him call out my name.
“Miro, just fuckin’ use me.”
Taking hold of his hips, I began a slow, rhythmic deep pumping, driving to the hilt over and over, loving the feel of the slick heat rippling around me as well as knowing that it was Ian taking me in, wanting me.
“Miro, I can’t—”
“You can,” I ground out. “Don’t you dare come.”
“But I’m so close.”
“Yes,” I agreed, convulsing all at once, no warning, simply there, climaxing deep inside his body.
He shivered as he held on through my aftershocks and my withdrawal, the cum dripping from his ass to between his thighs.
“Miro,” he whispered as I sank to my knees behind him.
“Turn around and feed it to me.”
He moved with all the coiled power in him, pivoting as I parted my lips, and shoved his thick, heavy cock into my mouth. It was lucky I had no gag reflex to speak of, or he would have choked me without thought. As it was, I sucked and laved, swallowing around his length as he grabbed hold of my hair and held me in place.
“Take it all,” he growled roughly as he smothered my face in his groin.
I made the suction strong and felt him tremble against me. As much as Ian enjoyed me buried in him, watching my lips stretch around his cock never failed to get him off. He liked it too much, exerting power over me while he watched.
“S’good,” he groaned before exploding down the back of my throat.
I swallowed fast, not breathing, only drinking, realizing after long moments that I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears as air went from a low priority to the only priority. It was a fight to get loose. He had me and he wanted me there, sucking his dick. But I shoved him back and gulped oxygen, slumping to the floor, my arms spread across the seat cushions of the couch.
He followed, sliding into my lap, straddling my hips, his saliva and cum-slick cock trailing a wet line down my abdomen as his ass wedged over my groin.
“I know why you didn’t let me come,” he said raggedly, his voice hoarse as he took my face in his callused hands.
“Why’s that?” I teased, licking my lips, semen in the corners.
“’Cause you didn’t want me to make a mess on the fuckin’ couch,” he said with a snort.
I nodded, grinning at him.
He released a low growl before tilting my head back to kiss my throat, making me laugh.
“Fuckin’ Miro,” he griped, kissing me, tasting himself in my mouth, licking me clean, sucking on my tongue until there was no air in my lungs and I was left panting.
“You sound mad,” I said, chuckling, my hands on his granite thighs. “But I’m being rewarded, so I’m getting conflicting messages.”
With a firm hand buried in my hair, he held my head in place, pinned to the couch cushion, and continued his sensual onslaught. He kissed me slow and deep, each kiss longer than the last until I lost track of starting and stopping, knowing only Ian and his hot, wet, ravaging mouth on mine. There were things I wanted to say, to tell him, but I couldn’t keep a thought in my head as every inch of skin he touched felt branded by the hard grip of his hands on my body.
I couldn’t stop him, even for air, but my stomach growled loudly, breaking the spell. I groaned and leaned back, severing the suction of our lips, laughing at the same time.
“You want me to stop kissing and feed you?” he asked softly, biting my bottom lip, tugging gently before leaning back to meet my gaze.
“No,” I insisted, sliding a hand around the side of his neck and easing him close until his bruised, swollen lips hovered over mine. “Kiss me some more.”
His smile was deliciously evil as he bent and took my mouth again. I would have gotten another kiss after that one, but the doorbell rang and startled us both.
“Miro?” someone yelled through the door. “Are you home?”
“Who the fuck is that?” Ian growled.
My phone, on the ledge by the door where I normally didn’t leave it, rang a second later, and moments after that, whoever it was started knocking. I’d left my gun there as well, more intent on getting to Ian than putting it away in my nightstand.
“Why is there some—”
“It’s Drake,” I said quickly.
“Drake? Why?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. He called me yesterday and asked if he could come by. Apparently there’s a new thing.”
“Oh, fuck, no,” Ian growled, letting his head thunk down on my shoulder.
I couldn’t stifle my laughter.
“What the fuck is wrong with them now?” he asked as his phone rang.
Only one way to find out.
“THIS IS stupid,” my partner, lover, and best friend said for the sixth time.
