Best Kept Lies

by Helena Maeve

  No obstacle between it and Karim, no weapon in sight for Grigory to even last night’s score. He had to rise on tiptoe to reach Karim’s lips. He didn’t mind.

  He minded it even less when Karim deepened the kiss, surging into Grigory’s hold.

  Chapter Three

  Grigory hit the edge of the mattress with the backs of his knees and tumbled onto the bed. His shirttails already bunched over his belt. It didn’t take much for Karim to tug them all the way free.

  Before Grigory kissed him, Karim had been aloof, even somewhat skittish. After, he rose to the challenge as though his life depended on it, straddling Grigory’s lap and shoving him down when he made to arch up into a kiss.

  “Wait, wait, let me just—”

  Karim kissed him quiet, teeth sharp on Grigory’s lower lip, then scooted down. His warm, broad hands lit little pockets of wildfire along Grigory’s flanks as his shirt was rucked up to expose chest, ribcage, the fragile planes of his hollowed stomach.

  Grigory’s heart drummed at a frantic pace.

  A scalpel thrust in and up could easily have stilled it, but Karim had other ideas.

  He licked a path over the slats of his ribs, the point of his tongue speared into a hard, wet bud to flick at the right nipple. He did the same with the left, unleashing a warm burst of sensation with minimal effort.

  Grigory barely smothered his moan. “They… They train you well at Vauxhall Cross, huh?”

  Karim answered the quip with the sharp edge of his teeth.

  This time, Grigory thrust his head back into the sheets and let out a choked whimper. He’d always been easy. He wondered if Karim had researched that part of his life before they picked him up. Why not? Most known SIS agents had files in the bowels of Center back in Moscow. It was only fair that the Brits perform their due diligence before they had a guy picked up off the street, and threatened, terrorized. Used.

  Grigory curled a hand in Karim’s inky curls and pushed down. If Karim wanted to show what he could do with that lush, gorgeous mouth, he was welcome to it.

  It took no time for his fellow spy to catch on. He shifted back until his weight bore down on Grigory’s knees, straining fragile joints, then moved off. Between one breath and the next, Grigory found himself shoeless and pantless, his briefs cast to some unseen corner of the room.

  He thought he heard one of his shoes bounce off the coffee table, but he didn’t care enough to squint into the shadows to check.

  Karim’s exhales were as loud as the hiss of a bellows as he settled between his splayed knees. Stray, demented thoughts lashed Grigory—he’s never done this before, we’re breaking new ground over here, long live Anglo-Russian cooperation—but fortunately he had no breath to utter them.

  A single graze of Karim’s lips to his cock was all it took for his mind to become a startlingly blank slate.

  “Christ, fuck…”

  He flexed his hands in Karim’s hair, eyes squeezed shut against the sensory overload. He didn’t have the strength to force Karim to swallow him down and for all of his many crimes—to which sedition would now be added—he had yet to use a man without his consent. But the wait was excruciating.

  Karim must’ve known. Like any self-respecting torturer, he took the scenic route, mouthing along the crease of his hip until Grigory splayed his thighs in invitation. He ghosted his breath over Grigory’s erection leisurely, shifting and adjusting, using a shoulder to prop up Grigory’s knee or a hand to smooth along the quivering muscles in his leg.

  Grigory was close to begging by the time Karim finally deigned to curl a fist around his cock and give him a slow, delicious pull. His hips nearly shot off the bed. He only realized he was pulling Karim’s hair when he gave a low hiss of warning, lips twitching around Grigory’s length.

  Conscious thought went into unclenching his fingers. He wanted nothing more than to fuck into his mouth, greedy for the gentle scrape of teeth and tongue, eager to take charge. But Karim seemed to have exhausted his own patience, because he sucked him down greedily, all pretence of finesse abandoned.

  He stayed shallow, at first, as though testing his own mettle, but soon he was gorging himself on the downstroke and sweeping his tongue along the underside of Grigory’s shaft in a practiced move. He choked as soon as Grigory’s cock battered the back of his throat and eased off quickly, coughing against the strain.

