Heathrow. Still, the memento was awarded a place of honor in his
temporary habitat.
No doubt Nikita didn't feel at home here. He'd barely settled in.
There was a weight bench set up in the living room, blocking the cheap
TV, weights rusty like he'd bought them on eBay for a fiver. He could
imagine Nikita's physique struggling under the weights, with
predictable results. He was starting to feel a little annoyed at how little
his body obeyed him.
The next door was the bathroom. Nikita shaved with a single
straight blade safety razor, which was ironic considering his knife kink.
Chris's inner thigh itched at the thought.
He headed upstairs to the bedrooms. There was an unused bed in
one, with a smaller room attached, which, in the scheme of things,
might easily serve as a nursery. A couple closets for clothes, which
held a few suits, all wrapped in plastic from a dry cleaners'. Bedclothes
were all black. He shook his head and headed into the master bedroom.
“Close the door behind yourself, will you?”
Oh fuck.
Chris turned. Nikita stood there, arms crossed in front of his chest,
showing off his muscular biceps in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans,
legs casually braced. The Russian was a whole 'nother animal when he
“dressed down,” and he looked like he'd be right at home in a rough
biker bar or prison yard.
Chris slid his hands into the pockets of his own pants and
couldn't help wondering what Nikita would look like in leather. “You
crashed my place. I thought a payback was in order.”
Nikita remained silent, like a hulking stone sentinel guarding a
castle keep.
“Just so you know, Katya didn't want to bring me here, but I
insisted. If you have a problem take it up with me not her.”
Damn but he'd forgotten how warm leather pants could be. Of
course the sight of those brawny arms and taut pecs covered in the
black T wasn't helping his temperature situation.
Shit. Nothing and no one had ever affected him this way. Ever.
He didn't like it. And worse than that, there was a pile of chromed steel
chains clearly visible under the black-clad bed. The only colors in this
room, honey-colored wooden floor, whitewashed walls, black
coverings, silvery steel, black Nikita, colorless eyes. He had a black
phone charging on one of the power points.
Chris wasn't sure why he'd come here—this place gave nothing
away of Nikita he hadn't known before, and the Russian seemed
forbidding rather than attracted.
“Too bad you're not sprawled on the bed so I can fuck you this
time,” Chris ventured.
The Russian lifted an eyebrow. “You think.” The expression in
his eyes said “make me,” and Chris felt his chest tighten. One day, he
really wanted to fuck Nikita.
“I know you'd be begging for more.”
“What's that thing you Americans say? Ah… in your dreams.”
Chris pulled his hands from his pockets, took his car keys out as
well. “We Americans also say, catch you on the flip side, my man.” He
started toward the door. Nikita simply stood there like the fucking lord
of the manor, blocking his exit. Chris paused, adjusting his balance in
the event Nikita tried to attack.
But he didn't. He stared with that bloodless (and too damn hot)
stare of his, and then he stepped aside. Not completely aside, mind you.
He left just enough room for Chris to leave and have no other choice
but to brush against him.
Smug fucker.
“We'll see who has the last laugh,” Chris muttered as he walked
to his car.
Being a spy had a lot of perks, and many of them centered around
the real-life better-than-Bond gadgetry, especially when it came to
miniscule A/V equipment like the few dime-sized cameras he'd
managed to plant at Nikita's.
Chances were the Russian would find them sooner than later, but
Chris figured no one could blame him for trying.
Chapter 5
HE HADN'T anticipated how hard it would be to see Nikita go through
his daily routine. Appear in the kitchen in the mornings for a bowl of
cooked rolled oats, to which he added half a fruit basket; then he went
for a run. When he came back, he stripped on the way to the shower.
Dripping in sweat and naked before he closed the door behind him,
Nikita's body held no clues whatsoever, only that he was serious about
maintaining it. He jerked off in the shower, one hand against the tiles,
powerful neck bent, those soulless eyes closed, just a man taking his
daily pleasure. Chris couldn't help but do the same, as pathetic as it was.
Then Nikita left the flat, doing whatever. Chris resolved he'd
follow him the next day and see where he went. He came back in the
evening, as if he held down a nine-to-five job, then lifted weights for
two hours, stretched, sat down with a book, and read.
But later in the evening, Katya came, and then things got really
interesting.
Just a week ago, Chris wouldn't have thought it was hot, seeing
them “play.” But he had gooseflesh all over, watching Nikita drip hot
wax over her body in the bedroom, seeing her squirm. He fucked her
mind before he fucked her body, after hours of play, ritualized and
strangely beautiful, completely restrained. Nikita wouldn't have broken
a sweat hurting her bad, but he didn't. And Chris groaned when he saw
Nikita add two more cuts to that pattern on her back, his own skin
tingling up to the roots of his hair.
