First Blood

  Chris wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees and suck the

  big guy off once he finished the last rep and sat up to mop his sweaty

  brow and kick back some water.

  “Give me another twenty.”

  “You sure? You don't want to strain anything you might need

  later.”

  Nikita grinned a sexy, smirky grin. “Put the plates on, bitch.”

  THIS gym had a boxing ring, and after Chris did lifting of his own,

  Nikita suggested they go at it mixed martial arts-style. Chris was only

  marginally aware that they'd begun to draw an audience. He was far

  too concerned with dodging kicks, throwing punches, and getting in as

  many licks of his own as he could.

  God, this was the ultimate foreplay, and better than that first

  encounter he and Nikita had had back in the London house. This wasn't

  just a friendly sparring match; this was all-out war, and they both were

  fighting to win, because after all:

  The loser takes it up the ass.

  Nikita landed a kidney punch that sent Chris into the ropes and

  gasping for breath.

  “Give it up.”

  “Not a chance, Nicky. Not a fucking chance.” Chris steadied

  himself, pulling determination and willpower out of his ass, and spun

  on the offensive, kicking and punching, ducking low, hitting hard,

  pounding the big guy into the corner. Chris slowed his attack. Big

  mistake. Nikita got in a low blow, went right for the jewels but backed

  off just short of bringing Chris to his knees.

  “Let's… call it a draw… and get lunch,” he said between heavy

  breaths.

  Chris nodded. “Works… for me.”

  Passing into the locker room, he grabbed the waistband of

  Nikita's shorts and jerked him back close enough to whisper. “This

  way we both win and can both get it up the ass.”

  Chris decided that Nikita's deep laugh ringing off the tiled walls

  was one of the finest things he'd ever heard.

  WHILE the old Tom Petty song may have taken issue with waiting

  being the hardest part, Chris loved the gnawing anticipation brewing

  between himself and Nikita as they showered, dressed, and headed out

  to grab some food. Sex clearly on both their minds, both of them set on

  making the other wait long enough to beg for it.

  But the natural buzz Chris had going took a hit as they waited for

  their main course and his phone sounded “The Ride Of The Valkyries . ”

  What the fuck did the Dragon Lady want?

  He opened the text fully expecting to see a big You’re fired! But

  instead it read Meet Stefan. Men’s room. Now.

  “Oh, what the fuck,” he muttered, snapping the phone shut.

  “Problem?” Nikita asked, buttering a slice of crusty bread.

  “Probably. I'll be right back.”

  Wudarczek was at a urinal, and Chris leaned against one of the

  sinks, thinking it was a pity that the guy had such a great dick yet was

  such a rotten lay. “What's the deal?”

  Shaking off and stuffing himself back into his pants, Stefan took

  his own sweet time in washing and drying his hands. “I don't know

  who Soong fucked or why, but you're still on board.” He pulled an

  envelope from his suit jacket and handed it over.

  “Andrei has already left. You and your little friend are on a later

  flight.”

  He left without another word, only a parting envious glance.

  Chris whistled when he peeked in the envelope and saw the two

  tickets to Geneva, business class this time. Johnny, I owe you big time.

  The waiter was just bringing their orders when he returned to the

  dining area.

  “You get laid?” Nikita asked when Chris sat down.

  Chris winked. “I'm saving myself for marriage.” He placed his

  napkin on his lap and cut into the salmon he'd ordered. “It seems you

  and I have been pegged to take a little road trip.”

  “To Geneva,” Nikita said drily.

  “Ohhh. Psychic as well as great in bed. I knew I liked you for

  more than one reason.” Chris sipped his wine. “How'd you know?”

  Nikita tapped his own cell phone, which was now on the table. “I

  received my own call while you were gone.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  Nikita pointed at the cell phone as if to blame it for whatever he'd

  say next. “There's a lot of… excitement in Moscow over this. I was

  ordered to, and I quote, „play along'.”

  “You think GORGON told your people they want you?”

  “I didn't press. They wouldn't tell anyway, but I'll ask a couple

  questions when I get back home.”

  Hope that going home thing never happens, buddy, Chris thought,

  and pushed some rice onto his fork. The fun of doing a job, the fun of

  doing it with Nikita, and the rush of taking him to bed—or to mattress,

  or against the wall—in the next half hour or so meant that whatever

  came after would be a triple kick to the gut.

  Unless GORGON hired Nikita. That was if Nikita wanted the job.

  Fuck, there were too many ifs involved. He normally accepted that

  people met and parted; just having a good time didn't change that. In

  many ways, it even confirmed the pattern and sped it up.

  Nikita studied him. “I even know where we're going after

  Geneva.”

  “Oh.” Chris realized he hadn't responded, had completely missed

  the cue. “Do tell, my man.”

  Nikita hesitated, then smiled. “We're going to Bari. That's where

  the boat is.”

  “What boat?”

