Martin's reaction is relatively restrained, but that's all right. What John has in mind will, he thinks, work best if there's some degree of desperation on Martin's part, but it will also require him to still have some self-possession, so John doesn't want to spend too much time winding him up.
There's also no denying that John himself is rather eager to make good on the promise of those undone buttons. So, as he sucks another mark a little closer to the juncture of Martin's neck and shoulder, he also lets go Martin's arms so he can start to slowly inch up the hem of his undershirt. He keeps his pace steady and unhurried, in deliberate contrast to the impatience Martin had goaded him into before, but there's no mistaking his intent as he rucks the garment up until it's bunched just below Martin's collar bone. He wants plenty of room to work.
John carefully readjusts his position, scooting back a foot along the couch cushions. One hand holds the bunched undershirt in place, where it won't be in the way; the other splays itself over Martin's ribs, close enough to its target that an easy sweep of his thumb is all it would take to reach his left nipple. He leans down again, pressing a leisurely kiss against Martin's sternum, then making his slow, incremental way towards Martin's right side.
An inch or so shy of the mark, he pauses, nuzzling against his chest. Then, with the air of a professor reviewing a lesson, or a language instructor prompting a phrase their student ought to have memorized, he asks, "Do you deserve this?"
no subject
There's also no denying that John himself is rather eager to make good on the promise of those undone buttons. So, as he sucks another mark a little closer to the juncture of Martin's neck and shoulder, he also lets go Martin's arms so he can start to slowly inch up the hem of his undershirt. He keeps his pace steady and unhurried, in deliberate contrast to the impatience Martin had goaded him into before, but there's no mistaking his intent as he rucks the garment up until it's bunched just below Martin's collar bone. He wants plenty of room to work.
John carefully readjusts his position, scooting back a foot along the couch cushions. One hand holds the bunched undershirt in place, where it won't be in the way; the other splays itself over Martin's ribs, close enough to its target that an easy sweep of his thumb is all it would take to reach his left nipple. He leans down again, pressing a leisurely kiss against Martin's sternum, then making his slow, incremental way towards Martin's right side.
An inch or so shy of the mark, he pauses, nuzzling against his chest. Then, with the air of a professor reviewing a lesson, or a language instructor prompting a phrase their student ought to have memorized, he asks, "Do you deserve this?"