Twisted and Tied Page 9

  He stopped before walking into the bathroom, hand on the doorframe as he looked back over his shoulder at me.

  “You could come in here with me and make sure I don’t miss anything.”

  I pretended to think about it and then started yanking off my clothes. When I was done, I noticed he hadn’t moved, instead watching me intently.

  “What’re you doing? Go turn on the damn water,” I ordered.

  “My husband is crazy hot,” he murmured, tipping his head. “I learned my lesson.”

  “And what’s that?” I asked, starting toward him.

  “That letting you out alone is really fuckin’ stupid.”

  “No,” I promised, reaching him. “You’re all I see.”

  Cupping my neck, he eased me closer into a kiss and then opened for me, moaning greedily as I palmed his cock, stroking him idly before walking him backward into the bathroom. When I bumped him up against the wall between the toilet and the shower, he trembled with the chill on his skin.

  I broke the kiss and stepped back so he could move. “I’m sorry, that was dumb.”

  “What?” He was out of it, pupils blown, lips swollen from me mauling them and the skin of his throat mottled with bites.

  “I need to be gentler,” I remarked, wincing because his olive skin showed off every mark.

  “No,” he whispered, hands on my hips before he reached lower for my hardening cock. “Don’t be gentle, that’s not what I need.”

  “But that’s how you need to be treated,” I soothed him, taking another kiss because I couldn’t help it, my brain and body sending mixed signals. I wanted to show him how precious he was to me by taking my time, but I also wanted to grind into him until we became one person, one thing, and that made my blood race.

  “Miro,” he began but stopped himself, instead leaning sideways to turn on the water. Only then did I realize how flushed he was.

  “Ian?”

  He shook his head.

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s stupid,” he said gruffly, stepping into the shower.

  I followed him in, closing the glass door behind me as he leaned into the water.

  Something was wrong, and as I grabbed the loofah and the sandalwood and bergamot shower gel he loved and got it all sudsy, I made sure to kiss over the scars on his back.

  He braced his hands on the wall and let his head hang down as he waited for me to take care of him.

  “Needy bastard,” I teased, soaping him up, getting everywhere, under, inside, my fingers gentle as I cleaned from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.

  “I am,” he agreed, groaning as I cleaned his cock.

  “No, you’re not,” I said playfully, hanging the loofah up for a moment as I grabbed his shampoo and went to work massaging his scalp, digging my fingers into the base of his skull, working out the knots of tension.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t with you tonight,” he sighed, letting me turn him under the deluge of water, and I smiled over his gasp as the water sluiced down his back and inside where I wanted it. “I promise you I’m not stupid enough to do it again.”

  “Enough, already. What’s with you?”

  Straightening, he met my gaze. “I just—I don’t want you to think I take this—us—for granted, because I know what I have.”

  I kissed him, and he parted his lips instantly, sucking on my tongue as I leaned him back into the water, tipping his head, breaking the kiss and letting the heat ease all the remaining tension out of his beautiful body.

  Once he was out, I took my own shower, much faster than his, and he was still drying off when I got out.

  “I’m in some weird headspace or something,” he said, leaving the bathroom with me right behind him, heading for the bed. “I’m relaxed but not tired.”

  “That’s good,” I told him, smirking, staring at his ass.

  “What’re you—Miro!”

  It was his own fault. He was walking too slowly, so when he got close enough to the bed, I shoved him forward and he tumbled down onto the comforter. He was chuckling as I pounced on him, rolling him easily to his back, and I realized that between my hunger for him and the alcohol in my system, the need to be inside him was my only agenda.

  “You know, we never talk anymore,” he teased.

  I growled, and he chuckled until I took hold of his already leaking dick and squeezed and stroked until I got the delicious whimper I was after.

  Ian bowed up off the bed, forgetting he was being playful, and I curled forward, pulling the head of his long, beautiful cock into my mouth.

  “Miro,” he rasped, hands in my hair, tugging, pushing up, trying to bury himself, the hitching of his breath and the gasps and whimpers letting me know how much more he needed.

