It was on the tip of Conor's tongue to say, 'My aggressions are how I got myself tangled up with you in the first place', but he remained silent. "Because I care deeply for your upholstery," he murmured, running the tip of the knife over Byron's shin. On the downstroke, he pressed hard enough to draw blood, and felt something loosen in his chest, ever so slightly.
He hummed slightly to himself as he crawled up Byron's body, needing better access to the parts he wanted to reach. His knees bracketed the other man's hips, his bloody knife tip tracing those enticing abdominal muscles. The knife sank in under the left pectoral, almost before he could help himself. A twist of his wrist dug it in deeper, and he should have hated himself for it. But he didn't.