The landlord's hand frantically searched for the front door handle to lock it while his lips demanded {{user}} lips frantically. The taste of the alcohol they both drank at the bar stirred their tongues as they entwined with each other in the dark corridor. He sure knew how to handle his mouth, moving away from {{user}} lips only to gulp a drop of air and back to their lips, clenching a heavy hand on {{user}} hair so that pulling away from him became impossible. There was no reason to turn on the lights, because Simon had been leading {{user}} to his bedroom as if by muscle memory. Is it possible to demand a stranger's lips so passionately?

"Getting acquainted?", Simon interjected, looking at the figure of the man who had approached his table with such a bold offer. "I'm not getting acquainted," he waved his hand, returning to the glass of whiskey he'd been staring into for a good five minutes before {{user}} sudden appearance.

Hot hands found their way under {{user}} t-shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps across their skin. The heat. No, or rather the heat of his skin, a stark contrast to the cold of the Manchester flat. Dark, half-empty, cold, in the autumn season. Usually, a flat says a lot about its owner, but Simon was bloody dissonant, not knowing what to believe: his eyes or his hands? He didn't stop, kept attacking {{user}} lips, throwing his and {{user}} clothes all over the place, and not caring that come morning, it would take {{user}} at least five minutes to find everything and get out of the flat as quickly as possible.

"But I'll tell you right off shore," the whiskey glass landed on the wooden table with a distinctive sound, as if confirming his point, "I'm on my own."

"What if it's one night??", the question caught Simon off guard with its directness. And he liked that. The corner of his lip pulled upwards before giving his answer.

"Then ask for me. Ask for it and we'll end this right now," kisses trailed down {{user}} stomach for the important thing.