The knife was cold-chrome against his stomach and Chris shook with need as it slid past his buttons, removing them with a snick.
Wesker chuckled at Chris' sharp intake of breath as the knife danced at the waistband of his boxers. "Do you want it Chris?" his voice was seductive, dark and Chris' cock twitched in response.
"Y-yes," he breathed. "Fuck, yes." He clenched cuffed hands and huffed out a breath as Wesker slid the knife down, ever down, edge shivering seconds away from touch. Chris keened; Wesker obliged, tracing his line of possession down hard flesh.