First Blood

by Aleksandr Voinov

Chris pushed his hands down Nikita's front, rubbing the outline

  of his dick, getting another growl out of the man. Without warning,

  Nikita took control, spun him around and pushed him up against the

  wall, face first and dazed. Chris was too thrilled to resist. And way too

  hard. If Nikita wanted to fuck him against the wall, he was welcome to

  it. Before he realized, his wrists were crossed and zipped together with

  plastic restraints.

  “Hey!”

  “So you don't run away again,” Nikita said close to his ear, his

  warm breath tickling. His hands opened Chris's belt, the buttons of his

  jeans, and freed his dick. Chris felt like he'd come if Nikita kept

  touching him like that, no-nonsense, not even particularly tender, just

  100 percent raw need. The Russian didn't bullshit once he'd made up

  his mind.

  “Not… running,” Chris admitted, feeling Nikita's splayed hand

  between his shoulder blades keeping him pressed into the wall. He

  imagined Nikita fumbling out of his trousers with one hand, and

  grinned. “Can we use… lube. Spit works, but you're kinda big.”

  “Yes.”

  Chris pressed back as Nikita rummaged through his pockets,

  patting him down with an altogether professional skill. “Ass pocket.

  Left side.”

  Nikita found it, and within moments was pressing into him. Chris

  pushed back, taking the fat head with reckless abandon. He wanted all

  of it, soreness be damned. Nikita wasn't one for foreplay, either, unless

  you counted whips and chains and hot wax. Nikita made him feel every

  single inch as he thrust in, working his way into his body as if Chris's

  consent or comfort didn't matter. Yes. Too goddamned hot. He choked

  on his breath when Nikita began to fuck him, crushing his body against

  the tiled wall, hands in the small of his back, balled into fists with the

  tension and need.

  “You want to be used,” Nikita growled into his ear. “That's what

  I'm doing now. Using your ass. Maybe I'll pull out and come in your

  face.”

  Chris laughed, because, yeah, he could simply do that, and Chris

  knew he'd love it. Getting down and dirty while outside, people waited

  for their bags and carried on with their day. Surreal, but oh so good.

  “That… enough for you?”

  “No.”

  The fucking paused only for a moment as Nikita wrapped a hand

  around Chris's dick to jerk him off in time with his thrusts. That very

  nearly finished him immediately. Chris pushed back harder, using

  every ounce of strength he possessed to get them both off. Not that he

  had many options.

  In that mismatched race, though, Nikita lost it first, coming inside

  him rather than in his face, and Chris thought, damn, that was probably

  kindness in this guy's world, before he just stopped thinking and came

  with a few more pumps.

  He rested his sweating face against the tiles for a few moments

  and noticed how Nikita's right hand rested flat against his chest, the

  other hand on his hip, an oddly tender gesture for the big man.

  Christ, he'd begun to be able to read him. Little bits like that that

  wouldn't have seemed important with any other guy or any casual fuck.

  And why was being held while tied up more significant? Chris shook

  his head, tried to gather his wits. He wracked his brain for a snarky

  comment to break up the unease gripping him. His thoughts froze, and

  the unease melted away when he felt Nikita's lips on his neck.

  “I meant it,” Nikita said. “Where's your hotel?”

  No. No way. John and Andrei were there too. Speaking of which,

  they might still be outside. “Where's yours?” Shouldn't Nikita pull out

  and leave him to clean up? Why wasn't he? Chris squirmed a bit to

  make that point, but Nikita didn't move.

  “Renting a flat.”

  “Longer assignment, then?”

  “It's sparse.”

  Thanks for not answering the question. “How much do we

  need…?” Chris asked, ironic eyebrow lifted. “Can't take you into my

  hotel, my man. I got too many eyes watching.”

  Finally, Nikita pulled away and then loosened the plastic strip

  holding Chris's wrists. And why did that feel like losing something?

  Chris held up his trousers and grabbed some paper tissues from the

  wash basins to wipe himself down.

  Nikita did the same, shoved his dick back into his pants and

  zipped up.

  “This is it, then.”

  Shit. No. He didn't want that. Still, Chris kept his jaw clenched,

  his mouth shut to trap the pathetic words that proclaimed his neediness

  for the stoic Russian. “Yeah, well, work comes first, right?”

  “Always,” Nikita replied with a cold, appraising stare.

  Chris rinsed his hands, dried them, and reached for his bag. Nikita

  continued to stare at him. Damn but he wanted to fold under the weight

  of that stare. What the fuck was it between them that struck him this

  way? It was such a turn-on, but fuck, it killed his pride. “I'll catch ya

  later, then.”

  “Unless I catch you first.”

  Chris's cock twitched. “We'll see.” He turned and left while he

  had the will, before Nikita Kazakov's powerful stare froze him in place

  once and for all. He walked quickly though the terminal, never looking

  back, not wanting to figure out what the hell was attracting him to this

  domination bullshit.

