John's hand wanders into his hair and he gasps again, wanting — he's not sure what he wants, whether just more or something else he hasn't defined yet and is far too unpracticed to request. He settles for continuing to kiss him, his growing desperation marked by a steady stream of soft, pleading whines. It is inevitable — and a bit of a relief, if he's being perfectly honest with himself — that John backs down, brings them both to a gentle halt. Martin blinks up at him, dazed and disoriented, the only response he can presently muster a little nod of acknowledgment. He looks over his shoulder as if he needs to see the counter biting into his back to agree that it isn't very comfortable, not that it's much crossed his mind. John's hand there is far more relevant to his attention, the gentle ease with which he bestows these touches, the evident concern for Martin's comfort above nearly all else.

"Okay," he agrees, and shifts forward as John steps back to allow him space. Now he's missing the bolstering warmth and taste of tea, but it feels ridiculous to cycle back to that now. John guides him toward the couch, and he allows himself to be led.

The act of sitting seems to dislodge something in him, and he looks up at John with sudden fearful energy. "I — should I not have—" He stammers wordlessly, but there's nothing specific to ask about. Any of it could have been a misstep; all of it could have been. Now that it's no longer happening, it feels outlandish that it happened at all.

"I'm sorry if I, if I overstepped, I—" he babbles with no end in sight, like a nervous runaway train.