Though he might miss the feeling of Freddie's cock pressing into his palm, Philip lets him slip away, because this is what he'd asked for, after all. It's for the best that they don't get completely undressed, just in case they have to run off at any point, but he wishes anyway that they'd met a little closer to home or that the chance of getting a cab in this neighbourhood at this time of night wasn't so utterly slim. Instead of being able to get Freddie undressed in the comfort of his home, he instead buries his fingers on Freddie's hair, his other hand falling to his shoulder as a low groan slips out of him.

He's so good at this and although Philip isn't above comparing, especially for the sake of manipulation, there are a few here and there who are exempt from it. In the moment like this, when he's with Freddie, he doesn't think of anyone else, doesn't consider who else might be just as good as he is because it doesn't matter. It's rare for him to admit to it, but it just doesn't matter. Not now.

"Christ, Freddie," he breathes in the dark and he wishes just a little that the owners of this private place had thought to put a bit of soft lighting perhaps, but he supposes that might do away with a bit of a secret. And so he simply waits, letting his eyes adjust until he can see Freddie before him on his knees, until he can see the head of his dick sliding past his lips and the mere sight of it pulls a sharp pang of pleasure through him.