The Dangerous Boxed Set

by Lisa Marie Rice

  He gained consciousness to the sounds of Katya’s screams. They lasted all day and all night. Through a small window in the freezing hut where the new zeks had been herded, Vassily could see the guards lined up, most with their pants open, rigid cocks out. Waiting for their turn to fuck the beautiful Moscow intellectual. Laughing and smoking. Going right back to the end of the line once they’d had their turn.

  Some hadn’t seen a woman in decades.

  By the second day, the screams stopped.

  Vassily had been utterly helpless to save Katya. A zek in a prison camp was nothing, not even worth the air it breathed. Less than the dirty snow on the bottom of a prison guard’s boot. Less than the shit in the latrines.

  He’d lost Katya, but now he’d found her again. Katya had come back to him. And he wasn’t a helpless zek now, oh no. He was rich and powerful beyond measure. He commanded billions of dollars, thousands of men and women. He bought the governments of countries and bent them to his will.

  He was the Vor.

  And soon he would have the power to destroy cities, sweep everything before him in his revenge against the world.

  Everything was possible with Katya by his side.

  Parker’s Ridge

  November 19

  Nick woke up in heaven, or at least that’s what it sounded like. Soft harp music played somewhere, as gentle and harmonious as he’d imagined music in heaven would be, not that he’d ever imagined actually making it up to the Big Op in the Sky.

  It felt like heaven, too, with a soft down comforter with big cabbage roses resting lightly over his naked body, his head cushioned on an even softer down pillow.

  God, it even smelled like heaven. Roses and lavender. The scent of clean sheets and furniture polish, freshly baked cinnamon buns, and something light and flowery, utterly feminine. And over it all, the smell of sex. Oh yeah. If there was a heaven, there’d definitely be sex, just like he’d had all night. Exactly like that.

  Nick smiled, swept his hand over the mattress, and opened his eyes when his hand encountered nothing but smooth sheet. Well, almost heaven. Something was missing. Someone.

  He threw back the lavender-scented comforter and sat up, looking around him. Last night he’d been too blasted by lust to notice, but how had he missed the beauty of the bedroom when he’d come in on his recon prowl through the house?

  It looked like something out of a magazine, only a place where people lived, not an empty stage. Polished hardwood floor. Big high bed with an antique carved wooden headboard, antique chest of drawers polished to a high gloss, two tea-rose-colored small armchairs with a pie crust table between them. Pretty, feminine knickknacks, small rosebuds in a blue vase, some fabulous landscape watercolors, a bookshelf full of books, all neatly arranged.

  Still Life of Lady’s Bedroom.

  He glanced outside the window. It had snowed all night and there was at least a foot of snow. A big maple tree outside in her garden looked like a big fluffy cloud. Well, of course.

  Heaven.

  Nick rolled out of bed, lifted up on the balls of his feet and stretched, feeling refreshed, revved even. It wasn’t just the fabulous sex, though there was nothing guaranteed to fire the system like it. Unlike the horrifying sex he’d had with Consuelo, which left him feeling drained and depleted. Sex with Charity was like being inside a rocket, going off.

  Plus, he’d slept. Really slept, for the first time in what felt like forever. A deep sleep that wiped out all traces of the grainy fatigue that had been gumming up his head for the past year.

  He’d never slept the entire night through in his time undercover with the Gonzalez clan. Each second that passed could bring something that would blow Nick’s cover, something completely out of his control. If Gonzalez decided to come after him, he’d do it at night.

  Nick forced himself to nap instead of sleep, and to wake up at regular intervals, scan his surroundings for danger signals, then allow himself to fall back into a sleep so shallow he could become combat ready in a second.

  It was the way soldiers slept in the field, under fire. In combat, shallow sleep could save your life. In danger, you’re operational in a matter of seconds. As a way of life, though, it pumped the body full of cortisol, the by-product of stress, sure to waste the kidneys if it went on too long. In Nick’s case it had been going on for a long time—in Afghanistan and the year with Gonzalez. His kidneys were probably shot.

