First Blood

  Nikita exhaled a long, hissing breath, and Chris knew he could

  make him come quickly if he chose, but he didn't. He rode Nikita long

  and slow, rising up and going down deep, moving his hips from side to

  side, tensing his muscles on each slow upstroke until Nikita grabbed his

  thighs and thrust up into each of his downward movements.

  Surprising him, Nikita sat up, grabbed the back of Chris's neck,

  and pulled him into a fierce kiss, lips mashing, teeth jarring together,

  tongues fighting for control.

  Nikita held him tight as he came, and Chris savored the pulsing of

  that thick cock and the rush of cum inside him.

  “So good,” Nikita groaned into Chris's ear. “Lie down.”

  Chris did, his body tight with anticipation, aching to come in turn.

  “Oh fuck,” he groaned when the Russian's mouth closed over his cock.

  Nikita began to use his hand, jerking more than sucking, but that was

  all right by Chris. The effect was the same, a dizzying high that

  consumed him as he spiraled out of control to the bursting point.

  Nikita pumped him hard and fast, and Chris gripped the sweaty

  sheets as the pressure built. He was aware of pain as the climax hit, but

  fuck if he cared. It was over before he was, and the Russian's tongue

  swabbed the wound.

  “Did you cut me?” Chris asked as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Do you object?”

  “No.”

  NIKITA got off the bed, physically and mentally sated. He was amazed

  that the anger toward Gibson didn't become more violent, and the force

  of his orgasms with the American was the second surprise.

  If he'd pegged him right, Gibson was a sub, reluctant, certainly,

  but the kind he enjoyed breaking in. He stepped back and began to

  dress again, seeing Gibson get on his elbows to study him.

  “You do love the gym.” Chris whistled. “Like I imagined.”

  “Did you sleep with Voronin?”

  “Is that what it's about? You want to fuck the man who fucked

  him?”

  Nikita paused, hands on his belt. “Did you?”

  “Yeah, I did.” Chris's smile was slow and malicious. “I was his

  first.”

  And then he'd killed him. Nikita paused and breathed. Chris

  Gibson was a hell of a lot more ruthless than him, killing a man he'd

  fucked. “What was he like?”

  “As a lover? A little inexperienced but a quick learner. I don't

  quite know if he'd appreciate your style, though. You play rough.”

  “What was he like out of bed?”

  The American's look was questioning. “Can't tell you much that

  you may not already know. He had some memory problems, don't

  know how that affected his behavior. He was pleasant enough.”

  “And you killed him.”

  Chris shrugged. “It was business. Business trumps all. You know

  how it is.” He winced and looked down at his inner thigh. “This gets

  infected, I'll kill your ass.” He got off the bed and went into the

  adjacent bathroom.

  The shower went on, and Nikita looked toward the partially

  opened door. He was temped, but as Gibson said, business came first.

  Nikita clipped the knife sheath to the back of his belt and studied the

  blood droplets on the duvet.

  He slipped out as silently as he'd come, wondering what Gibson

  would say if he knew what had been put upon him.

  Chapter 4

  THE fucking house offered no protection whatsoever. Chris found the

  window that Nikita had opened from the outside. He'd just climbed up

  on the garage, stretched to jimmy the cheap-ass sash lock, and entered

  one of the unused bedrooms. As easy as picking up bagels for breakfast.

  Never mind he didn't stay for breakfast. And that’s really what

  pissed you off, isn’t it, Skippy? You were just a fuck and go. Not so fun

  being on the receiving end.

  The cuts on his inner thigh taped up (fucking weirdo), Chris went

  for a run and a bout of exercise. Fuck that Russian, fuck his crazy

  stalker behavior, fuck him for just fucking him.

  But the night hadn't been a total loss. Chris reckoned he'd been

  convincing enough. Maybe Nikita was now satisfied. Now that his

  obsession with Andrei was fed, he had to lose interest. The Russian had

  his answers, and Chris thought he'd played his role perfectly. If not for

  John and that strange bond between all three of them, it might just as

  easily have become reality. He would have killed Andrei, sex or not.

  Following the workout Chris filled boxes with Andrei's stuff all

  day, only left for a couple hours to have an extended breakfast and

  lunch and went for another long walk. The wound didn't need stitches,

  as long as everything was taped up nice and secure.

  It didn't help that every step reminded him of Nikita. Fuck,

  maybe he didn't mind being stalked by the Russian psycho.

  For a man who'd just discovered he swung toward guys, the

  Russian sure took the bull by the horns, and Chris had to admit he

  loved that recklessness. While he was good at it, turning “straight” guys

  was usually a lot more work than they were worth. Nikita seemingly

  embraced it. And damn if he wasn't good at fucking. The blowing

  needed work, and Chris had to wonder how it would be to help him

  refine his technique.

  Shit.

  When his phone rang, he knew who it was even before he

  checked the caller ID.

