More than happy to help, Bob's grin disappears as John kisses him, his attention suddenly poured into concentrating on that mouth against his own and his fingers blindly working at unbuttoning the shirt he's got hold of. He's acutely aware of his whole body aching for this kind of closeness, the simpleness of wanting skin on skin contact and sharing a moment like this with somebody who seems to want it just as much as he does.

Returning the kiss with every ounce of fierce dominance that's not usually on show, he makes light work of the buttons. He's not pushing the shirt off the other man yet but instead sliding his hands inside the gaping sides of fabric. Running his fingers over warm ribs, he draws his palms down the other man's back, not stopping until he's got the other man's arse in his hands so he can rock his hips forward. The friction he creates is distracting, pulls a low, unapologetic groan out of him.