Nikita licked the cuts, dabbed on some ointment, and covered
them lightly with gauze. He had her kneel then, on all fours, her head
facing away from the camera, her cute little ass fully exposed. Nikita
pulled out lube, coated his fingers, and began massaging the slick liquid
along her crack. She squirmed as he penetrated her with his thick
fingers.
Chris licked his lips, let his hand drop down and pull his dick
from his sweatpants when Nikita slid his cock in her ass and began
humping away. Chris's ass throbbed in remembrance of being filled,
taken hard and fast. He jerked himself harder, wanting to come when
Nikita did.
But he came sooner, along with Katya, who shuddered, dropped
her head to the mattress and shimmied her hips. Nikita stopped,
climbed on the bed, fisting his own cock in front of Katya's face. Chris
could tell he was close, and he licked his lips again, waiting….
Nikita looked up, right at him, it seemed, and gave one last pull,
letting his load loose on the bed, on Katya's face. He got off the bed,
moved forward straight to the tiny camera.
Shit. A whitish splotch obliterated the view; then the picture
turned to static.
Chris gave an exasperated laugh. Shit. Nikita had fucked them
both with his little show. Damn.
Despite the fact he'd come, Chris felt empty and not completely
sated. He wanted that rough touch, wanted, God help him, to take
Katya's
place. “Forget it,” Chris admonished himself, and he wiped
himself down with a towel.
One day remained until his return to Switzerland, and he didn't
want to go. He didn't want to risk Nikita losing his trail. Or worse,
losing interest. Whatever that interest was, exactly. John would become
mother hen if Chris told him. And he was the only guy he could
possibly tell. Andrei would think he had gone completely loco.
Chris shook his head and moved the laptop mouse. He'd logged
into GORGONnet and downloaded the images connected to the case of
Andrei Voronin. The red icon indicated the case was “claimed” but not
closed. There were loose ends, namely Zaitsev.
He clicked through the gallery of images. Hundreds of images of
Andrei, Zaitsev, and known associates. Bodyguards. Art dealers, asset
managers. A fair amount of them were IDed, but he couldn't find
Nikita. How did he fit in? Who did he work for? And Nikita who?
Chris poured himself a drink and then began ticking off a list of
his GORGON associates and their specialties who might be able to
shed some light on the dark little puzzle that was his new Russian
friend. A slow smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and he sipped his
drink with one hand while using the other to maneuver the mouse to
access GORGON's in-house e-mail system.
To: Stefan.Wudarczek@GORGON.net
From: C.D.Gibson@GORGON.net
Subject: Name that Communist
...Or former Commie as the case may be.
Hey Steve-o riddle me this. I’m looking for intel on a guy connected to
an open case John and I have going. Russian mob shit real tough ass
goes by the name of Nikita. Not quite sure who he works for or what
he’s into beyond breaking kneecaps and playing whips & chains with
hookers.
Best I can offer you to go on is a camera screencap. Anything and
everything will be appreciated.
Hearts & Huggles
C.
Chris half-closed the laptop and went to make himself another
drink in the kitchen, then a snack. Sex made him ravenous, even if it
had been a largely solitary pleasure. He doubted Nikita was on the way
to Sevenoaks—after that scene and that orgasm, he was probably curled
up in bed. Don’t delude yourself he might even look cute when he’s
relaxed. Because he won't, he chided himself.
A toasted baguette, a packet of pastrami, and two boiled eggs
later, he settled back down and opened the laptop to surf before
checking his e-mails. He really should get rid of the Facebook account
clogging up his inbox, but it was a great place to cruise. He logged into
GORGONnet to find Stefan had already responded. He double-clicked
to open the message. It was big, stuffed full with attachments.
To: C.D.Gibson@GORGON.net
From: Stefan.Wudarczek@GORGON.net
Subject: Re: Name that Communist
Hi Chris,
That’s not a mobster, he doesn’t have the tats or cheap track suit.
Check exhibit A. Doesn’t keep the Russkies from respecting him,
though. He’s connected to human traffickers, usually Eastern European
ladies. So, yeah, he’s into whips and chains and slavery. Maybe even
snuff porn? Got no proof, but a bunch of theories.
He was arrested in Berlin eighteen months ago when the German cops
stormed an illegal brothel. They let him go, for whatever reason, and
he slipped away. See exhibit B. He was IDed in that bust as Nikita
Sergeyevich Kazakov, so sounds like he’s your man. Give him a bullet
from me when you meet him again—that raid busted my case.
Warmest Greetings,
Stefan
Chris reread the message as he formulated his reply. Certainly
didn't want Steve-o to stir up any shit, not yet, anyway.
