passersby. Perfect.
NIKITA stood by the car, looking the house over. “You travel in a posh
circle of friends.”
“Always,” Chris said with a grin. He gave his keys a jingle, set
the alarm, then led the way along the brick path, the sexual tension
taking on a whole new level as they approached the front door.
Damn. He hadn't felt this much like a horny teenager in a long
time. It had to be the lure of breaking in a neophyte as he gave Nikita's
ass a second look before closing the front door.
He turned, and the Russian was right there, mere inches away.
Chris grinned and grabbed Nikita's shirtfront to pull him in for a kiss,
only to be spun and slammed into the solid oak door.
Chris jabbed his elbow back and turned, using his weight to press
forward. He shoved, sent the Russian into the sturdy antique table in
the entrance hall's center. The table wobbled, the vase crashed to the
parquet floor.
“What the fuck, dude,” Chris said, bracing for more, hand poised
to reach for his gun if need be.
Nikita continued to stare. He pulled his own weapon but laid it on
the tabletop. “I play hard.”
Makarov. What the fuck else. Chris reached inside his jacket and
pulled his Beretta and placed it right next to the Russian pistol.
Between them they had enough hardware to give an average British
copper a heart attack.
“Hard to get?” Chris asked, grinning. He thought of his boxing
trainer. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, he'd say. From the
look of him, Nikita qualified as a super heavyweight. Russia—and the
Ukraine—produced lots of those. “Want to be wooed a little, Nicky?”
Nikita gave an irritated snort. “You understood me.”
Chris peeled off his blazer, folded it in half, and set it atop his gun.
Nikita did the same with his suit jacket. Chris flexed his hands, his
blood running hotter when Nikita cracked his knuckles. He could damn
near smell the testosterone between them.
Summoning his cockiest grin, Chris stepped back and made a
“come forward” gesture. “Bring it.”
Nikita circled, and Chris's smirk grew wider. He threw a playful
jab that had no chance of connecting. “Afraid to muss up your hair, big
guy?”
The Russian laughed, kept circling.
He sprang and kicked. Chris dodged but not far enough. He
crashed to the floor, rolled, and scrambled to his feet. Nikita charged
again; Chris caught his sleeve, pushed and slammed the other man back
first into the thick carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs. As
solid as the wood was, the whole railing shook, and Chris winced for a
moment. Last thing he wanted was to fuck a man with broken ribs,
even though this “playing hard” was fun.
“Let's set the price, Nicky. Loser takes it up the ass? How does
that sound?”
“Fair deal.” Nikita straightened, but Chris could see that the
collision with the wood pillar had hurt him. Good. Less work. He'd
love fucking the big guy, he just knew it.
He motioned, moved deeper into the entrance hall, and the
Russian followed, an angry bull gathering his resolve. Chris stepped in,
feinted a punch to the man's face while taking his wrist in an Aikido
move. But instead of dropping the bastard on the floor, he found the
tables turned. Chris hit the stone-tiled floor with back and shoulders,
breath knocked out of him. The big Russian dropped on a knee with
him and punched him with a palm strike into the solar plexus.
God, that fucking hurt.
“Give in, make it easier on us both,” Nikita taunted with a shit-
eating grin.
“Never.” Chris sucked in his breath, bit back the lingering pain.
He shot a punch to the Russian's balls and struck gold. He shoved
Nikita over, then pulled himself up. “Don't worry, I'll kiss it better.”
He let Nikita get to his own feet and gave him the “come on”
motion again.
Nikita cupped himself. “You want it so much, you come here.”
“Hurting a little more than you're willing to admit, eh, Nicky?”
The words had barely left his lips when Chris slammed into the
door. Shit, that boy moved fast. Chris landed a shot to the ribs. The
Russian took a half step back, and Chris swung again.
Nikita countered, spun him into a chokehold. “Andrei Voronin.
You killed him.”
“What if I did? What's it to you? Were you his bitch?”
That roar was pure, sheer rage, and surprised Chris. He squirmed
in the chokehold, kicked, elbowed, thrashed, using every ounce of
strength to break the hold, but his vision dimmed and a numbness filled
his head, oxygen- and blood-starved brain shooting frantic light sparks
through his vision. Fuck, the bastard was going to kill him.
In a motion that was more instinct than contemplated surrender,
he tapped his thigh, twice, rapidly, indicating he gave up. Any martial
artist knew that signal.
Another roar, this time of frustration, and then Chris blanked out.
NIKITA loosened his grip but didn't let the limp American fall. Instead
he surprised himself by shifting so he could lift the unconscious Chris
over his shoulder. The weight made his battered muscles protest, so he
took time to steady himself, and he looked around on his way to the
stairs.
This was Voronin's house, he was sure of it. He'd been thinking
of buying one before their last contact, and this definitely suited his
taste. Expensive, representative, but not gaudy.