  “Huge, ostentatious bitch, owned by a billionaire. It's where they

  think the new auction is being held. I assume somebody up in Moscow

  really wants to clean out his closet, so seems I have free rein. To

  explain, we're targeting a big hitter now. Shkadov's just a poodle

  against him. Maybe they're rewarding me for good service.”

  Grinning, Chris nudged Nikita's foot under the table. “How about

  I reward you for benching 250 today?”

  “Food first.”

  “Hot in bed and practical. You're the man of my dreams, big guy.”

  “SOMEONE'S been busy,” Chris teased when they arrived back at the

  apartment. The mattress had been pulled a few inches from the wall,

  giving access to the steel eyebolts fastened into the floor. At the foot of

  the mattress on either side, two more large stainless eyebolts were

  screwed in.

  Chris pulled off his jacket and sat on the arm of the chair to

  remove his boots and socks. “What do you have in mind, you naughty

  boy, you?”

  Nikita fixed him with his badass motherfucker stare. “No jokes,

  just do as you're told.”

  “Sure,” Chris answered simply. If big pharma could bottle that look and that tone, they just might have the most potent aphrodisiac ever. At least it worked its magic on him. His dick was swelling to the

  point of discomfort. And he had to stand and unzip to relieve some of

  the pressure.

  Nikita was already undressed and more inviting than ever as he

  stood with his back turned, pulling some things from a plastic bag.

  Chris remembered the
feel of his dick buried deep in that tight ass, and

  he wanted to experience it again, though he doubted that was what the

  Russian had on the agenda for right then.

  Chris had to clamp his jaws to hold in the quip of “Ohhhh kinky!”

  at the sight of the rope, plastic zip tie handcuffs, and bottle of lube

  Nikita set on the mattress edge.

  “What are you waiting for? Strip.”

  “Yes, sir,” Chris said softly, not minding the subservient tone that

  slipped out. He gave Nikita a questioning look when the other man

  came from the bathroom with a can of shaving cream, but he said

  nothing.

  Nikita let the can fall to the floor, approached Chris, and grabbed

  Chris's left nipple, twisting and squeezing enough to make Chris wince.

  He grabbed the back of Chris's neck with his other hand, jerked him

  into a punishing kiss.

  Oh fuck, this was good. Better than good, hotter than hell, and

  they hadn't even gotten started.

  Nikita broke the kiss, bit Chris's shoulder, slid his hot tongue

  down across his pec and then clamped his mouth on the still-tender

  nipple. He sucked hard, scraped his teeth over the sensitive flesh, and

  made Chris groan when he pulled away.

  “Get on the bed.”

  Chris did. His pulse raced, throbbed in his cock as he imagined

  being bound and at the Russian's mercy.

  “Sit up,” Nikita ordered, kneeling on the mattress with the skein

  of rope in his hand.

  Chris wasn't the least bit surprised that Nikita knew exactly what

  he was doing as he uncoiled the rope, wound it around Chris's chest,

  crisscrossing it over the back of his neck across his chest again, and

  then looped it around his waist and up his arms, two long ends dangling

  over his shoulders on either side. He made Chris lie back and secured

  the rope ends to the steel bolts, the rope taut under his armpits.

  Swallowing hard, Chris bit back a comment about hoping no one

  yelled fire. He took several slow breaths and told himself that Nikita

  knew what he was doing. He wouldn't put Chris in danger. As if

  sensing the unease, Nikita stroked his thigh before jerking his legs

  further apart to secure his ankles to the eyebolts in the floor.

  Nikita stood at the foot of the bed and stared, his hand slowly

  stroking his own dick, thumb flicking back and forth over the swollen

  head to spread around the precome. “Do you remember your safe

  word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Nikita gave him another smoldering look and went to retrieve

  something from his clothing.

  The knife.

  Shit. Chris shivered, more with anticipation than fear as Nikita

  came forward, dropped to his knees on the edge of the mattress, and ran

  the flat of the blade up and down the ropes binding his chest.

  “I've decided to shave your balls.”

  “Okay.”

  Jesus! How good was this guy with that fucking blade? His balls?

  Christ!

  “You're afraid.”

  “Uneasy. You understand.”

  Nikita's smile was more calculating than comforting, and it made

  Chris's pulse beat quicker. Taking the knife from its sheath, Nikita

  studied the dark blade, turned it so the light caught the silvery strip of

  sharpened edge.

  “You needn't worry, Chris. I've shaved Katya with this. She

  found it to be rather arousing.”

  “I'm not worried.”

  “Good.”

  Nikita set down the knife on Chris's bound chest, and reached for

  the shaving cream, squirting out a small dollop onto his thick fingers.

  He smoothed it over Chris's tight ball sac, wiping the excess on the

  edge of the sheet. He ran his fingertips along the length of Chris's stiff

  cock, gripped the head, and squeezed, milking a dribble of precome,

  which he sucked away.

  “It's a good thing you're hard. We wouldn't want it in the way

  and vulnerable, now would we?”

  “I guess not.”