“I heard you the other five times,” I replied drolly as we walked down Wabash toward Exchequer, the restaurant where Cabot Jenner—now Cabot Kincaid—worked as a waiter. He’d gotten the job because it was close to where he went to school at the Art Institute and he had to work for the first time in his life after he’d gone into witness protection with his boyfriend, Drake, formerly Ford, now Palmer, who was walking a good twenty feet in front of us. He was in a hurry—he always was when he went to meet his boyfriend.
Drake and Cabot—both eighteen, going to school, and hailing from a small town in Virginia—had been thrust into the hustle and bustle of downtown Chicago. Cabot, who I’d thought would be the one having trouble, was doing great. Drake, on the other hand, was floundering.
Two months in, Drake was sure Cabot was cheating on him. It was not the case.
Three months in, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go to school. I told him that while he figured it out, he should stay in school. Since that made some semblance of sense, he stayed.
Four months in, he thought Cabot wanted to move out. What Cabot really wanted was to try out new things in the bedroom—like different kinds of toys. Ian had nearly killed them both.
“Deep breaths,” I’d cautioned at the time as I left him on the street and went into the sex shop with Cabot.
Five months in, Cabot was promoted from his busboy position to a waiter and found his niche: talking to people. With his golden hair and skin, big blue eyes, fragile and delicate features, and sunny personality, women tipped him, men tipped him, and he made friends at the drop of a hat. Between school and work, Drake felt like Cabot was slipping away. That had not been strictly true. They were both changing quite a bit, but while Drake was growing only scholastically, Cabot was changing into a social butterfly. He’d always been sheltered by his parents in the past, with country clubs and dressage and security and an impenetrable wall of money. Now the real Cabot was on display, the one who wasn’t only Drake’s “boy” and who was more than ready to stand on his own two feet.
Now, at six months, Drake had called me and said, “I think Cabot wants his own space.” So I had to go and check it out. I had agreed to go mediate before I knew Ian was coming home.
“It’s not our place to talk to a witness to determine if he does or does not need fuckin’ space from our other asshole witness.”
“It is if the answer jeopardizes their protection status,” I corrected, waving at Drake to go on and not turn around and come back to us. Ian was newly home; I wanted him all to myself for at least another minute.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“But you don’t know for certain.”
He stopped walking to look at me. “I want to go home. I want to go back to bed. I want a long shower with you like we took before I left.”
Ian Doyle absolutely loved me on my knees with his dick shoved down my throat. He was addicted to seeing me submit to him. I would have thought the desire would translate to him wanting to top, but so far in our relationship, he enjoyed me holding him down.
“All that is yours the second this is done,” I promised, lifting my hand to his cheek and running my thumb gently over the stubble-covered skin. “You look so tired. You should just go home and take a nap. I’ll bring you back some dinner.”
He shook his head, leaning away from my hand. “Not without you. All I’ve been thinkin’ about for three weeks is lying on the couch, watching TV with my head in your lap and listening to Chickie snore.”
“He farts too,” I reminded him, throwing an arm around his shoulder and dragging him close to me.
“If you ate that much, you would too.”
The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, made me laugh.
“What?” he asked, gifting me with a lazy grin that tightened things low in my body.
“You’re funny.”
“Only to you,” he sighed.
“Maybe,” I agreed as we closed in on our destination.
Exchequer looked lifeless from the outside, even with the jaunty canopy over the entrance, but once inside, the place was huge. And yes, there were names carved into some of the tables, but supposedly Al Capone himself had eaten there a million years ago, they served great pizza, and it was one of the places I could get deep dish and Ian thin crust so we didn’t have to rock-paper-scissors for who would be disappointed.
We asked to be seated in Cabot’s section, and when he saw us, he jogged over to the table and planted a big wet kiss on Drake before turning to us with a big smile. I was on the outside of the booth, so he toppled into me, head down on my shoulder, hugging me tight.
The pointed look I gave Drake made him grimace as Ian ordered us beers and Drake a giant Coke.