  The sound reverberated around the room, a dizzying counterpoint to Grigory’s own harried breaths.

  “Are you— Are you…” All right never quite made it out of his mouth.

  Karim didn’t seem to care for sweet talk.

  He bowed his head again, lashes long and spidery against the apples of his cheeks, and fastened his lips around Grigory. That brief glimpse of his dogged, handsome expression was all Grigory had to tide him over the next round of eager strokes. Delight seized hold by degrees, every caress and moan, every graze of teeth against fragile skin ratcheting up his pleasure.

  Karim choked twice more before he finally gave up on deepthroating. He swatted Grigory’s hands aside when Grigory made to touch the hinge of his jaw.

  Ease up soured in Grigory’s throat, affront swelling in his breast like a flare and dying out just as quickly.

  He was powerless against Karim’s punishing rhythm, his mouth around the cockhead and the slick, chafing glide of his fist down Grigory’s length. He was too far gone to stop. He couldn’t control the minute, desperate little jerk of his hips or the reflexive twitch of his fingers in Karim’s silky hair, or his own tongue, spilling out plea after mortifying plea as the fire in his blood threatened to consume him, blazing hotter and hotter—

  Grigory turned his head into the sheets, one shoulder coming up off the bed so at least he managed to muffle his pathetic shout as release engulfed him.

  His ears rang with the sound of Karim’s coughing as he pulled off. He saw him wipe at his mouth with the back of a hand. The barest flicker of guilt threatened to take hold.

  Oh. Fuck.

  “Sorry,” Grigory wheezed. “I… Sorry.” Probably should’ve warned him.

  Karim shrugged. If the way he licked at his cum-sheened lips was deliberate, then he was a far better operative than Grigory. If it wasn’t, then he should’ve been locked up just for that.

  No one should be allowed to look so good after giving head.

  Either way, Grigory felt perfectly justified in curling a hand around Karim’s wrist and tugging.

  His shirt was a wrinkled mess and his thighs were sticky with spit and other fluids, but he still floated in the painless, giddy afterglow where tasting himself on Karim’s lips seemed like a good idea.

  Karim allowed it for a while, balanced on a bent elbow above him, disheveled in all the right ways. But he didn’t sink down to let their bodies touch. Perhaps he was wary of getting more of Grigory on him than he already had. Perhaps he didn’t think much of necking after sex.

  Reluctantly, Grigory slammed the brakes on his longing.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” he confessed, thumbing at the waistband of Karim’s jeans. “If you get out of those clothes, I’d be happy to return the favor…”

  The heat in Karim’s eyes evaporated at once. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Sure?” Grigory struggled to disguise the hurt in his voice. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

  He brushed his knuckles against the swell of Karim’s erection through rough denim. I know that turned you on. Let me help.

  It was ridiculous to feel bereft without Karim’s body against his, but he couldn’t help shiver as soon as Karim retreated to the edge of the bed and stood. Sex really did make men stupid.

  “All right.” Grigory hitched an indifferent shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

  Let Karim think he was too good for sex with another man. He wouldn’t be the first closeted agent to stumble into Grigory’s bed and bounce out as soon as he got what he wanted.

  Most usually stuck around until after they climaxed, bu
t there were outliers in every data pool. Grigory wasn’t about to beg to have his cock. He wasn’t that desperate.

  In the faint orb of streetlight that spilled through the gauzy curtains, he thought he saw Karim flinch.

  He blinked and Karim was already at the door, his posture casual and relaxed, his curly black hair finger-combed back into place.

  The ideal modern spy—in and out of bed in under two-point-five.

  “Tell your friends it wasn’t us that exposed Craft,” Grigory volleyed. He wasn’t sure if he lobbed the curve ball to rattle Karim’s cage out of spite or if he meant it as a gesture of good faith. He was too spent, too warm with brandy and orgasm to care.

  Karim turned, though, so it counted as a victory of sorts.

  “Know that for a fact, do you?”

