Three the Hard Way (13 page)

Shudder.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Tag said, “but I think you guys could hit it off.”
Right, because a shared love of science fiction novels and oysters on the half shell was all you needed for a happily ever after.

“I don’t know, Tag . . .”

“It’s not conventional,” he said quickly. “But neither are our lives. Justice said I’m selfish, and in this, he’s right. I want you both.”

“Justice will never go for it.”

Well, that wasn’t a no. “He just needs some patience and time. It can’t hurt to try.” He grinned. “And I know just how to test the waters.”

The next twenty-four hours went by quickly for Ian. He and Tag had settled into a comfortable rhythm, taking turns staying with Justice, talking, sharing meals. He didn’t make any moves on Tag; Tag knew how he felt, and the ball was in his court.

But man, it killed him to not pounce on Tag, take him to the floor, and pound into that big body until they both passed out. They could rest against the couch the way they had last night. When they’d been touching. Kissing. Enjoying the silence.

Until Tag had sprung the craziest idea ever on him. And it
was
crazy, right?

Ian had no one to blame but himself though; he’d told Tag he’d share him if he had to. But he’d have to share more than just Tag, wouldn’t he? He’d have to share himself.

He’d barely been able to give himself to Tag, so how was he going to share any part of himself with Justice? Was there enough of him to go around?

A million questions bounced inside his head as he put down the dusty copy of
The Call of the Wild
he’d found in a drawer. He hadn’t been reading so much as staring blankly at the pages anyway.

Because Justice freaking snored.

He looked over at the man sleeping like a log, sprawled out on the queen-sized bed like he owned it. He’d kicked the covers off, leaving his long, lean body bare except for maroon boxer briefs. Which had a
very
nice bulge in them.

Stop staring. He’s injured, for Christ’s sake.

Not that Ian was feeling one hundred percent himself—he was somewhere in the sixty percent range but doing a damned good job of faking it. In an attempt to be noble, he slid his gaze to Justice’s damaged leg. The stitches looked great. Kudos to Tag for keeping a kickass medical stash. In anticipation of a battle or prolonged siege, the guy had, on his way to the cabin, stocked up on meds, so his supply was pretty damned decent. Ian wasn’t going to ask how or where he’d scored the stuff, though. It was enough to know that Justice was on antibiotics to stave off infection, and when he’d been in pain, the drugs were available.

Fortunately, painkillers were no longer needed.

Physically, Justice was sleeping less and rousing more easily. His pupils were equal and reactive.

He was on the mend, and not a moment too soon. Because Itor had to be getting close, despite the storm. The only good thing was that Ian had several days lead time on them, and he knew that Justice had a plane that could at least get Tag to safety.

But Justice would have to be up to flying the damn thing first, and Ian wasn’t sure if that timing would match Itor’s arrival—which was a when, not if, situation.

Danger was always a relentless master. Itor was synonymous with that.

The savory aroma of stew drifted into the bedroom from the kitchen, where Tag was whipping them up some dinner. He’d always been a good cook. Ian hoped that translated to being good with moose or elk or God-only-knew-what meat he’d dumped into the stew earlier.

Suddenly, Justice began to shift in his sleep. His face looked pained and he was mumbling something. Holding out his hands like he was telling someone or something to stop.

Then, “Shit . . . no . . . he’s inside. I didn’t know. You have to believe me . . . I didn’t fucking know.”

And then he began to try to get up and out of bed, which wasn’t the best idea on that ankle of his. It wasn’t broken, but it was a bad sprain that wouldn’t allow him to put weight on it at the moment. The stitches added to his vulnerability and would split easily if his ankle turned again.

Ian shot up from the corner chair and put firm hands on Justice’s shoulders, pinning him to the mattress. Of course, it didn’t stop the guy from struggling, but when Ian put his full strength behind it, no one except another Excedo was getting past his grip. “Justice, babe, wake up—you’re having a dream.”

Finally, Justice was still, although he continued to mumble a little. And then he opened his eyes, grabbed the front of Ian’s shirt, fisting it, pulling him in close.

“I was there, Ian,” Justice whispered, his voice urgent and raw.

“Justice, you’re dreaming.”

“Not anymore. No. Listen . . . I was with ACRO when they bombed Itor. The Madrid office where Tag was.”

Ah, fuck. “You didn’t know.”

“No. But still. Jesus, I was responsible for almost killing him.” Justice let go of his shirt and lay back down fully on the pillow.

“It was my fault he was there.”

“And his, for being too pigheaded to follow me. Then again . . .”

“What?”

Justice shrugged. “He’d never have met you.”

Ian blinked, then managed, “I figured you would’ve liked it that way.”

“Maybe I thought that when I first met you. But now . . .”

But now
. . .

Did he really just thank Ian for being in Tag’s life? What the fuck kind of meds were they giving him? “And did you call me babe before?” he demanded.

Ian blew out a breath, shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Justice, you know that?”

“Is that some kind of backhanded compliment?”

“Yes,” Ian said firmly.

He glanced up at Ian. Right before his nightmare about Madrid, he’d been dreaming about something else. Or, at least he thought he’d been dreaming. But Ian’s shirt was ripped in front, in the same place Tag had ripped it in Justice’s dream. When Tag and Ian were kissing. And then . . . fucking.

