Something tripped in Kavinsky's chest. Guilt, for laughing off what may have been genuine worry, or something else. Why was this harder than the last two times? It wasn't, he knew. He was just making it like that.

He trailed his fingers over Jack's arm, tracing the tattoo idly, and rolled over as instructed. He was hard again, but not distractingly so. He'd manage. He lifted his hips and spread his legs, the way he knew he looked good.