To: Stefan.Wudarczek@GORGON.net
From: C.D.Gibson@GORGON.net
Subject: Re: Name that Communist
No hearts no huggles for old Chris? You haven’t forgiven me for that
Christmas party incident last year have you? Didn’t mean to breech
your heteronormative boundaries dude. I’m a sucker for kissing under
the mistletoe and you looked so hot in that red sweater...
Seriously thanks for the head’s up on Kazakov. I knew he was dirty the
minute I saw him. I’m not sure if he fits in with the case John and I had
going but from what little I’ve seen the bastard deserves a well placed
bullet. I’ll keep you posted.
C.
Chris exited the e-mail program. He chuckled to himself and
repeated Nikita's middle name aloud, making it sound like separate
words. “Sir Gay A-vitch.” He clicked open one of the screenshots, his
hand falling to his bandaged wound while he took in Nikita's hard body,
that thick cock. As tempting as it was to push the Russian's buttons a
little more, he needed to get back to home base.
ANDREI and John were already at the condo, John in the kitchen
cooking up some delicious-smelling stir fry concoction, Andrei seated
GORGON rookie handbook.
Chris snatched the binder from his hand and deposited it in the chrome trashcan. “Forget everything that's in here and do what we tell you. You'll be happier and healthier that way.”
John turned, rolled his eyes, and retrieved the binder.
“Policies and procedures have their purpose. Chris, let's not get
Andrei started on the wrong foot.”
“If you'd have followed procedure he wouldn't be here now,
would he? Procedure would have had us let him bleed out all over that
nice white rug at the chalet.”
John's mouth sagged open. He looked at Andrei, whose
expression was a mixture of anger and hurt.
John shut down the stovetop burner. “What's gotten into you?”
Chris pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “Nothing. I'm tired,
okay?” He nodded toward the wok. “Don't worry about saving me any.
I ate at the airport.”
He went straight to the bedroom, tossed his unpacked suitcase on
the closet floor, took his laptop from his messenger bag to retrieve a
DVD, and popped it into the player hooked up to the large flat panel
screen opposite the bed. He stripped down and settled on the bed, fast
forwarding through the paper-thin plot setup until the sex action began.
It was some heavy S&M shit he'd found in a SoHo shop before
leaving London. A burly guy with Nikita's coloring and similar build
was putting a skinny masked guy through his paces with an entire bag
of tricks—cock and ball torture, needles piercing his ball sac, metal
alligator clips clamping his nipples. Chris took the bottle of lube from
the bedside stand as it began getting to “the good part”—the scrawny
guy suspended in a leather sling, the Dom putting on a latex glove and
shoving his hand into a tub of lube, then fisting the fuck out of the
skinny guy's ass, the sling swaying with each push of his hand, the
skinny guy moaning and half crying but begging for more.
Chris jerked off, going in time with the fisting,
his own asshole
twitching, wanting to be filled, remembering the pounding he'd taken
from Nikita. And at the end of the scene, when the Dom bent forward
and bit into the guy's thigh, Chris came with a shudder as he'd done the
first time he'd watched this, the cut on his own leg burning as it had the
night it'd tasted the cold kiss of Nikita Kazakov's blade.
HE DIDN'T know when he'd fallen asleep, but he woke to the sounds
of sex, Andrei and John giving each other blow jobs in the big bed next
to him. Fuckers. Like they couldn't have done that in another room?
He clamped his eyes shut, clutched the edge of his pillow. Get a
grip. That Russian screwed with your head. It wasn’t that long ago that
you’d woken up one or the other by starting a little action with John or
Andrei.
Taking a deep calming breath, he turned over to look at his lovers.
John lay with his head at the foot of the bed, and Andrei straddled him
facing opposite. God, they were beautiful separately and together, their
fucking intense and yet somehow sweet as they took their time using
lips and tongues to extract the optimum pleasure from one another.
Andrei saw him watching in the pale light of the small bureau
lamp. He paused, let John's cock loose long enough to say, “Join us?”
“Maybe.”
Andrei returned to his mission while John reached out to touch
Chris's leg, gently stroking the hair on his calf. Damn, but John Soong
had interesting skills. The tension and dismay that had filled Chris a
moment ago soon ebbed beneath that magic touch. They changed
positions—Andrei got off him, and Chris moved to John's back. He
turned the opposite way to grab the lube, coated his fingers, then began
to slide them along the length of John's crack. Andrei kept tonguing
John's dick and reached down to pull the globes of flesh, giving Chris
an easier entrance.
He fingered John until the other man whimpered; then he pulled
out and turned his attention to Andrei, switching back and forth as they
quickened their pace. He stopped touching when he knew they were at
the breaking point, and when they stilled, their cocks pulsing in release,