Which meant . . . yeah, that had happened. Nice. Like interactive porn. With the love of his life and an Excedo-Seducer-traitor he was supposed to hate and couldn’t stop looking at. All while he was trying to recover from being hit by a tree.

But there’d also been talking. Justice strained his memory, trying to recall what he’d heard. There were words like
merc
and
love
and
share
.

“What if I shared you?”

It didn’t matter if it was hazy and Justice couldn’t process it completely. Because it all pointed to one thing—Tag had forgiven Ian. And Tag obviously loved him. Fuck. But it’s not like Ian hadn’t made sacrifices for Tag.

“I know,” Justice slurred a little. “Tag told me you had him deactivate your P-128S chip. Big risk.”

“Worth it,” Ian said.

Justice snorted. “Were you aware of all the consequences of disarming it?”

“I’m aware that I could’ve died while Tag tampered with it.”

“Did you tell him that?” Justice asked.

“Are you kidding? He wouldn’t have done it.”

Justice felt a grudging thread of respect for Ian for realizing that. “What else?”

“I knew that disarming it would put me on Itor’s hit list.” Ian rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot, Justice, and grilling me is only going to make you see that sooner than later.”

Doubtful. “Are you worried?”

“Not about that, but I am worried about you.”

Justice wasn’t sure he’d heard Ian correctly. “Me? You’re worried about
me
?”

Ian gave him a lopsided smile. “Believe it or not, yes. But you’ll be fine. Tag on the other hand?” He sighed deeply, looked over his shoulder, then asked in a low voice, “Will ACRO take him? Really?”

“Yeah, really. Why?” Justice couldn’t help but challenge. “Reconsidering your strategy?”

“Maybe.”

Justice tilted his head. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology?”

“No, this is trying to do right by Tag.”

“And if I wasn’t here? What would you be doing? Bringing Tag to me at ACRO . . . or taking him on the run, fucking him the whole time?” Justice could hear the hurt in his own voice.

“I do love fucking him, Justice.” Ian’s voice held a quiet memory that made Justice want to shake it out of him, spill it on the floor, break it so neither Ian nor Taggart remembered it.

But it was no use. There was a bond between them, as obvious as the sun in the sky, and there was no reason to fight that. Devlin had taught him that one of the most important things in life was knowing when to fight and when to walk away.

“He’s not okay, you know,” Justice said now.

“I know. But he will be,” Ian assured him. “He’s getting there.”

“Bet you make it better for him.”

“I tried, Justice. I really tried.”

Justice swallowed hard. “And you want to keep trying.”

“I can’t lie about that.”

“Didn’t ask you to.” Justice’s arm throbbed, but so did his dick. Jesus, what the hell was in this medication? He picked the bottle up, and it slid from his fingers. He cursed, leaned over the side of the bed, and almost rolled off.

At the last second, strong arms grabbed him and gently rolled him back. He looked right into Ian’s eyes and saw more concern there than he ever thought possible.

Before he could stop himself, he cupped the back of the man’s neck and pulled him close, kissed him hard and fast. Moaned “Ian” into his mouth when Ian took over the kiss, grabbing Justice’s hair to deepen the kiss.

God, Ian was a good kisser. Didn’t matter what hurt on Justice—this kiss was enough to make him forget everything.

Almost everything.

“Don’t stop on my account.” Tag’s voice was rough and came from somewhere over Ian’s shoulder. “I’ll be happy to direct though.”

Justice wondered for a brief second if Tag was pissed, but hell, he didn’t sound it at all. He sounded . . . turned on.

As turned on as Justice felt. As if to prove it to both of them, Tag moved closer, just as Ian rubbed his pelvis against Justice’s, the friction enough to make Justice groan into Ian’s mouth. Justice covered Tag’s jean-clad cock with his palm, and Tag grabbed his wrist and pressed his hand hard against the bulge.

And then Ian broke the kiss, sucked hard on the side of Justice’s neck. Nipped at the sensitive skin, even as Tag murmured, “We’ll take care of you, all right?”

Jesus. This was better than porn. Better than anything because Tag was here with him. Touching him. And, for the moment, not angry at him.

But fuck, his cock needed way more attention.

He pushed his hand inside his briefs, began to stroke himself. Ian stopped kissing him, and he opened his eyes to see that both he and Taggart were just watching him get off, both of their breaths quickening at the lewd movements happening under the cloth.

Taggart reached down and pulled the underwear over his hand and cock. He let out a stuttered breath as Ian leaned in to swipe a drop of pre-cum, then spread it around his crown.

“You’re recovering,” Tag told him with mock seriousness. “Shouldn’t have to do the work yourself.”

“He sure looks good doing it, though,” Ian said, right before he sucked on one of Justice’s nipples, taking it between his teeth. He almost jumped through the ceiling, but Tag knew him so damned well—still—and was already holding him steady to ensure that wouldn’t happen.

He could barely move, between the accident and the two bodies hovering over his . . . and for once, he didn’t give a damn.

Tag put a hand on his wrist, gently tugged Justice’s hand away. It was quickly replaced by Ian’s hand, wrapping around Justice’s cock, and again, thinking ceased. Because who the hell cared about the why—he was way more interested in the
are these two going to make me come right now
scenario.

The imminent answer seemed to be a yes.