“I can’t bring the beers, guys,” Cabot said, straightening up, hand brushing the hair back out of Drake’s eyes, “but I’ll have Terry bring ’em right out.”
He knew what pizza we’d order—it was always the same—and when he bolted away, Ian leaned forward and smacked Drake on the side of the head.
“Fuck, Ian, what was that for?”
“For this, you stupid sonofabitch!” he grouched. “He loves you. He’s into you, and you need to pull your head out of your ass and stop worrying about what he’s doing and focus on you.”
Drake nodded, slowly looking up at us. “I just—the other day he introduced me to some of his friends from school, and when I told them I go to the University of Chicago, they were like ‘Really? You go there? How did you get in?’ I was freaking out. I had no idea getting in was like getting into Harvard or Yale or something. Everyone wants to know how I swung it.”
“Tell them grades, test scores, and extracurriculars,” Ian replied quickly.
“Why couldn’t you guys have enrolled me at Loyola or UIC or DePaul or—”
“You need to slow your roll,” I cautioned him. “Where is all this coming from?”
He shook his head.
“You feel like you don’t belong there?”
His eyes met mine. “I feel like Cabot would have fit in better there.”
“I went there,” I told him. “And it’s a big place, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, just crossing the Quad for the first time is like, where the fuck am I going.”
He made a noise of agreement.
“But pretty soon you’ll know Cobb Hall like the back of your hand, and everything else, going to The Reg is—”
“The what?”
“The Regenstein Library,” I teased. I knew he’d been there because I met him in front of it the last time I picked him up to take him over to The Medici to eat. “You’ll know all the ins and outs pretty soon, just give yourself some damn time.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Good,” I said, smiling at him as Cabot returned with Drake’s pop and Terry, Cabot’s coworker, put down two bottles of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, one for me and one for Ian.
“If we were home, we could have the beer I like,” Ian muttered.
I leaned sideways, bumping his shoulder with mine. “We’ll be home soon, I swear.”
His grunt was grouchy, but the hand on my thigh under the table, possessive and firm, told me what I needed to know. The promise of home meant the world to him.
As I took a sip of my beer, I noticed Cabot in the kitchen, caught up against a wall by the same guy who had delivered our beers. He had his hand on Terry’s chest, and it looked uncomfortable. Cabot was clearly distressed, and the thought of that made my stomach roll even as I saw the older man walk away from him.
Excusing myself, I got up and walked straight to the back. Cabot smiled when he saw me.
“Miro, I put the pizzas in.”
“Perfect,” I said, passing him quickly and walking up on Terry, who was now punching orders into a POS.
He was taller than me, but I had muscle on him, lots of it, and so when I grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall, he didn’t move. Instead he immediately began pleading.
“Miro,” Cabot gasped, frightened for his job, I was sure.
“Listen to me,” I said, leaning in close beside Terry’s ear so I could deliver my threat in a whisper. “If you ever put your hands on Cabot again, eye fuck him, or even smile in a way that’s pervy, I will come back here and rip out your lungs. Are we clear?”
He nodded quickly.
“Are you sure?”
More nodding.
“Excellent,” I huffed, letting him go, leaning back so he could map my frame and get an idea of the muscle I had that he didn’t. Normally I didn’t go in for intimidation tactics, but in this case, it was necessary.
His eyes flitted to look everywhere but at me. After a moment, I turned, took hold of Cabot’s bicep, and walked him back out to the dining floor with me.
“Miro, I could have handled—”
“Drake’s worried that you’re thinking of moving out because you need space, but it’s not that at all. You’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with Terry without having to tell Drake, and it’s been weighing on you, huh, kid?”
He was holding his breath, but after a moment, he gave up. “Yeah,” he confessed, staring at his shoes like they were important.
“Look at me.”
His gaze flicked up to meet mine.
“You have a problem, any kind of problem—money, scary neighbors, older guys pawing you, a teacher who hits on you, or Drake freaking out—you tell me. That’s what I’m here for, to remove obstacles.”
“Okay,” he agreed.
