When Vincent rises from the armchair, Claude recognises immediately that they've moved beyond concepts such as leading and following. Following the other man with his eyes as he moves to stand in front of him, discarding yet another layer (his breeches somehow only enhancing the long, beautifully rounded outline of his hard cock underneath), Claude feels the intimacy vividly. Theirs. They might not be touching yet, but he feels it and it makes his breathing catch in his throat. Vincent, undoing his breeches one-handedly and leaving the fabric gaping around the head of his cock which would undoubtedly prove a thing of beauty - had Claude been granted a chance to study it further, seats himself on the sheepskin stretched out next to Claude's half-sprawled figure. Leaves everything in this wholly disorderly state and leans in to capture his lips in another kiss. A new one, full of want and entitlement. Gone is the mask of insecurity. Just as Claude would expect, really.

Smiling, Claude parts his lips and all but shoves his tongue over the soft curve of Vincent's bottom lip. In between, too, coaxing the other man to come, making the advance smooth by running both hands down Vincent's sides and dragging him over on top of himself by the hips, rolling onto his back in one fluid motion to accommodate his weight. Vincent is light, no heaviness at all bearing down on top of him, but the length of his cock is palpable against Claude's thigh and he already feels himself drowning in it. This welcome presence. This.

Once he feels their bodies aligning, regaining a balance, he reaches up and runs his fingers through Vincent's hair. Raking his nails over his scalp, down his neck, flattening his palm over one perfectly arched shoulder, his tongue pushing into the heat and depth of Vincent's mouth with enough force to necessitate a response, he's sure. No, he's sure Vincent won't be late in reclaiming any lost territory. Or, more importantly, occupying new land.