  Chris kept moving at a clip until he got outside. Son of a bitch.

  Those bastards left him. They'd gotten their bags and headed to the

  hotel without him. Fuckers. Wudarczek must be playing “Fearless

  Leader.” Total wuss, but always trying to run the show. So what if he

  was head of this operation? Didn't common courtesy come into play?

  Bastard. Chris waited a few minutes, scanning the area one last time to

  see if a rental or taxi with his erstwhile comrades pulled up, but it

  didn't. Shit.

  “Follow me.”

  Chris turned, and there in the doorway of the terminal was Nikita,

  a set of keys dangling from his powerful hand.

  “I have a ride. It's cool.”

  Nikita stared, clearly seeing through the bullshit. “Come,” he

  ordered.

  Chris felt he actually could, from the way that command slid

  down his spine and gripped his balls from behind. What the hell was

  wrong with him? Why was he liking this shit? Still, he picked up his

  bag and slipped back inside the terminal to find Nikita a few dozen

  yards away.

  That son of a bitch hadn't even waited to see if he followed. He'd

  gone right on his way absolutely cocksure Chris would do his bidding.

  Um, Skippy, that's exactly what you are doing, Chris's wounded

  pride reminded him.

  Okay, so technically he was, but it wasn't like that at all. He was

  no one's bitch. He was following because he needed the ride.

  When they arrived at the lot where Nikita's rental was waiting,

  the Russian stowed his gear in the trunk, tossed Chris's into the back

  seat. “What's your hotel?”
r />   “The Concorde.”

  Nikita snorted. “The heart of old West Berlin, it figures.” He

  glanced over and grinned. “Come East, young comrade, it's where the

  action is.”

  Holy shit. Kazakov was fucking flirting with him.

  And he liked it!

  Suppressing a grin, Chris flipped him the finger and settled back

  in the passenger seat. “So where is your favorite kind of action? That

  kind of club where Katya hangs? It's all right but pretty seedy if you

  ask me.”

  Nikita glanced over before pulling from the lot onto the street.

  “There are one or two places I'm keen to visit, time permitting.”

  “So what brings you back here? Kind of soon to show your face,

  isn't it?”

  “They don't actually know my face, unless someone enlightened

  them.”

  Chris sat up. “Don't go there. I got your ass out of that apartment,

  just in the nick of time as I recall.”

  “So you did.”

  The lightness of spirit the Russian's unexpected flirting had

  brought died swiftly in the silence that fell between them. It always

  came back to Andrei, didn't it, and the way Chris had “betrayed” him.

  Andrei. Fuck.

  The last thing he needed was to be dropped at the hotel and have

  John and Andrei hanging around outside.

  “Do me a favor,” Chris said when they came to a stoplight. “Drop

  me at the Balzac Coffee on Hardenbergstrasse.”

  “Why?”

  “I'm jonesing for a caramel fucking latte, okay? What's it to you

  anyway?”

  Nikita pulled through the intersection when the light changed. He

  remained silent as he picked up the pace, winding his way through the

  congested streets. Finally he deigned to reply. “I was curious. I'm on

  my own time 'til later.”

  Chris glanced over and then refixed his attention to the road

  ahead. He was flirting again. Even extending a fucking invitation?

  “Jet lag makes me miserable,” Chris said by way of apology.

  Nikita laughed. God, what a deep, sexy laugh he had, humor

  tinged with a coating of cynicism.

  “You came from Switzerland. It's hardly a lag-producing trip.”

  Whoa!

  “How the fuck do you know where I came from? What else do

  you just happen to know?”

  Looking over to deliver a smirk, Nikita made a sharp left and

  sped down the street, pulling to a stop near the coffee shop. “I'd tell

  you, but we're out of time. Enjoy your coffee.”

  Chris glared. He wanted to punch the info out of Nikita but knew

  it was futile. The big guy wouldn't talk. Not now anyway. With a

  muttered “fuck you,” Chris pulled his bag from the rear seat and got out,

  slamming the car door shut.

  That Russian bastard had the balls to stick his hand out the

  window and wave before disappearing back into traffic.

  Chris decided to get that coffee after all. He stopped halfway

  through the front door. Shit, he'd told the Russian where he was staying.

  Why the fuck had he told him the truth?

  Chapter 9

  “SPARSE” didn't begin to cover the place Nikita used as a base for

  operations. A one-room apartment chosen for anonymity as much as

  the one narrow bed and the walls that accommodated his way of

  planning a mission. What he needed he carried in one bag, and it was

  back to a diet of protein shakes and take-away.

  Sometimes he wondered what it might be like to have more than

  that—but not on his salary, not with his job. Smashing up a criminal's

  place was part driven by envy, he figured, but he didn't investigate that

  emotion further. No consequence.

