While Vincent recovers, the sound of his outcry is slow to fade between the bare walls of the loft and Claude can vividly imagine the good Monsieur Samson downstairs wake up, cursing at the return of the upstairs antics, only to realise that his daughter has once more managed to sneak out from right underneath his nose. Oh, the trials of life... Bonelessly, Vincent gestures for him to approach, asks him to come closer and you won't see Claude need to be told twice. The ghostly presence of Vincent's cock on his tongue, the heavy taste of him still filling his mouth, has left his own cock in a sorry state of neglect and if the other man hadn't offered his assistance so very freely, Claude would have had to find the proper method of persuasion, wouldn't he? Steadying the length of his cock with one hand, so it won't bob uncontrollably - awkward and uncomfortable as it would be, he all but crawls over to Vincent. Shifts on his knees along the long limbs (lines) of the other man's body, all the way up to his head. His knees are still bruised and sore from his Bronze Idol variation, but you get used to the pain when you've endured it long enough. You learn to ignore it, especially when something just as rewarding as spotlight is beckoning.

"You should come here," he says, smiling. Halts himself with Vincent's face only a thigh-slide away from his crotch, reaching down with his free hand to slip his fingers along the slope of Vincent's cheek, into his hair to keep the strands away from his face, urging him up. Urging him closer. Like this, Claude's blocking out the soft, orange glow from the fireplace, Vincent's features cast into a grey shade that only his eyes emerge from, victoriously. Licking his lips that feel suddenly dry, Claude shifts a bit. Impatiently. His otherwise perfected body control finally slipping.

Look at him. Just... Look at him.