The man did and Lam stepped closer, letting go of his knife to begin to untie the scarf. It was wet with blood, so he definitely needed stitches.
“Take off your jacket and shirt,” Lam said, taking the scarf and dumping it in the bathroom trash.
Slowly, Conan stripped the jacket and then the shirt, being gentle around the wound where the fabric stuck. Lam didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t looking. This was his first chance to study Conan in a well-lit area.
Conan was just as handsome as he’d been under the bridge, broad and thick, with salt-and-pepper hair and stubble and–when the shirt finally came free–an attractive spattering of chest hair. He was fit in the way that men who worked with theirbodies for a living were, and there was a tan line where his shirt usually sat. He’d spent time working out in the sun.
There was a lot of living on his body. Scars new and old decorated his arms, chest, and up to his neck. At least one was a bullet wound. Older, by the look of it.
Lam’s eyes gravitated toward the fresh wound in his shoulder, the mess of blood. He’d slashed mostly the front and around to the side, about four inches long. Saliva gathered in his mouth and he swallowed it down. It was still bleeding sluggishly, but the older blood was dark and crusting around the edges where it had been flattened and soaked into the clothing.
“Like what you see?” Conan asked as he dropped his ruined clothing on top of the scarf.
“How’s the pain?” Lam said instead of answering. From his coat pocket he pulled out his knife and set it down on the counter on his left side, furthest away from Conan. He was beginning to believe he might not need it for defense, but he also wasn’t in the habit of being stupid.
“A bit more than a bee sting,” Conan said.
Lam knelt and retrieved the first aid kit from under his bathroom sink, hiding a smile. He set the kit on the counter and rifled through it, finding the antiseptic and his suture kit. Lam eyed the lidocaine, but didn’t pluck it out. His eyes flickered up and met Conan’s, who was watching him closely.
“So you don’t need pain management?” Lam asked. He didn’t mean the words to come out as smooth as they did, but hunger was swelling up inside him now. Blood always did it to him.
Conan’s eyes went from the kit to Lam. “No,” he said slowly.
The edges of Lam’s mouth curled. “Good boy.”
The words slipped out, unintentional. But he didn’t miss the way Conan’s gaze sharpened.
Lam dragged his eyes away before he got further distracted, bending down under the sink to get one of the washcloths. Most of his house fabrics were dark because bloodstains were a pain to get out. He ran the cloth under the tap and then walked back over to Conan. The man widened his legs and Lam stepped closer, between them.
“Following directions is one of your things,” Conan observed.
Lam looked down at him, at the bloody shoulder. “I haven’t given any directions.”
“Haven’t you?”
Lam felt a shiver down his spine, and his hand tightened on the cloth.
“Let me…” Lam said, bringing the cloth closer to the wound.
“I’m all yours,” Conan said, and angled the arm closer.
Lam licked his lips. He felt bewitched, except Conan wasn’t doing anything. He was just sitting there obediently, waiting for Lam to take care of him.
So maybe hehadgiven him directions.
Lam started on the outside of the wound, working the dried blood free. Conan did his best not to react, but as Lam got to the cut itself, his muscles tensed. Lam saw the muscle in his jaw jump and heard him make a low grunt.
His own heart thudded harder in response. Arousal poured through his veins.
It was a bit of a messy cut, he’d acted on instinct to the perceived threat, hand moving before he could stop himself. It thankfully looked fairly shallow though. He hadn’t put a lot of force into it and had pulled back when he’d realized Conan wasn’t going for the kill.
He was glad it wasn’t worse. Conan would still be able to use the arm tonight if he was careful. It would hurt, but...
When Lam had mopped most of the blood off with the cloth, he set it aside and reached for the antiseptic and gauze.
“This is going to hurt,” he said, eyes on Conan’s face as he tilted the bottle to douse the area.
“Fuck,”Conan grit loudly through his teeth when the burn hit. His hands that had been resting neatly on his lap curled into fists.
