A tiny, muffled gasp escapes Martin as John starts to maneuver him down the hall, hands set at his waist; he eagerly allows himself to be led, only barely enough wherewithal to ensure he doesn't stumble. He draws a shuddering breath that turns quickly to a softly keening moan when in fluid, graceful succession John pulls away, murmurs his playful assessment, and moves back in, this time kissing his throat.

"Ah—" He whimpers, nearly does stumble, ends up gripping onto John's arms for both stability and another, more desperate sort of need. Christ, they need to get inside or they'll wind up drawing the attention of every bloody neighbor they have. With some difficulty, he twists back to look; their door is close, within reach.

"Just let me—" he breathes, no intention of finishing the sentence. One hand curls into the front of John's jacket, the other fumbling once again for his keys. No longer sure if he's leading or being led, he nearly staggers to their door, struggling to let them in.