Gene stretched out on the cot, naked, smoking a cigarette and stroking his soft, sore cock with his other hand. It was late enough to be morning, well past the witching hour with the dangerous light of day creeping over the city. New day, new man – his man, in fact, and Gene smiled as he watched Sam shaving by the sink. It was a wretched, small flat, and Gene had smelled corpses that were sweeter, but it stank of sex and for now that was enough.
The razor swept up Sam's neck, over his jaw, and up to his ear with the strong, practiced strokes of a man who used the sharp instrument every day and knew every curve of his own skin. Gene thought for a moment about offering to do it for him, knowing that the daft poofter would think it sweet and domestic or even romantic. He carefully watched the glittering sliver of metal rake over Sam's flesh and knew it would not end there, in his own hands. He took a deep drag and kept to the matter at hand, in his hand, filling and growing hot at the idea of taking over the razor. Of taking.
"Ow, bloody hell…" Sam cursed and flicked the razor, as if it were covered in gore from the fine nick on his cheek. He frowned at himself in the cracked mirror, looking at the drop of blood welling up to fall, and reached for a towel.
Gene crossed the room quickly to grab Sam's hand. From the razor to skin to blood…Gene's vision went red and he pinned Sam against the sink with his bulk as he leaned in to tongue the cut. The warm sensation with a cold metal taste filled his senses and he sucked at the blood trickling out, his hand slinking down Sam's arm to take hold of the razor in Sam's hand with a tight grip.
"Shit, Gene, we been at it all night…" Sam's voice was hoarse and annoyed, but he thrust his hips back anyway, reminding Gene what he was really here for. Not blood. Not yet.
"Can't fault a man for trying." Gene backed off and licked his teeth.