“Whatever it is,” I insisted, “I’ll take care of it. And yes, it’s my job, but you and Drake are a special case for me and Ian. You know that.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, okay.”
“So talk to Drake and clear the air, all right?”
“I will.”
“Good. Now get me some food before I pass out.”
He chuckled and returned to the kitchen as I rejoined Ian and Drake.
“Something wrong?” Ian asked as I slid in beside him, his hand immediately sliding over my upper thigh. It was intimate and sexy, and when he leaned in to listen to whatever I had to say, his breath on my ear gave me goose bumps.
“No,” I managed to get out. “Cabot’s bringing out our food soon.”
“That’s good,” Ian rumbled, his voice like a caress.
“Let’s go home after this.”
“Good idea,” he agreed quickly, his fingers tracing over the inseam of my jeans.
Ian, who had never been sensual in the past, had become sex on two legs. Ever since we first started sleeping together, he thrummed with a new understanding of how his body responded to pleasure, and the new ease with which he carried himself was irresistible. Ian had always been gorgeous, but now he oozed confidence and the promise of wicked pleasure. I wanted him under me again as soon as possible.
“Excuse me.”
We all looked up and there, hovering over us, was a man I didn’t know and Terry, whom I had just assaulted in the kitchen.
“I need you to leave,” the man directed. “I’m Brad Rigby, the assistant manager here, and you—”
“What’s the problem?” Ian asked, pulling his ID from the breast pocket of his leather jacket and flipping it open.
Brad blanched when he realized Ian was a federal marshal.
“Did you want to check his out too?” Ian asked, scowling, tipping his head at me. “Or are we good here?”
It was hard for someone to back down after they’d been charged up, adrenaline pumping, for a fight. Brad was doing his job, defending his employee; he simply didn’t know that his guy was the one in the wrong.
Six months ago, Ian would have climbed over me to get out of the booth, physically pushed Brad, and backed him into a corner. The Ian sitting beside me now let Brad collect himself and back down.
I knew it was because of me. Because I loved him, because he had a home, because he was no longer a stray, it wasn’t necessary for him to win at everything anymore. He didn’t have to be the scariest and toughest. He could be himself, not only strong and brave, but also kind and gentle. Ian was now grounded and secure. He wasn’t angry all the time. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone because I was the only one who mattered. If only he’d realize getting married was the logical next step in that transformation.
“Well?” Ian pressed the manager, bringing my attention to the present.
Brad swallowed hard. “I thought your partner threatened my guy.”
“Yeah, no,” Ian said flatly. “That’d never happen.”
“I understand.”
“Good,” Ian replied, nodding.
When both men turned, Cabot was there with our pizzas. His boss smiled at him, told him he was doing a good job, and walked away with Terry in tow.
“What was that about?” Drake asked his boyfriend.
Cabot put the pizzas, my deep dish and then Ian’s thin crust, down on the trivets already on the table, and his gaze met Drake’s. “The short version is: I messed up and didn’t tell you that I was having trouble here.”
Drake reached for Cabot, who immediately took the offered hand and allowed himself to be eased down next to him.
“Forgive me. I’ve just never been hit on before.”
Drake nodded.
“I had no idea what to do,” Cabot said, taking Drake’s face in his hands. “I didn’t want you coming down here all pissed off, and, I mean, I’m an adult, right? I should be able to handle my own crap.”
“But you should always be able to tell me anything.”
“Yes,” Cabot agreed, his eyes doing the melting thing they always did around Drake. He was completely smitten, and Drake needed to start believing in that. Their entire relationship had begun with him in denial that a prince could ever really want him. Now, finally, he had to start believing he was a catch, too, before his insecurity drove Cabot away.
“From now on, no more secrets,” Drake said, turning his head to kiss Cabot’s palm. “Swear.”
Cabot nodded, catching his breath, seemingly unable to speak. The hug they shared said it all.
“Can you guys break it up so I can eat?” Ian grumbled, unrolling his fork and knife not because he needed either but because the napkin was necessary. “And take your break, Cab, and sit the fuck down.”
Some things didn’t change.