Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (7 page)

“Okay,” I agreed, sighing as I accepted another kiss, “okay.”

“I wanna go home,” he said raggedly, and when I reached down between us and rubbed over his rock-hard cock straining against his zipper, his moan was sweet.

“You want me bad,” I teased, tilting his head and licking the base of his throat.

“Don’t gloat,” he cautioned, twisting around to flop down into his seat and then gripping the steering wheel tight. Moments later he called Kohn and told him we were back.

“Hold on, I’ma put you on speaker ’cause Jer wants to—”

“That was fast. What’d you eat?” Kowalski wanted to know.

“Nothing,” Ian said, his voice brittle with annoyance. He wanted to leave.

“Ohhh-kay, so—oh, wait. We have movement on the north side of the house. Everyone hold position.”

We were out front, so we couldn’t see anything.

“Shit!” Kohn yelled. “Go-go-go—suspect is fleeing on foot down 77th Street east toward Racine.”

Ian exploded from the car and took off running. I had no choice but to climb into the driver’s seat and whip the car out from between the two parked ones and into the street. I hated driving when Ian was running, and it was only worse at night when I had a harder time following him.

My phone rang seconds later. “Do you have a visual on Doyle?” I yelled at Kohn. “I can’t see him anywhere!”

“In pursuit down an alley—he’s on Bishop now, headed toward 79th!”

Shit.

I made a U-turn in the middle of the street, much to the annoyance of other drivers if the blaring horns, screeching tires, and yelling was any indication.

“Shit, wait,” Kohn gasped, “it’s Loomis, not Bishop.”

It was good he told me since I had been poised to make a hard left and instead drove by, flying down the street to the next one and turning in, barreling down it probably much faster than I should have. Alleys were dicey; you never knew who could pop out of one of the buildings.

A man was in a dead sprint toward me, and my partner was in quick pursuit. I came to a lurching stop, and as the guy went to veer around me, I threw open the driver’s-side door. He hit it hard, slamming it shut, but it stopped him.

Ian was there a second later, hauling the dazed man roughly to his feet so I could get out. He cuffed him, then spun him around and shoved him against the car.

“This is police brutality,” he gasped.

“We’re not the police,” Ian stated, not even winded from his run, pulling his badge from the inside of his coat so the guy could see the star. “We’re marshals.”

“Shit,” he groaned. “I don’t wanna go back to the joint.”

“Too late,” I replied cheerfully as Kohn and Kowalski came whipping down the alley—we all drove too fast—followed by three police cars, blue lights pulsing, sirens screaming.

We were surrounded in seconds, but Kowalski had more important things on his mind than the apprehended fugitive.

“Did you guys really eat?” Jer wanted to know before anything else, big bear of a man that he was. He looked like one of those powerlifters in the Olympics, all barrel chested and huge. In contrast was his partner: sleek, metrosexual Eli Kohn, who apparently took a new woman home every single night. I always wondered where he got the energy.

“What?” Ian asked, clearly annoyed.

“What? Why you gotta say it like that? I was gonna treat for dinner, but not if you’re gonna be a prick. I’ll take your partner and leave your ass here.”

Ian’s scowl got darker, and I apologized for him and said we’d love to have dinner at any restaurant of Jer’s choosing.

“There, ya see, douchebag—that’s how not to be a dick.”

“Where’s Sergeant Joyner?” I asked everyone around me.

“Here,” she called out, striding up to me as the men cleared a path.

I passed her the fugitive’s wallet when she reached me. “I release into your custody one Derek LaSalle, formerly of Gresham, Oregon, wanted for assault and battery.”

Sergeant Adele Joyner out of the Portland PD was more than happy to take him off our hands. “Thank you,” she said, shaking my hand and then Ian’s. “Without these task forces, I’d never pick up the criminals who aren’t involved in our open cases.”

