But apparently, Ray had been wrong, because he was't prepared for this.
Fraser, in full red uniform, buttoned-up and indecently pristine, shoving him back in his chair, his booted foot pressing down on his chest so hard it almost hurt. Fraser, his blue eyes boring into Ray's, telling him what to do. Telling him exactly what to do, giving him commands in a cool, crisp voice. Making him.
"Touch there." Fraser pointed to his knee.
Ray, after a bare second of hesitation, touched there. Fraser's foot slid down, slowly, with the same amount of pressure, until it rested against Ray's crotch. Something tight was coiling around Ray's stomach, and he felt Fraser's wool pants getting wet from the pressure of his palm.
Ray, barely able to breathe, leaned over. Fraser pointed to his boot.
Ray, his pulse pounding in his throat, licked a long stripe up, his tongue stopping at the feel of wool of Fraser's pants. It had tasted of some kind of treatment and expensive leather. Musky; real. He looked up at Fraser. Was he doing all right?
"Undress, Ray." The low voice had gone a bit husky. "Start with your shirt."
Ray started with his shirt.