  Nikita's chuckle was throaty and dirty, and Chris shifted on the

  mattress, hating yet loving the feeling of being trapped, bound like a

  prisoner and subjected to the carnal whims of the intimidating cop

  before him.

  With a surprisingly gentle touch and short, precise strokes, Nikita

  shaved him 'til his scrotum was bare as the day he was born and then

  wiped the foamy residue away with the sheet.

  “You did well, Chris. Did you enjoy it?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Nikita grinned and set the knife down. He stood, looked at his

  handiwork, his own cock hard and pointing out, tempting Chris,

  making him lick his lips.

  Nikita crouched, picked up the knife, and sliced the plastic cuff

  holding Chris's legs. He sliced through the rope at his wrists as well

  and helped him stand. “Sit down,” he said, indicating the armless

  wooden chair near the whiteboards.

  Chris did, the ropes rubbing as he moved, the wooden seat cold

  against the hot skin of his ass. Nikita came forward, lube in hand, and

  drizzled it on Chris's cock, spread it with his fingers. Then he slathered

  his own.

  Chris held his breath, exhaling slowly when Nikita mounted him,

  sinking down fast, taking him all in.

  They kissed, battling for control as they always seemed to do,

  Nikita gripping his shoulders, Chris holding onto the Russian's lean

  hips. Nikita wasted no time in gripping the back of the chair and riding

  hard and fast, his slick cock bobbing against the ropes still binding

  Chris.

  “Use your hand.”

  Chris was only too glad to oblige, knowing he couldn't last long

  at this pace. Nikita came first, his hot come shooting up to hit Chris's

  chin, his ass muscles clenching with each spurt, pushing Chris over the

  edge as well.

  They clung to one another, sweaty, gasping for breath.

  Nikita touched his forehead to Chris's and murmured something

  in Russian as they drifted back from the high.

  After a time, Nikita moved first, helped Chris stand and pulled off

  the ropes. They didn't bother cleaning up but lay on the mattress, the

  sheet pulled up to their chests. Chris lay on his side, Nikita spooned

  behind him, body still damp with sweat, his cock growing soft as it

  nestled against the cleft of Chris's ass. Nikita wrapped an arm around

  his chest, kissed his shoulder, and nuzzled his neck. Chris gripped

  Nikita's hand and closed his eyes, wishing he could banish the image of

  Nikita walking out of his life once his job was done.

  Chapter 12

  THEY had breakfast the day after at the airport, and Nikita couldn't

  help but think he'd never had so much fun on a job. There was the dark,

  grim satisfaction of busting kneecaps, there was the relief and closure

  when he filed his reports, a moment of emotional emptiness and calm.

  But that didn't strictly qualify as “fun.”

  Now, Chris was fun, and he brought fun along wherever he went.

  Nikita still wasn't quite sure about the man's constant refusal to take
/>
  anything seriously and assumed it was a mask, but other than that,

  Chris Gibson was simply great company.

  He'd come to love hearing Chris talk and tell stupid stories about

  one of the hundreds of people that he knew (and had slept with). He'd

  been thoroughly amused watching how Chris grabbed a dry sandwich,

  placed it in his hand, and moved the top slice, mimicking some Stefan

  guy's speech—that sandwich-as-hand-puppet act made Nikita almost

  spit coffee across the table. And then that smug grin of Chris's, that I’m

  irresistible and I know it smirk that made Nikita calculate whether or

  not they could have a quickie in the toilets before they left.

  Well, on the other hand, anticipation made everything so much

  better. Berlin to Geneva was a quick flight, a mere hop across open

  landscape and then mountains while Chris caught a bit of sleep and

  placed his hand on Nikita's thigh under the blanket. Small gestures like

  that—they didn't seem to mean much, certainly not with a guy who

  laughed at anything, unless, of course, he was submitting and

  playing—but Nikita felt they were significant. He didn't touch in a

  work environment, but with Chris, it wasn't just work. Damn, the lines

  blurred, and he had no idea if that was good or bad. Possibly Chris was

  used to that—with this John guy having been a lover and a teammate.

  They arrived, picked up a rental, and drove toward Montreaux,

  where Chris said he lived. The place he inhabited was certainly

  expensive, and as Chris pointed out, “had the full set of furniture.”

  More than that, it certainly hinted that Chris Gibson had been earning

  good money.

  “Freshen up a bit, and then we'll deck you out.”

  “I have everything I need.”

  “I can't have you run around with that crappy Makarov of yours.”

  Nikita lifted an eyebrow. “The Makarov is perfectly adequate.”

  “Not for you. You deserve something better.” Chris patted his

  shoulder. “I couldn't forgive myself if you kept shooting with such an

  uncool pistol. Especially one with an eight-round mag.” He shook his

  head, his expression clearly one of pity.

  He did have a nice weapons collection. Like something straight

  out of the latest Punisher movie, Chris had a massive, sliding, armored

  compartment built into a wall, which had a fair selection of gear: pistols,