He always loved that, letting Jack destroy a crisp, perfect suit and then hiding the evidence. It always made their encounters feel like they went on for hours afterwards, like he could still feel Jack's hands on him as part of a dirty secret.
He thrusts back against his movements, arm shifting for balance and knocking a stack of papers off the desk to scatter haphazardly across the floor. Even if they were real he doesn't think he'd care.