Free Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] by Mary Calmes Page A

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