  I sucked hard as I took him all the way to the back of my throat in one swallow, letting him feel the wet heat a moment before lifting, working my tongue over his head, dragging it over every inch and then lowering, slowly, drawing out his pleasure until my lips were at his base and I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze.

  “Fuck, lookit your face,” he mewled, jolting under me, his breath catching, causing me to smile because I was doing that to him. “Killin’ me.”

  I lifted my mouth free, grinning before licking over the still-leaking head.

  “Jesus, Miro, when you smile like that—just suck my dick.” The hoarse request, guttural, up from his chest, was very sexy.

  I waggled my eyebrows.

  “Awww fuck, please,” he begged, the tone plaintive, strangled.

  Leaning forward, I swallowed him to the root again before slowly, purposely sucking hard, making the suction so strong he caught his breath, and then laving and licking around and under the head, nibbling the side, tracing the thick vein before repeating the same slick, hot, downward slide that left him buried in the back of my throat.

  “Holy God, your mouth should be illegal,” he moaned, hand tangled in my hair, holding tight, making sure I couldn’t pull away or stop.

  He lifted his right leg, bending at the knee, giving me access, and I slipped a finger into my mouth beside his cock and got it wet and dripping. As I bobbed my head, causing his breath to stop and start, I gently, tenderly, slid my finger into his ass.

  “Oh, you—fuck!” he roared, pulling away like I’d burned him, rolling fast to his stomach, head down, fisting the blankets in his hands as he lifted his ass in the air.

  I had found recently that with being married came new depths to my sex life. It was like the ring signaled he could ask for all the things he really wanted but had maybe thought, without the commitment of marriage, might freak me out. It was ridiculous, very behind-closed-doors kind of thinking, but I was thankful because it was another layer of trust Ian shared only with me.

  “Miro,” he husked, opening his legs wider, shivering with anticipation, “now.”

  Ian loved being rimmed, and I more than enjoyed doing it to him, and though I knew it got him hot, I’d had no idea he could come simply from my tongue in his ass. It was, he’d confessed once while we lay in bed, hot and dirty and not something he ever even imagined he’d like before the first time I spread his cheeks and speared inside of him.

  The revelation went hand in hand with knowing that while Ian loved to fuck me, loved holding me down, pushing inside, feeling my satiny heat hold him like a vise—more than that, he craved me in him. Being taken and used, having me pound his ass, turned Ian inside out. And he was gibbering, a word now and then making sense, but mostly just there, ready for me, waiting and wanting.

  I pushed down on his ass, flattening him on the bed, and then bent over to kiss my way down his spine.

  His aching, frustrated groan made me grin as I kissed and nibbled and licked. There was no way I could not worship the beauty that was Ian Doyle. His heavily scarred back, the corded muscles rippling under his warm, sleek skin, was a work of art. When I pressed my chest to his bare back, he growled at me, and I nipped his shoulder.

  “Worship
me later, fuck me now,” he snarled, turning his head, thrashing under me but knowing better than to try to flip me to my back. I had more leverage from where I was, and he didn’t actually want me to move, anyway.

  “Something else you want first?”

  “Miro,” he rasped.

  Lifting off him, shifting sideways, I watched the decadent sight of Ian lifting to his hands and knees, head hanging between his shoulders, waiting for me like some gorgeous, erotic piece of sculpture.

  “Look at you,” I said, rolling off the bed and walking to the nightstand, where I retrieved the lube, staring at him, all carved and chiseled muscle, face flushed, biting his lip as he stared at me with dark, narrowed eyes. I couldn’t even see any blue there, just blown pupils and need. He was trembling with it.

  Climbing back onto the bed, I dropped the lube and then ran my hands down his sides, tracing ribs, over his flanks, squeezing his powerful thighs before sliding my hands up the backs, higher, to his ass.

  “God, the feel of your hands on me is—please just fuck me, never mind the—Miro!”

  I gently bit his right cheek before kissing the small of his back, then licking over the top of his crease.