  Once, when he’d been a boy, Grigory’s obsession with astral projection had led him to try to imagine himself through other people’s eyes. The intellectual exercise helped prepare him for this job, but sometimes he slipped into old habits when it was least convenient. He did so now, assembling a picture of himself—fish-belly white, scrawny, with knobby knees and jutting, almost womanly hips, a collection of androgynous features that spelled out neither man nor woman—in lax repose on the bed.

  What did Karim think when he looked at him? Did he like the dip of his collarbones or his straight, unbroken nose? His sunken blue eyes?

  Did he wish he’d resisted the sudden urge to peel Grigory out of his clothes?

  With no questions asked, no questions could be answered.

  Grigory nodded. Yes, he knew.

  He lied with a single tip of the chin.

  “Okay,” Karim murmured. “I’ll pass it on.” The door clicked open, but still he hesitated. “Get some sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grigory waited until Karim had disappeared from view before he let himself drop back to the creased bedding. Two nights in a row at the mercy of the British secret service was not a reassuring statistic.

  He promised himself there wouldn’t be a third.

  * * * *

  Approaching footsteps rang softly across the oak boards. Grigory stubbed his cigarette out into the glass ashtray he’d borrowed from the bar and turned, resting his hip against the windowsill. The Taser scar still smarted if he pressed into it. He welcomed the grounding, punitive ache.

  “Beautiful performance, isn’t it?”

  “Violetta is phoning it in,” Nathaniel shot back lightly.

  It was difficult to say if he had dressed up for the theater. His black suit might have been standard uniform for embassy dignitaries and their underlings. There was little doubt in Grigory’s mind that a man like Nathaniel Jennings had gone from diapers straight to bespoke, Savile Row three-piece armor. He was posh by London standards.

  Peel him out of his suit and tie, and drop him into a factory outside Moscow, he’d melt down within a week. And yet Grigory almost wanted to stand taller in his presence, to rise to undisclosed expectation.

  How irritating.

  “What time is your flight?” he asked, slouching farther.

  “Seven-forty-two. But you already knew that.”

  Grigory smiled. “You’ll be home for the vote.”

  Twenty-four hour news networks could talk of little besides the upcoming motion of no confidence in the UK Parliament. Experts of every political stripe paraded before the cameras, trading opinions back and forth, arguing precedent and largely muddying the waters.

  What should have been a clear-cut matter of gross misrepresentation by an elected official had somehow morphed into a media circus surrounding the very purpose of undercover agents in this day and age. The consensus seemed to be that the Cold War had ended and presidents now used Twitter, so tools must have changed as well.

  Nathaniel’s gaze ticked to the half dozen cigarette butts arrayed in the ashtray. “You’ve been here a while.”

  “Someone had to find a secluded spot for our chat.” It came out slightly more petulant than Grigory intended. He powered on before Nathaniel caught on. “I’ve seen La Traviata eighteen times. I’m not missing anything.”

  “Maybe this time she lives.” Zorin’s voice rose out of the shadow, a herald for the woman herself.

  Nathaniel started, one hand veering as if by reflex under his jacket.

  You’re armed? Grigory scowled, offended. After all the goodwill he’d been shown, Nathaniel still behaved as if they were twisting his arm. Perhaps if he was taken off the streets, a black bag thrust over his head, then—then he might be more appreciative of courtesy.

  “Nathan Jennings, yes?” Zorin held out a hand. “Yevgeniya Zorin.”

  Still tense, Nathaniel placed his gloved palm in hers. “Interesting surname.”

  “It is,” she agreed.

  Between her little black dress and Nathaniel’s pristine suit, Grigory felt slightly underdressed. He made a mental note to bust out the tails next time. Clearly pinstripes and powder blue shirts were out.

  “You two catch up,” he said, pushing away from the window. “I’ll get a drink—”

  Zorin’s intransigence kicked in. “That won’t be necessary. Mr. Jennings and I have nothing to discuss.”

  “Then…why are you here?” Nathaniel made a fair attempt to keep his voice even, but he was young and, although they’d never met, Zorin knew him inside out.

  That was Grigory’s doing.

