He watches Keller's muscles, enjoying the heavy swirl of shadow and light on their movement as he stacks paper, under the pristine white tee shirt. There is always that dichotomy about him, of the slow and sanguine muscled feline vs. the quicksilver brutal predator.
From the shadows he watches Keller's ass as he bends to scoop the last two reams of paper from the box, and in his mind function follows form and he thinks of slow, unbearably slow, rhythmic fucking, the kind done to tease, the kind done with the other person staring directly into you, knowing you feel every inch, and letting them know you know.
He hardens as he fingers the shank.
Keller pulls the paper cover from the last ream.
In the shadows his watcher starts with the power of his voice, then slowly unclenches and relaxes. He steps forward to that pristine white back, quiet.
Keller is staring at the tip of his finger, at the jewel of blood pooling there. He squeezes between fingers of the other hand, watches as the red pool swells. Perversely, raises his finger to his mouth.
The wrist that is on his is iron; he recoils and stares into glittering blue eyes, all attempts of speech floundering on his open lips.
Beecher pulls the hand away and holds it near his own face for a few long seconds, long fingers curling around Keller's wrist. They stare and spark silently at each other, eyes narrowed.
Beecher pulls Keller's finger into his mouth. Presses Keller's one large hand to his face with both of his.
Keller's breath catches and rustles in his chest as Beecher sucks, nips the wound, laves it with his tongue and sucks again. Holds still and feels the quickened pulse.
Beecher has forgotten the shank for now, and as Keller's cock hardens painfully, pulsing near a touchless orgasm, Beecher imagines he can taste the sweet rising current of Keller's fear.