  He was going to die young, anyway. It was something he knew deep down, in his bones and blood. He’d always known it. It was what had made him so fearless as a soldier. Might as well go down fighting.

  So the sleep he’d had had been like a little gift of life. He knew why he’d slept so deeply and so well, besides the delightful sex. Deep down in his blood and his bones, the part of him that told him to duck a millisecond before the bullet whistled by, that whispered to him to recheck his weapon for the tenth time and to recheck his parachute, told him there was no danger in Charity’s home to him. None at all.

  Nothing here to harm him, so unlike the Land of Bad Things where he’d spent most of his life.

  At ease, soldier, he told himself. Though it wasn’t necessary to think the words. His body had told him already. He knew from the lack of muscle tension that he was in a safe environment. Safe and beautiful and welcoming.

  No one knew where he was. He hadn’t been tailed, he’d made sure of it. And while Di Stefano and Alexei might suspect he’d seduced the pretty librarian, they couldn’t be certain. So no one knew where he was, and there was no danger to him in this house.

  No danger at all. Not even sharp edges. Only soft furniture in pastel colors, pretty music, nice smells, and one hell of a pretty woman. Speaking of which…

  Nick eyed his clothes on the floor. He had zero desire to put on his formal clothes. Suit pants, dress shirt, jacket, ack. He had jeans and a sweater in a bag in the trunk of the car; he’d wear those today. But right now, he wanted Charity.

  A little clatter of noise from the kitchen told him where she was. He padded naked across the living room and stopped at the kitchen door, watching her. She kept her back to him, humming softly.

  Nick had been trained in hard places to move silently. Charity had no clue that he was there, so he was able to look his fill.

  The CD had changed to a medley of Celtic music. Nick recognized the song that was playing, though he didn’t know the title. Something about green fields and coming home, which was more or less like every Irish song he’d ever heard. The Irish weren’t big on love songs. The music celebrated survival and comradeship, the basic elements of Nick’s life so far.

  Charity knew the words and was singing softly under her breath. She had on a pink track suit that hugged her slender curves, her dark-blond hair shifting on her shoulders as she waggled her head to the music. That pretty ass swayed, too, as she fussed in her kitchen.

  The kitchen was as pretty as she was. Cream and peach tiles, a line of thriving herbs in cream-colored pots along the windowsill, light-colored curtains at the window. Big ceramic canisters along the counter against the backsplash.

  And the smells—almost better than the smells in the bedroom. The surprisingly rich smell of tea threaded in among the smells of something with cinnamon baking in the oven. A small pinewood table was set for two, with slices of bread, butter, an array of jams and jellies, and slices of apple. Nick could see a fantastic breakfast in his immediate future.

  He watched her swaying gently to the beat of the music, listened to her singing. Though her voice was soft, it was surprisingly true.

  Everything about the scene was delightful.

  Beautiful woman. Beautiful music. Beautiful room. Sheer delight.

  Nick felt something odd move inside him, something he didn’t recognize. It rolled right through him, and whatever it was, it left peace and contentment in its wake.

  He stood there, mulling that over. Peace and contentment. They weren’t things he’d felt often in his life. He’d never sou
ght them, never even wanted them. His life was one long mission and he did what it took to get the mission accomplished. Peace and contentment simply didn’t factor in.

  His mission in the orphanage and then in sometimes brutal foster homes had been survival, for him and Jake. Then as a Delta operator, accomplishing the op, whatever it was. Usually the op meant danger in hellholes. And now, since he’d joined the Unit, the mission was putting away bad guys.

  So what was this? Leaning against a doorframe, watching a woman fiddle at the stove? What was it? The mission? An op?

  It felt like more. No, it felt like something else entirely. Nick wasn’t completely comfortable with all these…things going on inside himself. He was comfortable in his skin. He knew what he wanted in life and he usually went after it like a bullet to the bull’s eye. This felt…different.

  And good. Definitely good. In fact, he felt better than he could ever remember feeling.

