There is absolutely nothing voluntary about the noise John makes when Martin slides both hands into his hair, as if he'd been desperate to do so and was only awaiting permission. It feels divine, not least of all because it's been days since Martin's done it — a small span of time in the grand scheme of things, but one that feels like an age when measured against the frequency with which John used to receive such attentions — and it draws a soft, low moan out of him. Christ, he's missed this.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp out a, "God, yes," leaning, cat-like, into Martin's touch. The arm around Martin tightens, wanting both to pull him closer and to alleviate some of the pressure of the counter against Martin's back, and he brings his other arm around to assist in the effort as he kisses Martin again, lips parting, drawing him deeper.