  “Hello, John.”

  “How's it going?”

  “Swimmingly. The shit's all packed up and ready to go. I can

  have it back in Switzerland day after tomorrow.”

  “Why not tomorrow?”

  Chris frowned before replying. “I'm entitled to a little R&R, am I

  not?”

  “You'd better not go looking for that man.”

  “I won't.”

  John lapsed into a terse silence, but soon Andrei's voice echoed

  in the distance, calling him away. “All right, then. We'll be done here

  the end of the week if not sooner. See you then.”

  “Yep.”

  “Remember, don't look for trouble.”

  “I won't, Mommy Dearest.” Chris shut the phone off and

  pocketed it. “But I will go looking for Trouble's friends.”

  A little later, he drove into London, specifically Camden Lock

  Market, a place full of tattoo parlors, head shops, Goth shops,

  questionable Hello Kitty stores and boutiques of young, up and coming

  London designers. It was easy enough to get some clothes there, even

  though the prices were like being skinned alive. He found a place in the

  food court that served Thai Green Curry and had some with white rice.

  Then he settled with a poor excuse for a coffee to think for a while.

  Still restless and eager to be done with the day, he headed back to

  the City of London and the impressive modern cube that was the

  London office of Andrei's law firm, situated on the banks of the

  Thames, next to the Millennium Bridge that led to the Modern Tate

  Gallery.

  He called from reception, met Andrei's boss, the local Senior

  Partner, who expressed his
heartfelt condolences, undoubtedly

  assuming Chris was some kind of close relative or relation, however

  unlikely that might be. Chris inquired carefully about any irregularities,

  but according to Andrei's boss, there was nothing that came to mind.

  Still, he walked out twenty minutes later with a box full of the

  contents of Andrei's desk. The most promising item was a small laptop,

  almost a netbook in size but way more high powered than the cheap

  mini computers.

  The handful of USB sticks he'd found might just be the jackpot

  they'd been looking for. Andrei couldn't remember any details about

  his work for Zaitsev, but the stuff was too involved and complex to be

  kept in one head, however brilliant. There was a paper and data trail,

  and they'd fleeced Andrei's e-mail accounts, including his Google

  Documents and Google mail account. Nothing. He spent the next half

  hour finding a post office and packing everything up to be sent to

  GORGON HQ.

  Then it was time to party.

  Provided he could find the fucking bondage club. Shit. It should

  not take two passes to do it. Old Compton Street wasn't fucking Colfax

  Avenue in Denver that wound along for miles.

  Ah. The third pass along the street was the charm, when he

  caught sight of the set-back building and the unmistakable doorman

  poking his head out after letting someone in.

  Chris rapped sharply on the door. “Nikita sent me. I was here

  with him before.”

  The guard looked him over, taking in the leather pants, sturdy

  boots, and tight T-shirt. He stepped back, granting Chris admittance.

  As it had before, the music pulsed, the driving bass bouncing off

  the walls and vibrating his body when he passed near the large wall-

  mounted speakers. He headed directly to the dungeon. While a couple

  scenes were in progress, neither featured the girl with the cut back or

  the bear and his harem. Not even the dominatrix with the nice boobs.

  Fuck.

  He trudged back upstairs and cruised the main rooms. He might

  just have to give in to one of the looks he was getting and drum up a

  little action to pass the time. But not on the receiving end. He wasn't

  into that as a rule.

  Only with Nikita, right, Skippy—Hello, nurse.

  Chris followed his visual target as she skirted the edges of the

  room, and passed into the lounge, sliding onto a high wooden stool at

  the right end of the bar. He took a place near her. She glanced up for a

  second. The bartender came over, and he ordered them both a drink.

  “Hey. We met the other night. I was with your frie—master.”

  She glanced up, then down, and sipped her drink.

  “He does nice work. I got a bit of it myself. Not as pretty as yours,

  and I doubt I'll get the sparklies to decorate it with.”

  She looked up, keeping eye contact this time since he'd identified

  himself as her equal. “He cuts you too?”

  “Just the once. It was hot.” Chris sipped his drink.

  She breathed a long, low sigh that bordered on an orgasmic moan.

  His own wound seemed to absorb the sound. It burned. And his cock

  hardened. He remembered, barely, that fucking Nikita's pet was just as

  deranged as Nikita fucking him to interrogate him about Andrei. In

  Nikita's mind, Chris was probably the only thing that connected him

  still to Andrei.

  “So you've just started with him?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” That was a fair assessment. “I'm new to, um, the

  lifestyle.”

  “Don't worry, he'll take care of you,” she assured him, very

  nearly patting his hand. “He's the best.”

  “He's pretty hardcore,” Chris muttered.

  She played with the collar she wore even now. “He won't abuse

  you. I….” She looked over her shoulder, scanning the crowd for a

  moment. “He stepped in when my former master went too far. I'd trust

  him with my life.”

