John tenses, barely, when Finnick’s hands slide under his shirt. It doesn’t last, can’t last, because John remembers that Finnick has seen the scars. Seen them, and still admired him in spite of those marks on his chest and his back…
So there’s a moment, a hitch—and then he’s flowing into him, kissing harder, advances until Finnick is near the door and gently presses him back not to pin him, but just because John wants to be closer. He’s done this dance with women, not men, knows only a little of what he could do that would be good for Finnick—
—the kiss of nails on his back stops his thoughts dead.
He would have been worried or afraid if he had the chance to think about it. He doesn’t, though, so that teasing scrape of nails on skin makes him shiver, breath catching—and when one mail catches on a line of scar tissue he can’t control his reaction.
His hips rock into Finnick’s, and the kiss turns into a messy clash of lips as he moans, ragged and helpless at the flash of heat that sears across his skin.
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So there’s a moment, a hitch—and then he’s flowing into him, kissing harder, advances until Finnick is near the door and gently presses him back not to pin him, but just because John wants to be closer. He’s done this dance with women, not men, knows only a little of what he could do that would be good for Finnick—
—the kiss of nails on his back stops his thoughts dead.
He would have been worried or afraid if he had the chance to think about it. He doesn’t, though, so that teasing scrape of nails on skin makes him shiver, breath catching—and when one mail catches on a line of scar tissue he can’t control his reaction.
His hips rock into Finnick’s, and the kiss turns into a messy clash of lips as he moans, ragged and helpless at the flash of heat that sears across his skin.