He should have checked in one last time, taken the opportunity to
befriend his contact. Befriend. The thought made him laugh, and the
solid feel of the unconscious American over his shoulder made him
admit the truth.
Nikita paused upon reaching the upper hallway. Five doors. The
first a small study. The second a full bath. The third undoubtedly the
master bedroom from its size and furnishings. No. Voronin's suite
wouldn't do.
The next room across the hall would suffice. He lay the American
on the bed and then began to strip, his cock already hard and straining,
aching to take the prize he'd won.
And what a handsome prize it was.
But he had standards. His libido would have to be patient.
He took his time disrobing Christopher Gibson, wondering if
Chris had put such attention into the detail of watching Andrei before
pulling that trigger.
Kill him and be done with it. That's what he should do. And
yet… that cocky challenge, that self-possessed, big balls grin. The
infuriating teasing. No, Gibson had had no idea who he was fooling
with. Tapping into a carefully hidden desire, something Nikita had
wanted to do forever: fuck a man.
He patted Gibson's clothes and found lube. He wasn't surprised.
Wasn't that what gay men did? Always ready. Chris had been cruising
for sex, after all.
Good-looking man, dark hair and eyes, and he looked wholesome
when passed out. Nice. Not much like a hitman at all. Too much joy in
life.
Nevertheless, he'd killed Andrei.
Nikita bared his teeth in a snarl, hating that thought, and bound
Gibson's wrists in front of his body, then tied his hands to the bedpost.
The sight turned him on even more, a shot like from one of the Internet
galleries. He ran his hands up the strong, muscular thighs, touched,
carefully, the man's dick, surrounded by dark hair. His balls. He lifted
one leg and pushed it to the side. The ass. He'd fantasized about it, kept
imagining it when he was alone at night. Forbidden, impossible
pleasure. Gibson had offered it willingly earlier. And Nikita wanted it.
But he also wanted the man aware.
Chris jolted awake when the water hit his face.
“Hello, darling,” Nikita said. He glanced down to Chris's erection,
hard and ready from the stroking of his lubed hand. “I thought you'd be
awake before your cock.”
Chris strained at the bonds. “Untie me—”
“Or what?” Nikita threw his head back and laughed. He squeezed
the cock in his hand, liking the way Chris's jaw tensed as he fought
voicing the pain. “You made the rules. I won.” He took the small tube
of lube from the bed and slicked his own cock. “Loser takes it up the
ass, if I recall.”
“Fuck you.”
Nikita laughed again. “You will.” He positioned himself, lifted
the American's hips, poised the head of his cock at the puckered hole.
“What's the matter? Not sure how Tab A goes into Slot B?” Chris
sneered. “You're not that big, go for it and be done.”
Nikita pushed forward, keeping his gaze locked with the
American's. The brown eyes flickered, maybe pain, maybe anger, but
his body accepted Nikita.
Hotter and tighter than he had imagined. Nikita's heart was
beating so hard he could feel it under the roof of his head. Finally. He
pushed deeper, fully savoring the other man's body, its resistance, and
he heard a strange sound from Chris, a choked little noise, not quite a
sob, though. Pleasure?
Gibson was still hard, staring at him like a wolf, unwilling to
submit despite the fact he was tied up and taking a cock up his ass. He
had to admire the American's nerves, but right now, all he admired was
the fact that Gibson took him like that and still stared at him.
He pulled back and thrust in about an inch, which made Gibson
grind his hips a little. Yes, he liked it. Nikita inhaled, paused, gathering
his resolve when all he wanted was to plunge fully into him and fuck
him until he broke. Until they both broke. “I warned you,” Nikita said.
“Do it already, you pussy.”
Nikita shoved all the way in, lost once more in the tightness, the
heat, the thrill.
“You do know how to actually fuck?”
Nikita growled, glared at the smug American, who had the nerve
to grin at him. He pulled his hips back, shoved in again, setting a quick
pace that took his control to the limit.
“Is that the best you can do?” Chris taunted.
To Nikita's surprise, he used the bonds to his advantage, planting
his feet on the mattress, raising his hips, meeting Nikita's thrusts. His
breathing became ragged. “I lied. You are big enough, Nicky.”
Nikita met his gaze, kept it as he gripped Chris's hips, held tight
and pumped harder. Chris's eyes positively gleamed with fierce lust
now, and that was something he hadn't seen on the Internet. None of
the porn actors showed this relish for sex. None wrestled for control
like this, and not a single one of them grinned like that.
Nikita wasn't quite sure anymore who fucked whom but didn't
care. He thrust hard and fast, used his weight, his strength, every single
thrust rocking Chris and making the bed creak. Flesh slapped together,
and Chris's cock traced wet lines over his stomach, until the American
suddenly stiffened and tightened, groaning, cum shooting over his
stomach up to his chest. Nikita thrust harder into the spasming heat and
just barely remembered to pull out before he came, mixing his cum
with Chris's over his body.
