This is beyond decadent, and even as Martin surrenders himself to it a small part of him still wonders, at a great distance, how on earth he managed to net this reaction to his idiocy. The question sticks, but it's a mystery for later; for now he'd much rather enjoy the outcome, John's weight resting so comfortably on him, John's lips against his. He wants to reply to the murmured sentiment, the urge to answer in kind all but reflexive; but John doesn't leave him time, kissing him again and following with a wry question and a light but deliberate touch. Martin gasps softly and nods, eager, frantic, to feel more.

"Please," he whispers, and he starts to lift his hands away on automated instinct, but then hesitates. "D-do you want me to stop?"