drop to my knees on the thick rug in front of him.
His gaze heats as I position myself between his legs.
“Ian.” His voice is low and rough, and just the sound of it makes me hard. I’m not sure if he’s chastising me or encouraging me.
Watching his reaction, I unbuckle his belt and release the fastener before carefully lowering the zipper.
With a sound that’s part sigh and part groan, he leans back and raises his hips so I can tug his trousers and boxer-briefs down his legs. His erection springs free, already thick and hard as steel.
He wants this.
I wrap my hand around the base of him and run my fist up his shaft. Groaning, he throws his head back against the cushions. I catch a drop of pre-cum on my thumb and spread it over the crown.
Just the sight of his impressive erection makes my belly clench in anticipation. As I draw him into my mouth, he watches me intently.
I absolutely love going down on Tyler. I love submitting to him. I love pleasuring him. And I love the satisfaction I feel from seeing to his needs. As I take him to the back of my throat, he groans roughly as he grips my head and positions me where he wants me. I lick and suck and tease him until his muscles tighten and his chest heaves as he draws in breath.
Finally, he gives in to his need to thrust, not holding back as he lets himself go. Arching his back, his muscles straining, he comes with a hoarse shout.
After I swallow every drop and lick him clean, he pulls me up onto his lap so that I’m straddling him. Crushing his mouth to mine, he unfastens my jeans.
* * *
The next morning, just as sunrise peeks through the trees outside our bedroom window, I feel Tyler’s lips on my forehead.
“Shh,” he murmurs when I stir. “I’m heading to work. Have a good day.”
“Mmm. You, too.”
And then he slips out the bedroom door. I listen to the receding sound of his shoes striking the wood floors as he walks down the hall toward the stairs.
A short while later, when I hear the front door open and close, followed by the turn of the deadbolt, I roll over and hug his pillow close so I can breathe in his scent.
Later in the morning, after a quick shower and breakfast, I toss some water bottles and protein bars into my backpack and head toward the marina. Whenever I’m stressed, I escape to my boat, a sleek, forty-foot yacht named Carpe Diem. She’s moored not far from my townhouse at the private St. James Yacht Club, located off Lake Shore Drive. Miguel is meeting me there this morning, and we’re going to take my boat out for the day.
Miguel is still on medical leave—his doctor advised one more week of rest before returning to work—and that means he’s free to hang out with me.
I arrive at the marina a few minutes early. There’s no sign of Miguel’s Mustang, so I grab my backpack, lock up the Porsche, and make my way to the boardwalk. When I head out onto the dock that leads to my slip, I stop at Eric Townsend’s yacht, Sassy Pants, which is moored next to mine. The bright yellow crime scene tape is long gone, and there’s not a single indication that a horrific murder took place on that boat just weeks ago. Now, there’s a FOR SALE sign attached to the hull. Eric’s parents are selling it.
Eric and I had so many good times on his boat, staying up all night to talk, drinking cocktails and doing shots, dishing about the guys we were crushing on. He and I were close. And now he’s gone.
Memories of that traumatic night come flooding back—how I walked into the stateroom on Eric’s boat and found his body on the floor, his throat sliced nearly clean through. My stomach churns at the thought of it.
It was one of the worst nights of my life. But it was also the night I met Tyler. Maybe Layla is right, and it was fate that we met.
I smile when I remember how uptight Tyler was in the beginning. He insisted on keeping things strictly professional between us, demanding that I call him Detective Jamison. I had to tease him mercilessly just to get him to call me Ian instead of Mr. Alexander. I wasn’t about to let him keep me at arm’s length. As