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.