It was true. Most cops were so busy not drowning in their day-to-day caseload that people who evaded capture, ran to other states, or crossed jurisdictional lines slipped through the cracks. Many PDs didn’t have the resources or manpower to simply follow a fugitive across the country. But what they could do was bring their missing violent criminals to the marshals service, and we would form what basically amounted to a posse made up of federal, state, and local law enforcement personnel to hunt down whoever they were after. Joyner had approached the marshals in Portland, and they had in turn accessed case records in Chicago and found a lead on her fugitive. The rest was simply waiting and watching.

“I appreciate this so much, gentlemen.”

“It’s our job,” Ian assured her.

“It is,” I agreed.

“So tell me a good place to eat before we go back to the hotel.”

I suggested Girl & The Goat downtown, but Ian wanted meat and beer so we decided on Trenchermen over on North Avenue. I’d taken him once before and the hanger steak there was his new favorite thing. Sadly, when I called to check, the dining room was closed, and since it was past 10:00 p.m., our options were dwindling. Ian’s second idea was Mexican, El Charro over on Milwaukee Ave. He went on and on about the extralarge super burrito with scrambled eggs and chorizo until even Kowalski was salivating. Joyner and some others agreed to follow us there.

He was excited to see that the driver’s-side door on the Taurus was caved in from the fugitive’s impact, so we had to have it towed back to our garage. We technically weren’t allowed to drive a vehicle in any condition where the structural integrity could be called into question.

“Gimme a break, it’s fine,” I told Ian. “It’s still drivable. That’s only a ding.”

“It’s a big fuckin’ ding,” Kowalski informed me.

I pointed at Ian. “He just doesn’t wanna drive it anymore.”

“Yeah, I can’t blame him,” Kohn admitted, looking revolted. “It doesn’t scream armed and dangerous, more middle management.”

Kowalski shivered. “I can’t even fit in that.”

I snorted in spite of myself, and Ian cracked a grin. “Fine,” I relented. “We’ll have it towed back so the dent can be banged out.”

Ian’s whoop of happiness made me smile.

“Call it in,” I directed, shaking my head when he hit my abdomen in excitement.

H
EADING
TO
the restaurant, riding in the back seat of the Mercedes Benz that was Kohn and Kowalski’s vehicle, I complained about how slow he was driving.

“Miro’s used to me taking the corners on two wheels.” Ian snickered.

“I try and keep all tires on the road at all times,” Kohn affirmed in his superserious voice.

I approved of that, just not the lack of speed. When I complained some more, he actually hit the gas, but not enough to make me happy.

“I could die of old age back here,” I insisted, leaning forward between him and Kowalski. “Lemme drive.”

“Not on your life,” Kohn assured me as his partner put a massive hand on my face and shoved me back.

I turned to Ian. “You gonna let him treat me like that?”

Since he couldn’t stop laughing, I figured my backup was not forthcoming.

After we’d eaten, we walked three doors down to a bar Ian knew, and he and the marshals from Oregon, along with me and Kohn—Kowalski bailed to drive Joyner and one of the other detectives back to their hotel—got down to some serious drinking.

When the stories started getting swapped, I was ready to go. It was well after midnight and we all had to work later today. But Ian got talked into darts and more drinks and finally, around one thirty, I had to take drastic measures.

I caught him coming out of the bathroom as I lay in wait.

“Hey.”

He turned fast, saw me leaning against the exposed brick wall, and strolled over.

“What’re you doin’?”

I shrugged. “I’m beat, so I’m gonna head out.”

“Without me?” he asked, instantly concerned.

“I don’t want to keep you from having a good time.”

He took a breath.

“Unless you’d rather come home with me?” I asked softly, taking hold of his hips and pulling him into me, my eyes locked on his.

“I… yeah,” he rasped, inhaling sharply as I opened my stance, allowing him to push in closer, my thigh sliding between his legs.

“I wanna kiss you,” I promised softly, gently. “But I can’t do that here.”

“But you will at home.”

“Oh yes,” I said, smiling at him.

“Okay, let’s go,” he replied hoarsely.

“Good,” I agreed, glad that we didn’t have to go pick up Chickie from my friends Aruna and Liam, since they’d agreed to keep him overnight. I’d had no idea how long the op would run, so I’d made arrangements.

