Starving might have been the most appropriate term to ascribe to Vincent, Claude realises as the other man kisses him, all tongue and wet intrusion, the associations leaving his cock throbbing from arousal. Then, Vincent thrusts his hips forward enough for his cock to slide along the length of Claude's own and the pleasure surges through him violently enough to knock all air out of his lungs. He's almost (almost) relieved when Vincent draws back and leaves his mouth free to gasp for breath. Gasp, gasp, gasp. They're staring at each other in a moment of waiting, where Vincent seems to struggle with the exact mechanisms, only to repeat the motion. But harder, much harder, the friction making Claude groan loudly, his head falling back onto the soft wool and hips bucking up to meet the pressure just right. Just right.
The breeches are in the way, though. They must go. Forcing himself to lift his head and press his face into the side of Vincent's neck, Claude lets one hand slip down between their bodies, wriggling enough to not get caught between the rise of rib cages or trapped in the fall of stomachs. There's nothing romantic about it, not in any traditional sense - how he shoves his hand, palm flat against Vincent's abdomen, beneath the already loosened waistband. His fingers brush over the head of Vincent's cock first and Claude proceeds with the proper carefulness. Soft fingers wrapping around the shaft, the upper part of it, as it is. It's long. Vincent's cock is... long. He hears himself utter something not too dissimilar to a whimper, his pelvis pressing up against the back of his own hand like an extension of the sound. He's so aroused, he can't remember when he last... when he...
A long, outdrawn jerk of his hand up Vincent's cock and he simply can't wait anymore. He's patient, but he's no saint. He's no statue made of wood. "Take them off, please," he begs, voice muffled and decidedly throaty.
no subject
The breeches are in the way, though. They must go. Forcing himself to lift his head and press his face into the side of Vincent's neck, Claude lets one hand slip down between their bodies, wriggling enough to not get caught between the rise of rib cages or trapped in the fall of stomachs. There's nothing romantic about it, not in any traditional sense - how he shoves his hand, palm flat against Vincent's abdomen, beneath the already loosened waistband. His fingers brush over the head of Vincent's cock first and Claude proceeds with the proper carefulness. Soft fingers wrapping around the shaft, the upper part of it, as it is. It's long. Vincent's cock is... long. He hears himself utter something not too dissimilar to a whimper, his pelvis pressing up against the back of his own hand like an extension of the sound. He's so aroused, he can't remember when he last... when he...
A long, outdrawn jerk of his hand up Vincent's cock and he simply can't wait anymore. He's patient, but he's no saint. He's no statue made of wood. "Take them off, please," he begs, voice muffled and decidedly throaty.