  “Miro, honey, love,” he ground out before I speared my tongue into his hole.

  He yelled my name then, and I had to hold him down as I feasted, licking and pushing deep and then rimming him, loving his taste, the way tremor after tremor raced through him as he tried to push back onto my tongue.

  He rocked against me when I slipped a saliva-coated finger inside of him, then two; his decadent groan and the way he pleaded for more made it impossible not to comply.

  I could do it for hours just to watch him come apart, to hear the noises he made, full of longing, yearning, and watching my fingers disappear inside of him made me ache to have him, fill him, hold him still and press inside until I hit his core.

  I reached for my cock, bumping my hand on the back of his thigh.

  “No,” he wailed, lifting his head, turning to look over his shoulder. “I want that now, please, fuckin’ Miro, just—fuck!”

  “I wanna keep doing this. It’s getting me off,” I croaked, my voice thick, husky. It was hard to speak with how hot I was, how ready, how aroused. And like always with the discovery of how responsive Ian was, it hit me that I was in control, he had already surrendered, and the most important thing was him, not me. “I wanna make you feel good.”

  “Listen!” he snarled.

  I focused on his beseeching expression, the vulnerability there in his eyes, and stilled.

  “I need you—close.” His voice was punctuated by staccato breathing, like he couldn’t get enough air. “Miro.”

  I sat back on my haunches. “Roll over.”

  He complied quickly, flipping over and then reaching above his head, slipping his hands under the headboard, the space between that and the mattress allowing it, readying himself for me, to take the thrusting. He showed no hesitation, no trace of feeling self-conscious, knowing I’d never tease him for what he wanted or needed because that was sacred, a trust between us.

  Grabbing the bottle of lube, I slathered some on my cock, coating it longer than necessary because watching him watch me was a big fat turn-on. The desire on his face was just gorgeous to see.

  “Hurry,” he pleaded, and I arched over him, dick in hand, lining it up with his ready, saliva-slicked hole, his muscles having succumbed to my ministrations so that the slow press inside his body was a sensuous, easy slide.

  He wrapped his legs around my hips, wanting faster and harder, but before he could wedge his heels into the back of my thighs like he did when he wanted it rough, I changed positions, slipping my arms under his knees, curling his back, lifting his ass up off the bed as I drove down into him.

  His hands scrabbled on the sheets, looking for purchase, a grip, no longer able to hold on to the headboard in the position I had him in, needing to brace himself, push up as I thrust down.

  “Oh fuck yeah, like that,” he mewled, head back, eyes tightly closed as he arched under me, needing more.

  He was slick and tight and hot, and I got lost in the feel of him as I used my arms and legs to hold him immobile, taking him hard, my body lost in a furious rhythm. At one time I would have worried about just letting go, about not checking. But I knew better now, knew when he wanted me hard and fast, that he was asking to feel me inside for hours after. Not hurting, never quite that, but close, a stretch, a tenderness in his body that he craved. It had been Ian’s initial draw to me, and it remained, always, that I could hurt him but could never, would never, because he was my heart. The tears in the midst of us wrecking our bed together were a surprise.

  “Ian?” I ground out, my voice scratchy, not sounding like me at all.

  His eyes fluttered open, and I saw everything I’d dreamed of years ago when he was only a dream. He was so very mine.

  “What’s—”

  “You’ll only ever do this with me, yeah? How lucky am I.”

  It was me, I was the one who was lucky, and I was going to tell him, but I felt him tightening, contracting around me, heard him gasp as he bowed up off the bed, the murmured pleading for me to claim him, show him it could only ever be him, because he knew it in his heart but had to feel it in his body.

  “Ian, you know I—”

  “Show me,” he murmured, gaze locked with mine.

  I reached down between us and grasped his leaking cock, pumping my fist at the same interval as I shoved into his ass, relentless, not letting the pressure lessen even for a second, feeling him shudder and clench but too far gone to do anything but ride him. My name had never sounded better than when he yelled it hoarsely as he splattered my chest with cum.

