Chapter 10: Tyler

On Friday afternoon, we arrive right on time for our appointment with Ian's attorney. Fortunately, his office is located in downtown Chicago just blocks from the restaurant where we'll be dining tonight.

Leo Granville is in his late sixties with white hair and blue eyes. He's wearing a Rolex and an impressive pair of diamond cuff links that are probably real. He's dressed in a light gray, pin-striped suit, a pale lavender dress shirt, and a purple paisley tie. There's a silk hanky peeking out of his breast pocket. Fancy.

Ian and I are seated on two emerald green, upholstered armchairs in front of the attorney's huge mahogany desk. I cross one leg over the other, my foot bouncing as I brush at imaginary lint on my pantleg. I'm definitely feeling out of place here, as the attorney drones on about grantors and assets and trustees. Apparently, I'm now a grantor, along with Ian. I told him he didn't have to do that. It's his money. His inheritance.

I remember when we first started dating and Ian's father, Martin, warned me to stay away from his son, or else he'd get me fired. The irony is, I did get fired, but not because of anything Martin did. I got fired for going against departmental policy when I searched for Ian's missing sister and saved her from a sex trafficking ring.

At the time, Martin assumed that I, a lowly homicide detective, was after Ian for his money. I laughed in his face. I would have gladly signed a prenup in a heartbeat, only Ian refused to have one drawn up, despite the advice of legal counsel. Fortunately, Martin and I are on excellent terms now—probably because I saved his daughter's life. He knows I have Ian's best interests at heart, and he trusts me to take good care of his son.

As Granville talks, Ian nods and offers a comment occasionally, even going so far as to make suggestions. He seems to understand it all.

My ears perk up when they get to talking about beneficiaries. Will and Lizzie are added to the beneficiary list, along with some vague statement about any future children being automatically included.

Future children.

I never dreamed I'd get married, let alone have kids. And now we're talking about the possibility of having even more. Actually, I'm okay with the idea. Like I told him, I want Ian to be the biological father of our next child. I smile at the mental image of a little curly haired boy with green eyes.

My mind wanders as I study Leo's many diplomas hanging on the wall. Behind him is a wall of dark wood bookcases holding matching sets of law books with fancy leather covers. This is all too rich for my blood.

I know next to nothing about estate planning and complicated finances. My philosophy has always been simple—spend less and save more. I did all right for myself as a bachelor police detective, and I have a decent amount of money tucked away in investment accounts—certainly enough to survive comfortably on my own after retirement. But Ian? He's loaded. Ridiculously so.

Ian was raised with a silver spoon in his mouth—by his adoptive family, of course. But you'd never know that by meeting him. He's the most selfless, compassionate, empathetic person I've ever known. Knowing what I know about his early years, it's a miracle he turned out the way he did. I credit the Alexanders for that.

I glance at him through my peripheral vision, listening as he chats with Leo, and my chest tightens. I want to give Ian the world—which is ironic because he can buy almost anything he wants. But there are things I can give him, intangible things, that I know he craves—protection, physical security, emotional security, devotion, and companionship. I know him, and I know what he needs, and I'm only too happy to give those things to him.

When Ian notices I'm watching him, he grins, reaches for my hand, and links our fingers. I squeeze his hand in return, as he keeps up the conversation with Leo without missing a beat.

Once all the talking is done, and lots of revised papers are signed—by both of us—we take our leave.

As a five-star restaurant, Renaldo's has a strict dress code, so I'm dressed in a black suit, white dress shirt, and black tie—my go-to look. Ian is wearing cream slacks, a pale aqua shirt, and cream loafers that look as comfortable as bedroom slippers.

"Let's walk to the restaurant," Ian says as we exit his attorney's N. Michigan Avenue building. It's a nice night, and the restaurant isn't far.

It's early Friday evening, and the sidewalk is filled with tourists laden with shopping bags, as well as with locals leaving their offices and heading for the train or the bus. The street traffic is heavy, cars rushing by, taxis, people on bikes.

We head east on N. Michigan toward the restaurant. We're walking side by side, close enough that our arms occasionally touch. A couple of times Ian's fingers brush mine, and when I catch his gaze, he grins at me.

