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

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.

 
    I T WAS standing room only on the opposite side of the vet’s office downtown off Cicero. Even though my boyfriend, and therefore his dog, now both lived with me in Lincoln Park, we hadn’t looked into finding a new vet for the werewolf yet. So Chickie and I made the trip out to frighten the locals even without meaning to.
    No matter what I said, no one believed that the bear-sized dog sitting beside me wasn’t going to eat anyone. He was simply too big. His paws were as large as my hands splayed out, his head dwarfed mine, and up on his back legs, he could drape his front legs over my shoulders—and I was five eleven in my bare feet. It wasn’t his fault that he made two, or even three, of most dogs. He wasn’t a creature out of a horror movie; he just looked like one.
    “Hybrids are illegal in Chicago, you know,” a woman scolded me from where she was cowering with her cat carrier against the far wall.
    “Yes ma’am, I know,” I said, letting my head thunk softly back against the wall, as Chickie Baby stretched and put his head in my lap, the movement causing a gasp from the entire left side of the room.
    “Someone should report you to the authorities,” another concerned pet owner chimed in.
    “Mrs. Gunderson.” Susannah, the perky vet tech, sighed as she walked into the lobby and toward Chickie and me. “If this dog was, in fact, a wolf hybrid, do you think we’d be taking care of him or reporting him to animal control?”
    No answer to that.
    She reached us and squatted down beside Chickie, who wagged his tail but otherwise didn’t move. “What’s the matter with Ian’s baby?”
    “I dunno, but he won’t eat, and that’s cause for concern. I mean, normally he eats his own weight in food a day.”
    She chuckled. “Well, let’s go ahead and bring him on back.”
    Once the door closed behind me, I heard movement on the other side. “You realize that now everyone can fan out, right?”
    She laughed softly. “He is a big dog, Miro.”
    “Yeah, but he doesn’t actually eat people.”
    “No, but he certainly could.”
    I lifted the sweet face with the black muzzle. “Look at those eyes. Are those the eyes of a cold-blooded killer?”
    When she looked at him, Chickie eased his nose out of my hand and licked my fingers.
    “Awww,” she crooned. “No. He’s a sweet baby.”
    “Yes, he is,” I agreed, following her down the hall to the exam room. After we weighed him—110 pounds of powerful muscle—I took a seat in the chair.