The pace picks up, from the desperation in Vincent's voice as he speaks, directly into Claude's mouth, sounds reverberating between his parted lips, to the rhythm with which they are pushing up against each other, Vincent's fingers a strong and slick pressure around his entire length, the harder he thrusts upwards. Claude moans loudly, eating up the tail-end of Vincent's words and putting them away for sometime later when they will mean so much more. His balls feel heavy and tight at this point and although he's not quite at his breaking point yet, he's well on his way and he can tell, can feel that Vincent has broken into the first few steps of a spurt already, steps ahead. Drawing back, their lips parting hotly (wetly) and his hips pulling out of Vincent's grip reluctantly, regretfully, he stares at the huge expanses of the other man's face, features a blur of shade and proximity. Led by his hand on Vincent's chest, he slides his left arm around the narrowest range of hipbone, around the paper-thin curve of Vincent's waist and grabs hold, his fingers in his hair only tightening more, perhaps painfully so, but the stability is essential. Besides, although he's by no means a cruel lover, Claude shan't deny that he may find the thought of Vincent whimpering absolutely intoxicating...
"Don't move," he instructs, holding his breath as he flips them around, rolling Vincent's smoothly onto his back with the ease born of a lifetime throwing around ballerinas certainly twice his size, but double his mass and height is only an issue, if you are not rightly balanced. Now leaning in over Vincent rather than the other way around, careful to keep his weight on his knees so that he won't be crushing anything vital beneath a slipping hip or a wayward elbow, Claude rests himself on one flattened palm against the sheepskins as they lie all bundled up next to Vincent's face. Bends his neck to lick a long, experimental trail from Vincent's ear and down over his collarbone, protruding something horrible, like see-through calligraphy. From there on, the nearest nipple is only a single push downwards and Claude closes his lips over it, the heated nub rising under the tip of his tongue like a well-trained soldier. He keeps the suction lazy, attention shifting to the soft skin on Vincent's inner thigh that he's mapping out, palm sliding upwards and fingers fully splayed, wanting all of it. All the sensations, everything there is to feel. Everything Vincent will give him.
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"Don't move," he instructs, holding his breath as he flips them around, rolling Vincent's smoothly onto his back with the ease born of a lifetime throwing around ballerinas certainly twice his size, but double his mass and height is only an issue, if you are not rightly balanced. Now leaning in over Vincent rather than the other way around, careful to keep his weight on his knees so that he won't be crushing anything vital beneath a slipping hip or a wayward elbow, Claude rests himself on one flattened palm against the sheepskins as they lie all bundled up next to Vincent's face. Bends his neck to lick a long, experimental trail from Vincent's ear and down over his collarbone, protruding something horrible, like see-through calligraphy. From there on, the nearest nipple is only a single push downwards and Claude closes his lips over it, the heated nub rising under the tip of his tongue like a well-trained soldier. He keeps the suction lazy, attention shifting to the soft skin on Vincent's inner thigh that he's mapping out, palm sliding upwards and fingers fully splayed, wanting all of it. All the sensations, everything there is to feel. Everything Vincent will give him.