I know he wants to hold hands, and I feel bad that I still struggle with outing myself in public. It's easier for me to be myself and relax at Ian's favorite dance club, because nearly everyone there is gay, or an ally, so I don't feel like I stand out. But here? Out in public, we're sort of a minority, wading through a sea of heterosexual couples.

But Ian couldn't care less. His grin remains intact, and I have to admit he's far more courageous than I am.

As he casually brushes his pinky against mine, I glance down at the slender gold wedding band on his left hand. The one that has my name engraved on the inside, just as my ring has his name engraved on it.

Wedding rings.

We're married.

Husbands.

I catch his gaze—those beautiful green eyes are looking at me like I hung the moon for him just because I'm taking him out for dinner.

I really don't deserve this guy.

To hell with society! And to hell with my own personal hang-ups. Ian deserves better, and what kind of husband would I be if I didn't meet him halfway?

I reach for his left hand and interlace our fingers. His eyes widen in surprise, but immediately his shocked expression turns into a smile. We get a few curious looks from passers-by, even a few surprised double-takes, but nothing disapproving or judgmental.

The tension in my shoulders eases when I realize the pedestrians around us aren't going to stone us. In fact, most of them ignore us completely.

My focus is on the man walking by my side, so when I hear a woman's shrill scream up ahead, I'm disoriented for a split second as I try to pinpoint her location. Suddenly, others are screaming, too, and the pedestrians a block ahead of us scatter in all directions.

As the crowd parts, I see the source of the chaos. A white sedan has jumped the curb and is plowing down the sidewalk straight for us, knocking over newspaper racks and trash cans. People are shouting as they jump out of the way, falling, hitting the pavement. I spot two bodies on the ground. Shit!

Instinctively, I wrap my arms around Ian and drag him out of the path of the vehicle. Another man rams into us in his frantic haste to escape the car, shoving us toward the brick exterior of an office building. I maneuver us at the last second to take the brunt of the impact myself as we slam into the building, but Ian still hits the bricks with the right side of his body.

The car shoots past us, and a moment later we hear the unmistakable sound of metal hitting metal. I look down the sidewalk to see that the car hit a light pole head on, coming to an abrupt stop.

I scan Ian for injuries, running my hands along his arms and shoulders, searching for broken bones or blood. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he gasps. It sounds like he's had the wind knocked out of him, too.

I examine the side of his head looking for blood or a lump. "Did you hit your head?"

"No." He grasps my hand. "Honestly, I'm okay. Just shaken."

I glance over at the wrecked car. Steam is billowing from the crumpled hood, and the engine is still running. That's a problem because there's a risk of fire, or worse yet, an explosion. Bystanders crowd around the wreckage, many of them on their phones taking video. I hope someone is calling 911. Others are assisting pedestrians who had fallen or been trampled in the melee.

"Go," Ian says, pointing toward the car. "Check on the driver."

I'm torn. The former cop in me wants to jump into first responder mode, see to the wounded and the driver, but Ian needs me, too.

Ian squeezes my hand. "I'm all right, babe." He slides down the wall to sit on the pavement. "I'll sit right here and catch my breath."

I crouch down in front of him, cup his face, and give him a quick kiss. "I won't go far."

With Ian safely out of danger, I approach the driver's side of the car, reach through the open window, and turn off the engine. The driver, a teenage boy, is unconscious and slumped in his seat. Lucky for him, he was wearing a seatbelt. I press my fingers to his carotid to verify that he's alive. His pulse is strong and steady, so I don't think he's in imminent danger.

The airbag deployed, of course, but it's deflated now. I do a quick visual inspection of the driver and notice that, other than having an apparent broken left arm, he looks to be relatively unharmed. I notice his phone is clutched tightly in his right hand. I suspect this is likely a case of distracted driving which, unfortunately, is not uncommon.

"Has anyone called 911?" I ask the people who have gathered around the car.

"I did," a young woman says as she points to her phone, which is still pressed to her ear. She gives the dispatcher the address of the crash scene.

"I did, too," says a man standing on the passenger side of the car. "They're on their way."