  Unexpectedly, Charity turned around, as if she’d suddenly sensed his presence, and smiled at him.

  In an instant, that supernatural feeling of well-being disappeared, as if it had never been. Whoosh, gone. In its place came a burning, itching feeling, a drive to touch her, touch that smooth, creamy skin he knew was underneath the soft pink cotton of the track suit. Put his hands on her and never let go.

  “Hi, so you’re up…” Her voice trailed off as her gaze dropped and her face went from the slight flush of someone cooking to stoplight red. Charity’s soft pink mouth made an O.

  Oh yeah, he was up. Massively. It was as if his cock were trying to stretch its way across the room to her.

  It couldn’t, of course, but he could. It took him a second or two to firm up his knees and then he was crossing over to her, eyes never leaving hers. She looked down at him again and heat washed over him, as if he’d walked in front of an open oven door. The heat even pulsed in his veins.

  He was clenching his jaws so hard his teeth hurt.

  This was sex but it was more than sex. He wasn’t hurting for sex and they’d been at it practically all night. By rights, he should be all fucked out.

  Right now, instead, it was as if he’d never fucked before, never even touched a woman in his entire life. This felt urgent, with all the adrenaline of combat in the field, the moves as necessary as ducking under fire or scrambling out of the way of flames or bullets.

  This was a place he’d never been in before, a foreign country. Nick didn’t do urgent, pressing desire. He was the Iceman.

  Whenever he fucked, a part of him—a big part—remained detached, observing. Sex made men drop their defenses. A lot of guys got offed while boffing. Not Nick. There was no way anyone could get the drop on him during sex because he was always aware of what was going on, always cool. Iceman.

  Oh Jesus, he wasn’t Iceman now. He was burning up, breathing hard, focused like a laser beam on Charity.

  He wasn’t even thinking about what he was doing. His body had taken over completely.

  Moving fast, Nick hooked a chair with his foot and plonked down while reaching out to Charity. Hands a blur, he had her sweats and panties down in a second, positioned her over him, opened her with his fingers and thrust. Straight up into her soft little cunt.

  Ahhh! Christ!

  Sweat beaded on his face, a drop trickling down the side of his face and dropping onto her shoulder. He was holding her so tightly she was probably having trouble breathing but he couldn’t seem to let her go, or even relax his death grip. He was holding on to her like you held on to a lifeline, not to a beautiful woman.

  He leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed tight. “Sorry,” he whispered roughly.

  Fuck. She was dry, not ready for penetration, wriggling a little to find a comfortable position, to adjust herself to him. Her toes barely reached the ground, so almost the full weight of her body anchored her to him. Shit, he hoped he wasn’t hurting her, but he wouldn’t take bets on it.

  “No you’re not,” she whispered back. “You’re not sorry at all.”

  His eyes opened. He’d kept his eyes screwed shut because what was happening inside him was overwhelming, but also because what he had left of his brains told him she’d be furious. You don’t jump a woman, strip her, and shove your cock in without even a second’s foreplay. He was half expecting her to tell him to fuck off.

  But no—wow—against all the odds, she wasn’t angry. How did that happen? When his eyes opened, they were an inch from hers. He stared into those eyes, mesmerized. That clear, crystal gray, like an early morning sky. There were slight crinkles around her eyes as if she were smiling. Yes, thank you, God. Nick’s gaze dropped to her mouth, slightly uptilted. That was definitely a smile. Oh yeah.

  He kissed her, a long, deep plunge into that smile. When his tongue stroked hers, she clenched around him, gasping into his mouth.

  She wasn’t furious at being manhandled, at the suddenness with which he’d grabbed her, at being held ferociously tight.

  “No, you’re right, I’m not,” he croaked back when he came up for air. Hell no, he wasn’t sorry. He’d kill to remain right where he was, naked on a wooden chair with his cock buried in the most delightful woman he’d ever met.

  Nick smiled back. Or tried to. His mouth couldn’t make the right moves. How could he smile when every atom in his body was concentrated on her, the feel of her against him and above all, the tight, warm feel of her cunt around his cock?