  I was seconds behind him, filling him up, pulsing deep inside, frozen as my orgasm washed through me almost painfully. There were those times when us together in bed was gentle, slow, or fast and dirty. This was neither. Ian needed to be claimed, marks upon him, and we were both sticky with cum, slick with lube and sweat, and utterly, utterly sated and spent.

  When my arms gave out, he caught me and gathered me close, nuzzling my damp hair, kissing over my forehead, brows, eyes, nose, and finally taking my mouth. But the kisses weren’t devouring and ravenous anymore, instead tender, deep, and possessive.

  As he rolled me to my back, he gently eased off the end of my cock, the gush of fluid between us making me groan as Ian hovered over me, smiling wickedly.

  “What?” I chuckled as he kissed over my jaw and down the side of my throat, pressing kiss after kiss there, sucking on my skin.

  “You taste good.”

  I grunted, replete and happy, sliding one hand up and down his bicep, slipping the other over his ass, rubbing.

  “Really? You can’t leave my ass alone?”

  I inhaled deeply, getting that musk of sex and sweat and traces of Ian’s shampoo and the lingering scent of gun oil from when he sat on the bed and cleaned his Sig the night before.

  “God I’m starving,” he said into the soothing lull between us. “You wanna sandwich?”

  I chuckled because he was adorable. Needs met, he was ready to go on to the next thing on his list. “I’m glad I rate before food.”

  “Well, yeah,” he teased matter-of-factly, giving me a quick kiss before he rolled out of bed, fluid, boneless, with the powerful grace of a man in absolute awareness of his body because he depended on his strength and athleticism to keep him alive.

  Lying there alone, just breathing, listening to him rattling around in the kitchen, I couldn’t remember ever feeling more content.

  “Do you want one?” he yelled up.

  “No,” I called, smiling as I heard him talking to the different deli meat in our kitchen, asking what kind he wanted. Ian was a big sandwich guy, so I always made sure we had stuff for him to make one.

  “Is this cheese Ossau?” he asked.

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You cut off the outside for me?”


  “I did.”

  “And you cut it into thin slices?”

  I laughed softly because he was pretty fucking cute. “I most certainly did.”

  “Such a thoughtful man,” he said to himself.

  A few minutes later, he rejoined me, carrying a bottle of water for me under his arm, one for him, and a monster sandwich, including a dill pickle and potato chips.

  “Did you not eat at all?”

  He shrugged, and since that could go either way, I let it go and turned back to the TV in the corner of our room that I had flipped on while he was downstairs.

  When I lived there alone, there was only the one in the living room, but Ian convinced me that cuddling in bed together, under the covers, me asleep on him while he watched a movie, would be his third favorite thing in the world. Kissing was first, sex was second, and hugging and spooning rounded out his top three. After that it went to things that included deadly force.

  I was just channel surfing, drinking water, and wasting time as Ian ate, finally giving up and switching to Netflix.

  “No, don’t do that,” he said, taking the controller away from me and turning off the TV before he wiped his face on the paper towel, took a gulp of water, and put his empty plate down on the nightstand.

  “Really? You’re just gonna leave that there?”

  “There’s crumbs on it, Jones,” he said, lying down beside me and nestling close, then gently biting my cheek. “Ain’t gonna bother nothin’.”

  A part of it was his voice, the husky rumble of his, and some of it was his warm skin touching mine, but mostly it was just Ian, close to me, that sent a shiver of heat swimming through me.

  “Hey, listen,” he rumbled in my ear, reaching between my legs to graze his fingers over my flaccid shaft. “I was serious before. I don’t want you to ever think I take you for granted, so let’s not go out without each other anymore.”

  “I know you like to spend time with those guys from SOG, so it’s okay if—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s not okay because I like spending time with you best.”

  “Oh yeah?” I murmured as I rolled my head to look into the deep blue-black eyes of my husband. Normally they were lighter, clearer, but sex darkened them to midnight every time. “Well, I like being with you more than anybody too.”