There's something chokingly innocent about him, though at the same time Edward can barely put a finger on it. He's peeling his tee shirt from his lean, brown body; smiling with swollen lips; batting ridiculously pretty eyes... straddling, whispering: "so how d'you want me, mister?" So maybe his innocence is on the coy side, maybe it's just naivety (not that sort), but it's almost enough to bring Edward to his knees. Almost.
"Clean for a start," he pushes and the boy climbs off his lap obligingly, all dishevelled blonde hair and sweaty, dirt smeared skin. "The shower's through there."
He has to take them off the streets or else someone might miss them when they're gone.
"I assume you've already had one then?" the boy asks. "I don't want to fuck no dirty bitch either, you know?" He juts one hip and crosses his arms over the slim swell of his chest.
Edward casts him a surly look, sliding his tie from around his neck and dropping it to the floor. "Don't piss me off."
So the boy puts on a brave face, scoffs half-heartedly and slouches off to the bathroom.
Five minutes later he's glistening, pushing damp hair from his forehead and his rosy cheeks. Edward has to mind himself as he pins the boy to the wall, wraps a hand around his throat and presses his lips against the timid little pulse.
"Watch it, mister," the boy breaths warningly, though he writhes like a slut, arching and clutching at Edward's shirt. "Marks cost you extra."
Edward's lips part where they're pressed to the boy's neck and he lets out a low chuckle. He shoves a hand into the pocket of his black slacks, draws out a fistful of twenties... and forces them into the boy's hand. He can take them back when the boy is dead.