  There was something about that thought that rang a warning bell somewhere far away in his head. Something about the feel of her…tight and just a little wetter now and warm…

  Something about that didn’t feel right. Or rather, felt all too good. Better than anything had ever felt before…

  Fuck.

  He wasn’t wearing a rubber.

  His head nearly exploded.

  This was impossible. Nick never fucked without a rubber, never. Never ever, ever. He knew exactly what was out there and though he expected to die young, he wanted to go out like a man from a bullet or a knife to the heart and not hooked up to machines in a hospital. Gah. Better a bullet than disease. No question.

  Suiting up was second nature, simply part of the sexual act. As natural as brushing his teeth. He never went anywhere without rubbers and had even brought them with him to Afghanistan, not that there’d been any chance of using them in that hellhole. They’d expired in his pocket and were probably dust now in his flak jacket in the basement of his condo.

  But right now, in his pants pocket on the floor of her bedroom were several packets of brand-new top-of-the-line rubbers, just waiting for him.

  They might as well have been on Mars for all the good they were doing him there. The normal way to go get them would be to withdraw from Charity, get up and walk over there, but every cell in his body rejected the notion. He couldn’t pull out of her if they put a gun to his head.

  Not to mention the biggie—he was on a hair trigger here. Yep. Nick Ireland, Mr. Cool, Iceman himself, who had fucked Consuelo for hours while calculating probabilities that her dick-wad brother was changing lieutenants, was about ready to blow.

  He could feel it, a volcanic pressure rising from his loins, the little electric tingle along his spine, all telltales he was familiar with. Just Charity breathing caused a little rustle in his system, bringing him that much closer to shooting his wad. Any movement, any at all, would just push him over the edge.

  Pulling out would mean friction, sliding out of those smooth, soft, warm walls…

  Oh God. He had to tighten his groin to keep from coming at the thought. If he pulled out he’d embarrass himself by spurting into the air. Or worse—into her.

  He stared into her eyes, shaking slightly from the effort of not coming.

  “I’m not wearing a ru—a condom.” His voice was hoarse, as if he’d spent hours screaming. His throat was tight. Huge steel bands were gripping his chest. “I’m really sorry about that.”

  If she wanted to haul off and hit him, she’d have eve
ry right. He couldn’t even flinch because any movement was a no-no. All he could do was stare in the eyes and take it like a man.

  Charity was silent.

  “Sorry,” he said again. It came out a wheeze. With every second that passed everything in him wound tighter. His cock in her lengthened, thickened, and then—whoa—she clenched around him. His cock responded immediately with a strong ripple. He bit his back teeth together so hard it was a surprise he didn’t crack a tooth.

  His head was going to explode. And right after that, his cock.

  He was shaking, trying to rein himself in. “God, Charity, I’m going to—”

  “It’s all right.” Charity’s face was an inch from his. She was somber but her body was trembling. All on its own, her little cunt clenched again and they both moaned. “It’s not the right time of the month, so there shouldn’t be any prob—”

  Whatever else she was going to say was lost in his mouth. He closed the little distance between them, holding on to her tightly, ravishing her mouth, thrusting hard up inside her while coming in long, almost violent spurts that shook him from his toes to his head. He ate at her mouth, as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. He felt one long hot liquid pull through his body, from his mouth to his cock, drowning inside her.

  He shook and groaned throughout the climax, grinding himself into her, totally out of control. He left her mouth because he was afraid he’d bite her in his excitement, and buried his face in her hair, hanging on to her as if he was drowning and she was his lifeline to shore.

  His skin prickled, his chest felt tight, he was burning up. He felt especially hot in his groin, right where he was joined to her. Hot and wet. He’d spurted so much come into her, they were wet to their thighs. It should have been a turnoff, but actually it was a huge turn-on. Huge. Knowing his seed was inside her. And in particular, knowing she was now wet.

  Not wet because he’d managed to get in a little foreplay, no, not that kind of wet. But still. Wet is wet. Wet meant he could move in her without hurting her.