And it was. Chasing after that little hint of orange on Darren’s tongue was easy, and when those wide hands slid to the small of Jayden’s back, it was easy to arch into it and let them slip under the hem of his T-shirt. His hands were warm and dry and a little rough because he refused to use moisturiser, and so simple and so real that they left little sparks in their wake. It was instinct to pull at the edges of that clingy polyester excuse for a long-sleeved shirt until it parted company with Darren’s belt and Jayden could push his fingers into the gap, pressing his hands up the warm, flat run of a hard stomach, from the traces of hair at the top of his belt to the bottom of his ribs, flexing gently as he breathed.