  “You requested to meet me, yes?” Zorin asked, arching a thick blonde eyebrow. “Now you have. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  “Wait.”

  Nathaniel’s hand shot out, but Grigory seized his wrist before it made contact. If he grabbed Zorin, this could escalate, turn ugly. Grigory was too hungover to welcome the spectacle that would ensue.

  Zorin whirled around, polite restraint stripped from her features.

  “Know your place, boy. You are an asset and the SVR is grateful for your invaluable help, but your usefulness will not save you if you become a nuisance. Are we clear?”

  To his credit, Nathaniel lowered his voice before he spoke again. “They’re looking for a mole within the service.”

  “You mean within Section.”

  Something was terribly wrong with Grigory for feeling a flicker of delight as shock slotted onto Nathaniel’s boyish features.

  “How…” He swallowed, shifted his weight.

  Grigory released his wrist.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “We know everything,” Zorin answered, a bit more Godfather than Grigory would’ve expected but still perfectly on point. “That should be a relief for someone in your position.”

  Three, two, one…

  Nathaniel let out a shaky sigh. “You have other informants.”

  Young as he was, Nathaniel Jennings was cunning and whip-smart. In a decade or so, he might use those connections of his to jockey for a directorate somewhere. From what Grigory had heard through the grapevine, the South American office was well on its way to being restructured.

  “Do your job,” Zorin advised, “keep your head down, and we will not let you fall.”

  Trust was another advantage of youth. Grigory hung back with Zorin as their skittish asset disappeared around a corner, head down and steps hurried.

  “Think he bought it?” Grigory wondered idly.

  Zorin shrugged. Her voice neither flattened to a sigh nor thickened with bitterness when she spoke. “He’d better. He’s running out of chances.”

  Grigory knew better than most that Nathaniel didn’t bring in enough intel to make it worthwhile to massage him into compliance. If they could hang onto him until he began climbing the ranks, they might get somewhere. Otherwise, strategically burning their bridges was a viable option.

  If the prime minister’s scandal proved anything, it was that lighting a match just to see the world burn had its uses.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Zorin observed.

  “I don’t.” But his fingers itched
to light up again, the delicious pull of nicotine as tantalizing as a warm glass of cognac or the bite of stubble against his cheek. “So. Section.”

  Zorin’s silence was as good as confirmation.

  “We have Directorate S, they have Section.” Grigory sighed. I’m sleeping with the enemy. “The war continues.”

  Chapter Four

  “Is this what I have to look forward to from now on? Brush passes and derelict sweatshops?”

  Grigory turned his gaze away from the black spill of shadow beyond the crumbling floor. “Do you prefer Oksana or Francesca?”

  “I prefer Mercato Monti and Mia Market,” she answered primly.

  The light that filtered through the gaps in the ceiling painted highlights in her chestnut hair. With chin-length, rebellious curls framing her freckled face, she seemed younger than she had on the train. Wooden bangles clacked around her wrist as she gripped the strap of her voluminous shoulder bag.

  Younger and more nervous. The initial shock had worn off, but her hands were no longer clean.

  From here on out, Oksana-Francesca was an active agent of the Kremlin on foreign soil.

  “We’ll try to finish up here fast so you can get back to your shopping,” Grigory replied. Gravel and glass shards crunched underfoot as he negotiated the debris-strewn floor. “You’ve heard about Craft.”

  Oksana-Francesca stiffened when he slotted his arm through hers. “Was it our leak?”

  “Section believes so.”

  They believed it enough to send Karim and his mates to grab an SVR agent off the street, enough to have Nathaniel fearing exposure.

  Grigory led his agent around the sunken floor, through the drooping doorframe of what must have been the office, and out the other side. The warehouse still smelled faintly of imported beer, a pungent, acrid scent floating like a ghostly presence between crumbling empty crates and metal beams.

  The yard was little better, despite the streaming midday sun. Tufts of scrub grass gushed from the cracked pavement, threaded with weeds and wind-borne trash. Between a rusted chain-link fence and scraggly juniper, the Tiber ebbed along indifferently.