The tiniest smirk curls at the corner of Jack's lips, watching the delicate balance of Aimery's self control, and when it breaks that seems to spark something in him. Much as he does like to take the lead, it's the combination of that acquiescence and the hint of a challenge that Aimery (and more than a few before him, one in particular) presents that gets him. He leans back into the kiss with a sudden hunger, the hand that had been only lingering at the front of his shirt now working open buttons and sliding in across the exposed skin.

He doesn't see the scars – he'd noticed the one on Aimery's chest and hadn't been bothered by it, but as the rest become visible, he's too busy maneuvering them back into the bedroom, the sharp edges of his more dominant (and frankly intense) side starting to show. More tactile than visual now and too focused to bother with details regardless, it doesn't occur to him to even glance at Aimery's wrists.

It does, however, occur to him to grab one, a playful grapple as he pulls back half an inch to breathe, his thumb pushing the fabric away to travel up the long stripe of raised skin–

–until he realizes what it is.

His stomach tightens.

"Fuck–" He jerks back like he's been bit and pushes Aimery away in the same motion, tension snapping through his muscles. That's– suddenly he isn't thinking or breathing right, just cursing under his breath and backing away.