John doesn't really care about the line -- he's more focused on the feel of Ianto's hand, the way his fingers grip his hair. His muscles twitch again, and the mix of teeth on his lips and skin pressed against his own has his breaths come rough and shaky once more.

"Ianto," he repeats, because he seemed to enjoy the sound of his name and if saying it over and over will encourage more of this so be it. John doesn't care if it's borderline close to begging, it's just safe enough that he can tolerate it. He squirms and the sheets stick to his skin, toes curling as he bucks up into Ianto's touch and tries to draw him closer.