Almost immediately, we hear the jarring peal of multiple sirens. And minutes later, several police cruisers arrive, along with several paramedics. As the officers exit their vehicles, I recognize several of them. They acknowledge me with nods as they approach the crash site.

"Hey, Tyler, you okay?" one of the officers asks as he pats my back. "Don't go far. We'll want to get a statement from you."

I nod. "Sure." I point to Ian. "I'll be right over there." When I return to Ian, I crouch down beside him again. He looks flushed, but otherwise all right. His eyes are clear and focused. "How are you feeling?"

Ian reaches for my hand. "A bit shaky. Can we go home? I've lost my appetite."

"Of course. I need to give a statement to the police, and then I'll take you home."

After I talk to the officers once more, giving them a detailed rundown of what I saw, Ian and I walk back to our car. As the sidewalk clears, I pull him close. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

"I didn't." He's quiet for a while, and then he says, "My God, Tyler, we could have been hit. It happened so fast. If you hadn't pulled me out of the way—" He stops and turns to face me, tears pooling in his eyes. "Tyler, we could have died." His voice breaks. "Our kids could have lost one or both of their fathers tonight."

I pull Ian closer and wrap my arms securely around him. "I will never let anything happen to you."

When he buries his face in the crook of my neck, I murmur against his temple. "It's okay. We're okay."

* * *

When we arrive back at the townhouse, Ingrid meets us at the back door. "Hey, guys, why are you back so soon?" She takes one look at Ian and practically shrieks. "Oh, my God, honey! What happened?"

I hold the door for Ian as he steps inside. "Where are the babies?" he asks.

Mom points toward the hallway. "They're in the living room. They ate about half an hour ago, and now they're sleeping."

Ian races out of the kitchen and down the front hall to the living room.

"Tyler, what's wrong?" Mom asks me as we both follow him. "Is Ian okay?"

"I think so. We had a close call this evening." I proceed to tell her what happened.

"Oh, my God! Was he hurt? Are you hurt?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine. I checked Ian for injuries, but other than being a bit bruised and sore, he seems okay. The important thing is, he didn't hit his head on the building. That's what I was most worried about—a head injury."

We find Ian standing beside the playpen staring down at the babies.

"Oh, sweetie," my mom says as she walks up to him and puts her hand on his back. "Are you okay?"

"Just a bit sore," he says. "I hit a brick wall."

I steer Ian to the sofa. "Please sit before you fall down. Can I get you something to eat or drink?"

He shakes his head. "Not food. I don't think I could eat anything right now."

"Oh, you poor baby," Mom says as she sits beside him and takes one of his hands in hers.

Ian lifts his eyes to me. "Do we have any hot chocolate?"

"We do." Hot chocolate is Ian's comfort drink. His mom—his adopted mom, Eleanor—used to make it for him when he was young and struggling emotionally.

Ingrid pats Ian's thigh as she shoots to her feet. "I'll make it, sweetie." Then she eyes me. "You sit with him, Tyler." She asks Ian, "Do you want it made with water or milk?"

"He likes it made with milk," I say, answering for him. "And with mini marshmallows. There's a bag of them in the cupboard."

Ian's staring down at his hands, which are clasped tightly in his lap. He looks like he's shutting down completely. I haven't seen Ian this upset in a long time—not since Roy Valdez attempted to attack him on his yacht.

I sit beside him and put my arm across his shoulders. He instantly melts into me. At least he's no longer shaking.

"You saved me tonight," he says, his voice so quiet I can barely make out the words.

I tighten my hold on him. "I guess that's only fair since you saved me ."

He eyes me. "When did I ever save you?"

"You saved me from myself. You saved me from loneliness."

A hint of a smile curves his lips. "I guess I did do that."

"Yeah, you did." I lean my head against his.

"If I'd died tonight—"

"You didn't."

"No, but if I had, our kids would have grown up without me." Ian shudders. "And what if you had died? I can't do this parenting thing without you."

I turn to face him, my hands on his shoulders. "Ian, you have to let this go. You can't dwell on it because it will only drive you crazy. Yes, what happened tonight was traumatic, but we were lucky. We're both okay."

He gives me a hint of a smile, which is reassuring. "Weren't you the big hero tonight? Again."