  There was an exceedingly cheap gym around the corner. They

  issued “day passes” and were open 24/7. The types working out there

  were bouncers, the jobless and unemployed, social security cases, and

  students. He fit right in with the bouncers.

  Chris Gibson, at least, had given his game away, and Nikita felt

  he was relaxing somewhat and far too much for his own good. Naming

  the hotel had not been a smart move. It could have been a ruse, but no,

  it had come out too easily. A true slip of the tongue.

  If Chris had come from Switzerland, it was likely he'd been

  briefed by GORGON. Now it seemed likely that GORGON had killed

  Andrei (why, he didn't know) or Chris had been moonlighting as a

  hired hand for the Russian mobsters. Who wouldn't jump at the chance

  to pick up five million for a little side assignment?

  But the fact that Chris was now here—on GORGON's orders,

  most likely—could mean that Chris was taking an interest in Shkadov.

  That was why he had been on the scene when Zaitsev had lost his head.

  Which meant they were likely after the same target. Interesting. Maybe

  they could strike a deal, but not before Nikita knew what was going on.

  Chris would have to give more of his game away, but for the moment

  Nikita just fit in all the bits of information that he had and compiled a

  working hypothesis, which he'd test later.

  He finished his workout, had a bite to eat, then went for a long

  shower, remembering the way Chris had felt against him, that stubborn

  resistance, the way he always tried to squirm out of any tight spot.

  Chris tied up, gagged, blindfolded, opened up with a spreader bar that

  kept his ankles apart while he knelt, chest on the ground, wrists chained

  to his ankles… yes. He could see that, and wanted to see it, soon. Chris

  fired his imagination up like no other partner.

  Katya was totally different. With her there was no struggle

  involved, just the fascinating game of finding and exploring and then

  pushing limits, that utter trust. Chris would never get there, even

  though something in him seemed to scream “please force me” or

  “please get me there.” Nikita didn't doubt that when he did get Chris

  there, it would be mind-blowing.

  Though not quite mind-blowing, Nikita found the next few days

  utterly fascinating as he watched Chris Gibson at his hotel, unaware

  that a bribed maid, an acquaintance of Katya's, had planted a tiny

  camera in the room he shared with another man, no doubt another agent

  of GORGON. Chris had played that camera trick on him first, after all.

  He got hard at first seeing them together, expecting to be given

  quite the show, but it became evident in minutes that there was no love

  lost between them. Surprising, really, considering the attractiveness of

  the spectacled bookish man who was endlessly poring over documents.

  Documents Nikita couldn't see from the camera's vantage point. He

  regretted not providing a sound-capable device, but the decision had

  been spur of the moment when Katya had introduced the Ukrainian girl

  to him.

  He did, however, get a glimpse of Chris jerking off in the early

  morning hours, his companion asleep and unaware in the second bed.

  There had also been a brief encounter with an Asian who must have

  been a lover at one time. The concern he showed to Chris was palpable

  even with
out sound and the soft kiss he planted upon Chris's cheek

  when leaving an unmistakably intimate gesture. He exited via a

  connecting door to an adjoining room. So GORGON had sent a full

  team. Interesting.

  This afternoon had been interesting as well, with Chris returning

  to the room alone and pounding his fist into the wall in frustration. He

  stripped down, changed into workout clothes, and stormed from the

  room.

  Nikita had driven to the hotel, and now, sitting in a dark corner of

  the hotel bar, he saw Chris return to the room, his expression still tense,

  his taut muscles glistening with a sheen of sweat. He stripped as he

  walked across the room and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Nikita exited the bar, taking the stairs up, letting himself in with a

  passkey acquired from room service.

  A bath was running in the bathroom, and Chris was on the floor,

  doing push-ups like a man possessed, like he had to bleed the energy

  and strength from his body some way. Nikita put the “Do Not Disturb”

  sign out and allowed the door to click audibly shut.

  “What is it now, John?” Chris asked, the frustration and anger

  thick in his voice. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Nikita, and

  paused, and then got to his feet, looking just as angry and lost as he had

  the last times.

  “Nothing. Just checking on you.”

  “How the fuck did you get….”

  Nikita was before him in an instant, his knife in his hands, the flat

  of the blade clicking innocently against his thumbnail. “Turn the water

  off before it overflows.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Have it your way, then.” Nikita turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Nikita stayed facing the door until the water stopped.

  “What do you want?”

  Nikita gave him a long look, taking in each sweaty, hard inch, his

  gaze lingering on the cock that had grown enormously in just a few

  seconds. “I want what we both want.”

  “Not now. Not here.”

  Nikita grinned and tapped the knife against his thumbnail once

  more. “Afraid your roommate will appear? Can't say I'd mind. He's

  attractive enough. Strikes me as straight, though. Not a problem, you

  understand. I'm sure you could bring him around.” Teasing, testing

  limits. Feeding Chris some of his own bitter medicine.

  “I don't want to. Not now.”