You seem to be forgetting, Ray. You're in Vegas, where information isn't free and everything has a price. Well this is mine. You're my price.
[ The blade stayed put. It was doing its job, and now he lavished Ray's ear with the flat of his tongue, hot and wet and steady, giving him the sensation in a predictable fashion because he no more wanted Ray to jerk away and make the knife slip himself. He might end up cutting his own tongue, never mind this guy's ear.
At last he drew back, and just to show how pleased he was that Ray hadn't made him cut his ear off, he didn't leave a mark in the skin. Instead he brought the blade down to a much safer spot flattened against the other man's pectoral, letting the feel of his racing heart thump against the inside of his wrist. There was no danger from the blade unless he turned it, but the warning was still there regardless--the warning that he could and would cut him if Ray fought too hard.
His free hand reached as far as it could over the top of the chair, knotted in Stanley's hair and pulled backward, exposing his throat. ]
You are my whore from out of state, Ray. It works for me. This way I kill two birds with one stone. And you know, value for money: I'm a busy, busy man. Three hours out of my schedule when I could beat you blue in two minutes is kind of a big deal for me.
[ He closed the space again, this time lashing his tongue against the bloodied graze he'd left on Ray's jaw. Hah. You wouldn't do that with a Vegas prostitute.
He dragged his teeth back across the wound, then withdrew, finding Ray's eyes in one of the fragments of mirror on the other side of the room. So okay, he did want to do this. There was something almost biblical about it--or maybe primal was more accurate. This guy had come in and taken his life, after all, and somehow by taking him he could...he could wrangle some part of it back. Reclaim something. Or maybe it was just about scaring him away from Vegas permanently; probably not. If it was just work, he wouldn't already be hard, straining in his designer underwear. This was about power.
But that was okay. It was more than possible that this job was going to get him killed, judging by what it had been like so far. He'd never have to meet this guy face to face as Ray Vecchio, probably wouldn't even be buried in his own grave. How fucked up was that? And this poor bastard...would he have to keep pretending to be Ray Vecchio after Ray Vecchio was dead? It was bad enough he'd come here to save Ray's partner and ended up on the wrong side of the mob, worse still on the wrong side of a guy who had to do whatever it took to maintain his cover, but on the wrong side of Vecchio himself, when he'd clearly gone a little bit nuts? That really did suck.
Okay, so he was thinking too much. He wasn't remotely high enough for this, and this guy probably wasn't either. Lowering inhibitions, taking the edge off reality, raising the heartrate--those were the things that cocaine was best for. And Ray would be grateful, in a manner of speaking. At least he could claim thereafter that it wasn't his fault, it was the drugs. It might alleviate some of that burden. He'd get it next time he changed tools.
First, holding Ray's gaze, he ran the knife down a few inches, turned the blade and flashed it in a light arc from just underneath one nipple around to the top of Ray's ribs. It was deep enough, once again, to hurt and bleed, but that was all. Ray could handle a little blood, a little pain. Hell, he might even be the kind of guy who liked it. ]
You know the only problem with this is I don't usually pay whores who'd bite my tongue off if I kissed them. You'd do that, wouldn't you? Mouth full of blood, you wouldn't care. Anything to not feel so helpless, so used.
no subject
[ The blade stayed put. It was doing its job, and now he lavished Ray's ear with the flat of his tongue, hot and wet and steady, giving him the sensation in a predictable fashion because he no more wanted Ray to jerk away and make the knife slip himself. He might end up cutting his own tongue, never mind this guy's ear.
At last he drew back, and just to show how pleased he was that Ray hadn't made him cut his ear off, he didn't leave a mark in the skin. Instead he brought the blade down to a much safer spot flattened against the other man's pectoral, letting the feel of his racing heart thump against the inside of his wrist. There was no danger from the blade unless he turned it, but the warning was still there regardless--the warning that he could and would cut him if Ray fought too hard.
His free hand reached as far as it could over the top of the chair, knotted in Stanley's hair and pulled backward, exposing his throat. ]
You are my whore from out of state, Ray. It works for me. This way I kill two birds with one stone. And you know, value for money: I'm a busy, busy man. Three hours out of my schedule when I could beat you blue in two minutes is kind of a big deal for me.
[ He closed the space again, this time lashing his tongue against the bloodied graze he'd left on Ray's jaw. Hah. You wouldn't do that with a Vegas prostitute.
He dragged his teeth back across the wound, then withdrew, finding Ray's eyes in one of the fragments of mirror on the other side of the room. So okay, he did want to do this. There was something almost biblical about it--or maybe primal was more accurate. This guy had come in and taken his life, after all, and somehow by taking him he could...he could wrangle some part of it back. Reclaim something. Or maybe it was just about scaring him away from Vegas permanently; probably not. If it was just work, he wouldn't already be hard, straining in his designer underwear. This was about power.
But that was okay. It was more than possible that this job was going to get him killed, judging by what it had been like so far. He'd never have to meet this guy face to face as Ray Vecchio, probably wouldn't even be buried in his own grave. How fucked up was that? And this poor bastard...would he have to keep pretending to be Ray Vecchio after Ray Vecchio was dead? It was bad enough he'd come here to save Ray's partner and ended up on the wrong side of the mob, worse still on the wrong side of a guy who had to do whatever it took to maintain his cover, but on the wrong side of Vecchio himself, when he'd clearly gone a little bit nuts? That really did suck.
Okay, so he was thinking too much. He wasn't remotely high enough for this, and this guy probably wasn't either. Lowering inhibitions, taking the edge off reality, raising the heartrate--those were the things that cocaine was best for. And Ray would be grateful, in a manner of speaking. At least he could claim thereafter that it wasn't his fault, it was the drugs. It might alleviate some of that burden. He'd get it next time he changed tools.
First, holding Ray's gaze, he ran the knife down a few inches, turned the blade and flashed it in a light arc from just underneath one nipple around to the top of Ray's ribs. It was deep enough, once again, to hurt and bleed, but that was all. Ray could handle a little blood, a little pain. Hell, he might even be the kind of guy who liked it. ]
You know the only problem with this is I don't usually pay whores who'd bite my tongue off if I kissed them. You'd do that, wouldn't you? Mouth full of blood, you wouldn't care. Anything to not feel so helpless, so used.