"I promised I'd keep you safe. I was just keeping my word."

I lay my arm across his shoulders and pull him to me, letting him rest in my arms as he processes what happened.

Before long, Ingrid returns to the living room carrying a tray holding three mugs. She sets the tray on the coffee table. "I made enough for all of us. I think we need to make a toast."

I hand a mug to Ian, then take one for myself.

Mom sits on Ian's other side and raises her mug. "To life, health, and happiness."

"I'll drink to that," Ian says with a grateful smile.

* * *

Mom stayed with us for about an hour, mostly because she was worried about Ian. I can't blame her because I was, too. After Ian settled down, she left, and Ian and I watched a movie in the living room, with the babies close by, still sleeping.

They woke up right as the movie ended, and we made bottles and fed them as we sat side by side on the sofa. Ian held Lizzie in his arms, and I fed Will. I watched as he gently traced her features, skimming his index finger across her forehead, along her tiny dark eyebrows, down her little nose.

He doesn't say it, but I know he's still thinking about how close we came to disaster tonight. It's weighing heavily on me, too. What if I hadn't reacted fast enough? What if Ian had hit his head on the brick wall and sustained a potentially life-threatening head injury?

So many what ifs .

After the babies are done eating, we carry them upstairs to our bedroom to change diapers and put them in their sleepers. Then we put them in bed with us for a while, for some quality family time, as Ian calls it.

We lay them side by side on the mattress between us and watch them interact with each other until they become drowsy and have trouble keeping their eyes open.

By this time, Ian is much more himself, clearly more relaxed, and finally smiling again, especially when he coos at the kids.

"All right," I finally say. "Bedtime for these two." I hate being the one who has to put an end to the party, but it's getting late, and the babies are falling asleep. And God knows Ian needs sleep, too.

We swaddle them and tuck them into their bassinettes.

"Ready for bed?" I ask Ian as we watch our babies drift off to sleep. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move from his spot beside the cradles.

He turns to me. "Take me upstairs, Tyler. Please."

What he means is he wants me to take him up to the greenhouse, to our bed beneath the stars, and make love to him. He wants sex—he wants penetration. And I know why. He wants that overwhelming connection, both emotional and physical, between us. He wants to feel that sense of submission. He needs to feel my dominance over him.

I lean in to kiss him. "All right."

He nods, and then heads for the bathroom. "I'll meet you upstairs."

While Ian showers, I take a quick shower myself in the hall bathroom. Then I pull on a pair of black boxer shorts and head up to the greenhouse to set the mood. I light a dozen candles and pull down the bedding. I grab two tumblers from a small cabinet and a bottle of Glenfiddich. After the evening he's had, I think a little whiskey might help settle him.

"Hey."

I turn at the sound of Ian's voice to find him standing just inside the greenhouse, gloriously naked and aroused. His hair is damp from his shower, his curls finger combed. He looks so beautiful and so lost it makes my chest ache.

Immediately, my pulse kicks up and my body responds, my growing erection tenting the front of my underwear. I hold out my hand to him, and he comes straight to me and wraps his arms around my waist. His skin is warm and damp from his shower, and he smells so good.

"I need you." His voice is muffled against my shoulder.

"I know." I cup the back of his head. "I need you, too." I kiss him then, at first gently, and then hunger takes over both of us.

I run my hands down his arms, and then back up his sides to his chest. I brush his nipples with my thumbs, and he shivers.

When Ian grabs one of my hands and lowers it to his straining erection, I wrap my fingers around him, giving him the tight grip he loves. Moaning, he presses his face against my throat and kisses my pulse point.

I ease him down so that he's sitting on the edge of the bed. Then I grab the two tumblers off the sideboard and hand him one. "To us," I say, holding out my glass. "For coming out of a bad situation unscathed."

Ian touches his glass to mine. "To close calls."

His eyes look haunted, which tells me he's not over the shock. Ian knocks back his liquor in one go, coughing as it burns his throat.

"You really should sip that, you know." I take a biting sip. "It's too good to waste."

He gives me a wry grin. "It's warming my belly, so I'd say it wasn't wasted."

I finish my drink, and then return our glasses to the sideboard.

