Never one to care about how someone got this terribly good at something, Philip nonetheless occasionally finds himself wondering just how much practice Freddie gets. If it rivals his own. They're cut from similar cloth -- not the same, not really, but that can't be said of many people in regards to Philip -- and he doesn't particularly care, but he is curious all the same. There are times when he's alone that he considers it, contemplates what it might be like just to show up at Freddie's some night and find him fucking someone else.

How much he'd like to just watch.

"Christ," he groans again and he knows he should keep his voice down, but he's caught up in the feeling of Freddie's lips wrapped around his cock, the way he sounds, the noises he's making and the feel of the hot, wet of his tongue. "Soon, I-"

He warns him only because they're somewhere they could be caught. They don't need Freddie coughing or sputtering loudly, not here, but Philip is close and he wants Freddie to be ready as his muscle tighten, as that heat in his pelvis suddenly seems to expand. Then he's groaning again, his orgasm breaking, rolling over him, his fingers clenching tightly in Freddie's hair at the same time.