“Thanks, bro. I was… worried about the condom thing,” Chris
panted.
“I'm negative,” Nikita said gruffly, and he pulled away. He saw
Chris's ass, reddened and open, inviting him again, couldn't help but
touch it, sliding a thumb in, then back out.
Chris murmured softly and pressed against him. Was it really so
enjoyable?
“Untie me, okay?”
Nikita looked up. “And if I don't?”
“You'll piss me off, and I won't fuck you again.”
Covered in both their cum, that was a funny demand. Nikita got
off the bed, pushed his half-hard dick back into his trousers. “Voronin.
You killed him.”
Chris shrugged as best he could. “I'm not discussing business
with you. Not like this, okay, Nicky?”
He should shoot him. But fact was, shooting a man he'd just had
sex with would be damn near impossible. First, his genetic traces were
all over the bed; secondly, he'd just had sex with this man, and his
anger was almost done. Andrei. Shit. His house. The whole place just
breathed Andrei's presence, and Nikita felt more stricken than angry.
He took hold of the strips of cloth that held Chris's arms in place and
tore them. The fabric only gave a dry snap. Chris would be able to free
himself from the remaining restraints. Last time Nikita had done it, it
had taken his captive about fifteen minutes.
Enough time to get a taxi back to Hackney and pick up his car.
“AW, C'MON, Nicky. Don't make me work to get free,” Chris called.
It didn't surprise him when the Russian ignored him, slipped on his
shoes and shirt and left.
As soon as the door closed, Chris worked at the bonds and, once
free, scrambled from the bed. Peeking into the hall, he ventured out and
to Andrei's room. In the rear of the huge armoire, he felt for the hidden
compartment and sprung the catch. Bingo. Andrei's memory flash had
been right on. There was a gun. A shit Makarov, of course.
Chris eased back into the hall and toward the stairs, his back to
the wall, conscious of his dick swinging in the breeze. He peered over
the stair railing. No sign of the Russian. He inched down the stairs,
checked the ground floor, and then, satisfied the place was empty, he
went back to the stairs. His jacket was where he'd left it, his Beretta
still on the table and loaded. And on the white table cloth was scrawled
in ink:
We’ll meet again.
He stared at the strong script, went back upstairs, showered, but
didn't call GORGON or John and Andrei, who were off in the States
while Andrei went through training.
He should and he would, but not right now. Now he wanted to
leisurely jack off and remember cold-eyed Nikita fucking him like no
tomorrow.
At the end he'd thought he'd be on the receiving end of a fisting,
&nbs
p; especially when he took the chance of mouthing off, but he wasn't.
And damn it all to hell if the thought of experiencing that didn't
intrigue him.
Chapter 2
“HEY, how are you holding up? Enjoying the Rockies?” Chris had his
legs propped up on the couch table, a nice tumbler of vodka on his
belly. He wore nothing but a terry robe after lounging around in the
Jacuzzi and jerking off to the memory of that Nikita. By now, he was
finally sated and able to think, well, “straight.”
And this was Andrei's week of survival training in the Rockies.
John was playing supervisor, but Chris assumed they got some cuddle
time in too.
“Yes. Have you ever eaten freshly caught fish? It's amazing.”
“Been there, done that, got the badge to prove it.” Chris grinned.
Seemed Andrei was doing all right. “What about Soong? He a pain in
the ass?”
“No, he knows how to use lube.”
Chris smiled. “You're getting better with the banter, Russkie.
Speaking of which, I had a run-in with a guy who knows you. Well,
knew you. Guy stalked me, then asked a couple hard questions.”
Hard in the best sense of the word. Chris idly toyed with his cock,
which was beginning to show signs of life. God, like being a fucking
teenager again. “He apparently connected me to your messy death in
Paris.”
“Shit, are you all right?”
“Oh yeah, no worries. I was just wondering which side he's
batting for, you know. Any kind of memory coming up with the name
Nikita?”
Andrei paused. “What does he look like?”
“A bit taller than me. Twenty-odd pounds more. He's built. Brick
shit-house, that type. Fit. He's a fighter. Hair is buzzed short, light
brown or dark blond, clean shaven, and eyes that could freeze hell over.
Pale. No color. He's a scary motherfucker, that one.”
“Sounds like you're in love.”
Chris laughed.
“Hang on, John just came in.”
In the break, and while Andrei filled John in, Chris pondered the
comment. In lust? Undeniably. In love? Never really been and doubted
he ever would. Certainly not with another assassin. And Nikita had the
moves to be a good one. He'd been holding back. A lot.
John came on the line. “Are you sure you're all right?”