Before I reach the bed, I lose my boxers, dropping them onto the floor. As Ian scoots over and lies on his back, I crawl to him, caging him in, looming over him.

He gazes up at me with so much love and trust in his eyes, it's humbling. He has no idea how desirable he is, how much I want him. Crave him.

For so many years, I was both alone and lonely, all because I didn't realize this is what I need. This man —this perfect, emotional, complicated man.

Ian pulls my face down to his for a kiss. As soon as our lips touch, we go from zero to sixty in the space of a heartbeat. Our lips collide and caress, our tongues tangle and tease. Both of our cocks are fully erect and straining together, hungry for touch.

I kiss my way down the column of his throat, across his chest, to first one nipple and then the other, and all the while he's breathing like he'd run a marathon, excited, aroused, needing more. My lips travel down his abdomen, stopping long enough to tease his belly button with swirls of my tongue. He's squirming now, impatient for what he knows is coming. What he wants so badly.

I nip at his pelvis bones. I bury my nose at the base of his cock and breathe in the smell of warm male mixed with a hint of his beloved bubble-gum scented body wash. That always makes me smile.

The sight of his straining penis is too good to pass up, so I take him in my mouth, draw him in deep to the back of my throat. With one hand, I squeeze the base of his cock, while my other hand massages his sac. The whimpers and moans coming from him make me even harder.

I bring him right to the edge and then back off. He growls in frustration because I denied him an orgasm, but we both know it's way too soon. Instead, I grip his chin and look him in the eye. I drop my voice an octave, letting him hear my arousal. "I'm going to fuck you first, baby. You can come when I do."

Eyes wide, Ian swallows hard as he nods.

"You're mine , Ian."

Nodding, he sucks in a breath. "Yes. God, yes." His breathing is shallow now, rapid, as his chest rises and falls in anticipation. His cheeks are flushed, his nostrils flaring. Still grasping his chin, I lean down and devour his mouth. He kisses me back just as hungrily.

When he starts making sounds of need and want, I roll him over and tuck a pillow beneath his hips. I reach for the lube and take my time gently preparing him and driving up his arousal in the process. I stroke him with my finger, teasing him, easing the way, opening him up for me.

Once I think he's ready for more, I slowly press into him, a bit at a time, coaxing his body to accept me. It's a slow, teasing process, invoking lots of pleasured groans from the both of us.

Once I've worked my entire length inside, he sighs, clutching his pillow as he breathes slow and easy. I cover his body with mine, draping myself over him and pinning him to the mattress as I lift my hips and rock into him, slowly at first, gently, until he's relaxed enough to take me easily. Each time my cock strokes his prostate, he moans.

The pillow beneath him allows me enough room to reach underneath him, take hold of his sac, and gently massage his balls. He grasps his erection and strokes himself in time to my thrusts. When we come, we'll come together.

"Tyler." His voice is a plaintive plea. The sounds he's making tell me how much he's enjoying this. How good it feels.

"I know. Hang on, baby. Soon."

I continue thrusting, stroking him inside, until he can't hold on any longer. "Tyler, I'm—" And his words are choked off as he cries out, his voice loud and raw. When his body strains and bucks, I follow him, and we come together.

Sometime later—I've lost track of time, we lie side by side, both of us heated and breathing hard, until the night air cools our skin and our heart rates return to normal.

I hold him. We hold each other. And if I had to guess, I'd say we're both grateful to be alive.

* * *

Later that night, back in our bedroom, I hold Ian in bed until his breathing deepens and slows. When he drifts off to sleep, I finally give myself a chance to relax for the first time all evening. I try to keep the memories at bay, but my brain keeps reliving the accident, over and over. My brain insists on going over all the what-ifs. What if I hadn't gotten Ian out of the path of that car? What if he'd been hurt more seriously? What if one of us had died?

Stop it .

You did pull him to safety. You'll always pull him to safety.

I guess it's my turn to freak out a bit. I close my eyes and force my brain to think of other things.

When Ian shifts in his sleep, pressing closer to me, I tighten my hold on him.

"I love you," he murmurs.

"I love you, too."

And if that isn't the understatement of the year, I don't know what is.