Jonathan Sims

John smiles in sly satisfaction, no longer anticipating much in the way of even performative resistance, but still pleased to see Martin's turn for the agreeable. He leans in for another slow kiss, dividing his focus between the sublime feeling of Martin's lips against his own, the subtle taste of that shotgunned mug of tea, and the necessary tedium of undoing Martin's buttons.

If his only intention was to mark Martin's neck, he'd only bother with one button, two at most — he knows, by now, that the ostensible convenience of having things out of the way is often far less interesting than the idea of Martin both looking and feeling a bit debauched — but it isn't just Martin's neck that he intends to access. So he continues on to the third button, making his distracted, slightly fumbling way down Martin's front as he tips his head to kiss along the line of Martin's jaw.