Smooth Talker

by Jane Davitt




He's getting looks today, not for his new shirt, though it's truly awesome, or because he might possibly be wearing Gus' pants and they're too tight, showing his assets off in a way that he could claim on his taxes under advertising if he was a bad boy who took money for doing bad things.

Or even paid taxes. Maybe Gus does it for both of them?

No, the glances that linger, puzzled or admiring, are for the unusual smoothness of his chin. No shadow, no stubble, not a single nick.

Lassie hadn't wanted blood, after all, just the ability to kiss Shawn at work behind a locked door with no tell-tale whisker burn.

Shawn runs his hand over his chin and feels himself harden even more, as if his hand is lower, stroking over the hot thrust of his dick. He's been like this since the first rush of shaving cream into his palm, the first slow, deliberate careful drag of the blade against his jaw. Lassie had left everything laid out for him on a small white towel, each item spaced with precision. It'd felt like Lassie was watching him and Shawn's hand had trembled when he'd thought that and he'd had to pause, just for a moment, to get himself under control.

The razor strop, dark against the towel, is for later, of course. Shawn thinks he's earned it for being so considerate a boyfriend, but he's not sure he'll get what he wants the way he likes it. That's up to Lassie. Mostly. Shawn's always willing to give him a helpful nudge if Lassie looks lost.

Lassiter doesn't smile when Shawn walks over to his desk, mouth going a mile a minute in a greeting Lassie doesn't acknowledge, but his hand touches Shawn's arm lightly, casually enough that no one watching would notice, and his fingers curl possessively tight a moment later.

Good. Lassie's pleased with him.

Of course, it's no fun for either of them if Lassie gets everything the way he likes it…

Shawn smiles at Lassie, sweet and insincere, and goes to flirt with Juliet, using up three minutes of Lassie's coffee break, so that when Lassie shoves him into a windowless interrogation room, he can only kiss Shawn twice, three times, maybe, Shawn pushing up against him shamelessly, his tongue wet and pushy.

"I have to get back to work," Lassie says too soon and drags his mouth away. One finger runs over Shawn's chin approvingly, a touch that has Shawn shivering with pleasure more than the kisses, though they'd been good kisses, sweet and incredulous, like Lassie can't quite believe he's doing this at work -- or that he's forgiven the flirting so easily after one whispered act of contrition from Shawn,

He's almost at the door when Shawn tugs down the zipper on his pants -- they totally fit, he's decided, which is just as well, because Gus is never going to want them back after Shawn confesses he went commando -- and Lassie's gaze drops along with his jaw.

"I might have missed a few bits down here," Shawn says, running his hands over the exposed, bare skin around his dick. He'd had to bite his lip so hard to keep from coming. The cool scrape of the blade, after the snick of the nail scissors…so sexy, so fucked-up. Every step on the way over had reminded him of how naked he is now, the material sliding over newly exposed skin, catching on the few blunt-edge hairs he's missed. "You can check later. Tidy me up. I trust you."

Lassie's lips go thin and tight, but Shawn just smiles, sunny-bright.

He can play games too, better than Lassie, but until he's bent over, the strop slicing air on the way to his ass, he hasn't won this one.

Shawn plays to win.


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