  With that knife in his hand, you are, honey, Chris wanted to say,

  but saw that unflinching mix of desire and submission. Damn, what did

  it take to put that expression into another human being's eyes?

  He looked down at the ice in his glass, purposefully avoiding a

  glance at the mirrored bar back. He wasn't like that. He was nobody's

  doormat. “Rangers Lead the Way” had been more than a military motto

  to him. It was a way of life.

  Yeah, yeah, Skippy, but it was damn hot to have that Russian

  dominating you with that fucking knife of his.

  Thankfully, the girl interrupted. “It can take time to find the right

  one who sees your limits and pushes you past them.” She smiled and

  ran her fingertip along the rim of her wine glass. “No one pushes limits

  better than Master. It's the Cossack in him.”

  “Cossack? Right.”

  “He is, he's descended from the best. You should see his shashka.

  He said his ancestor nearly beheaded Napoleon himself with that

  sword.” She murmured and rocked a little in her seat, her hand resting

  lightly on the expanse of upper thigh barely covered by her tight red

  skirt.

  Jesus, she was getting off on just talking about the guy. Chris put

  his hand atop hers, let his fingertips stray beneath the skirt hem. “Is

  there someplace else we can talk?”

  “I suppose,” she said cautiously. She tossed back the rest of her

  wine. “I suppose he won't mind, not if he's training you.”

  Chris paid for their drinks and led her outside. The air and light

  on the street helped him think a bit more clearly. Maybe he should

  really cut his holiday short, but running around in circles in his pad in

  Montreaux waiting for the rest of his three-man team sounded

  singularly unappealing. Fuck. He wanted to get somewhere with Nikita

  before he left. “Where does he live?”

  “In a flat in Angel.”

  And wasn't that an ironic choice. Angel of Death, more likely.

  “Do you have the keys to his flat?”

  She looked at him, seemingly confused by the urgency. “That

  wouldn't be right. If Master chooses….”

  “I'm… I want to surprise him. We played at my place… but I

  thought he might enjoy some initiative.” He wanted to know the

  fucker's name. His job, his cover. If he had any chance at all to find

  clues as to his identity, it was surely where he lived. Everybody left

  traces, even a pro. Hence, it was important to choose a good hiding

  hole. The mere fact his “pet” knew where it was was unprofessional.

  You're stark raving mad, dude, he told himself, but maybe it all

  made sense in some alternative universe. He didn't think Nikita would

  relent on his own, but at the same time he didn't want this to stop. The

  sex was too damned good. He wanted more, and he wanted to get a

  handle on the guy before he walked away. He would walk away. He

  still could.

  “I might get punished,” she said, chewing her lower lip.

  “Well, he'll do it very nicely,” Chris said, grinning, feeling a

  tremble of anticipation run through her body.

  ANGE
L was actually a pretty nice area with lots of little street cafes

  and pubs along the main street. Clearly one of the nicer areas of

  London, more relaxed than in the center, possibly because fewer

  tourists got here. Not that Chris spared the area more attention than he

  had to. Arriving at the address, he saw it was a house. Interesting. Chris

  had pegged the Russian as a sparse yet posh flat or luxury condo.

  He parked the car a discreet distance away. He took the keys from

  the ignition and began to open the door. Nikita's pet stayed put, staring

  down at her hands clasped tightly on her lap. He reached over, placing

  his hand atop hers. “It will be all right. I promise. If he finds out, I'll

  take full responsibility.”

  She glanced over, her overly made-up eyes full of uncertainty.

  Chris smiled, made sure it was his ladykiller smile. “I'm such a

  rude bastard. I haven't even asked your name.”

  “Katya,” she said quietly.

  “Such a lovely name for a beautiful woman,” he answered,

  rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. “Don't worry.”

  She nodded and pulled her hands away. “We stay only a few

  minutes.”

  “I promise.”

  Chris got out of the car and rushed around the front to grab the

  door for Katya. He let her lead the way to a group of a half dozen row

  houses. At least they were row houses in his American mind.

  Instead of entering via the short flight of stairs in front, Katya led

  him to the furthest house on the left and through an iron gate set into a

  brick wall that enclosed each house's small patio area. They entered the

  house through the kitchen, and Chris's first thought when Katya hit the

  lights was, nice house, cheap-ass furniture. It must be a furnished rental.

  If it wasn't, Nikita had much to learn about being gay. But then, Andrei

  had impeccable taste, leaning toward the representative. This interior

  decoration train wreck made Chris miss his condo in Montreaux.

  On top of a plaster fireplace sat a photo of a long, elegant sword

  in a cheap glass frame. At first Nikita thought it was a katana, but then

  he realized it was cavalry saber. Nikita's shashka, he assumed. Likely

  he'd left it at home—wherever that was—either anticipating problems

  getting a weapon into the UK or not trusting baggage handling at

  Heathrow. Still, the memento was awarded a place of honor in his