When we got back to the table, the others wanted to know what bar we were hitting next. I got it, I did, we worked a crazy scary job, and the unwinding was necessary and allowed people to bond. But I was beat and could barely make conversation, let alone sing “Kumbayah” with all of them.

“Actually we’re both going,” Ian apprised them. “Work and all that.”

We were called lightweights, but Kohn called it a night, too, and we caught cabs, Kohn over to Roosevelt and State where he lived in some new high-end apartment building, and me and Ian down to the Loop where we caught a bus out to the Fullerton stop in Lincoln Park. It took longer than a cab would have, but that would have cost a mint. As it was, the walk from the stop to the Greystone was short.

I was about to start telling Ian all the hot sweaty, sticky things I had planned for him the second we got home when his phone rang. As soon as he looked at the caller ID, I saw his face fall.

“Oh no,” I said without meaning to, because I’d had a few drinks. “No-no-no.”

But it was obvious and unchangeable. He was leaving on a mission later this morning—I caught that much listening to his yes-and-no answers—and all we’d have would be a few hours, for God knew how long. His smile after he hung up tried hard to show me that everything was going to be all right.

Once inside, Ian locked the front door before we both took off our jackets and hung them up, and then he turned to say something to me, but I grabbed him instead.

“You’re leaving me again,” I whispered, shoving him against the door, my chest plastered to his back, holding him in place. I caught his left wrist with my right hand and pinned it above his head, using my other to reach up under his shirt and pinch his left nipple, hard.

“Fuck!” he yelled, writhing against me as I pulled him away from the door just enough to run my hand down his abdomen, savoring the feel of his muscles flexing beneath my fingers.

I let go of his wrist and worked open his belt and jeans and got under the elastic of his briefs to take hold of his gorgeous cock, already dribbling precum.

“Someone’s ready for me,” I husked into his ear before he tilted his head back and to the side and offered me his mouth.

I milked his length as I devoured his lips, breaking the kiss only after he was squirming against me.

“Let me—I need to get these down,” he whispered before shoving his jeans to his knees. When he reached behind him and pressed a lube packet into my hand, I was surprised.

“Where the fuck did this come from?” I asked, my voice thick with need as I let go of him, only moving away far enough to shuck my pants and briefs down and slather my dick.

“I carry these for you,” he said, splaying his hands on the door, arching his back, offering me his hard, beautiful body, “just in case.”

“Very smart,” I growled, taking hold of my slicked, seeping dick and pressing slowly into his body.

“Miro!” he gasped, shivering, jolting back against me, impaling himself on my length, pushing in deep, hard, wanting me, needing me to fill him fast, the gentle and slow saved for another time. “I wanna feel it when I’m gone.”

“I would never hurt you,” I whispered, thrusting quickly, holding on to his lean hips tight, dragging myself from him gradually on the retreat, only to piston back inside a moment later.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he rasped brokenly, the yearning there. “Don’t… stop.”

He was slick and hot, and I wanted to be gentle, but he wouldn’t let me.

“Miro, fuckin’—hurry!”

I could do nothing less. His demand, with the dark strain in his voice, the breathless catch, the way he trembled—I wanted all of him.

I drove into him over and over until we were both sticky with sweat and he was braced against the wall with one hand, jerking himself off with the other.

“I’m gonna… come,” he ground out.

I ran my hand up the back of his head into his hair and fisted tight, yanking hard to claim his mouth. He opened for me and I sucked on his tongue, the kiss brutal and desperate. I wanted to absorb him into my skin, have him with me all the time, and it was heartbreaking and joyful all at the same time.

God, I loved him.

His muscles clamped around me as he broke the kiss to yell, spurting onto the door, shuddering against me as my own orgasm followed his and I pumped into him, filling him up, semen dripping hot and thick between us.

I leaned heavily, still buried in his ass, and kissed along his jaw as he let his head fall back on my shoulder. “I love you,” I said, licking the sweat from his skin. “Be careful while you’re away from me.”

He moved his head, just barely acknowledging my request. “Kiss me more.”

It was all I wanted to do.