In accommodation, Vincent shifts onto his side and eases his way up Claude's thighs, trailing the tip of his nose and the softness of his lips along the taut muscles running up his inner thigh. It's completely instinctual, an automatic reaction - how Claude's eyes flutter shut, obscuring the view of Vincent's hand following the same trail his head is paving, as if it would be just one stimulant too much. Sight. Instead, behind his closed eyelids, it's all reduced to touch and sensation. The pure feeling of Vincent's fingers closing around the base of his cock, brushing over his own fingers in the process. Followed closely by a light, but long lick around the curve of the head of his cock and Claude releases his own hold, steadying himself against the floor with his free hand, the one not preoccupied currently with digging into Vincent's hair in an effort to -- not thrust forward, not force himself onwards. He hears himself breathe out heavily, slowly, like he would do while balancing himself throughout a particularly tricky dévellopé... The heat and the slickness is maddening. In many respects, sex and dancing are rather similar. The act feels as if it might kill you, but the end result ensures that you'll suffer the same torture again and again - and at some point, you come to realise that (more than anything else) it's the act itself which has become your addiction.

When Vincent sucks Claude's cock further into his mouth, his tongue pressing up along the underside and his muscles straining to push back, Claude finally opens his eyes once more, facing the visual of Vincent's head in his lap, his lips positively locked around the girth of his cock. This time he does add a certain pressure as he tightens his fingers in the other man's hair. "I want to take your mouth, Vincent," he says, mutters mostly, breathlessly and all gutturals, "I want to shove myself down your throat. Fuck, it feels so good. You feel so... good."

Vulgar language is really only pleasing (and only acceptable) without matching intent, if you ask Claude. However much the thought and the voicing of the thought is pleasing - imagining his cock rammed down Vincent's throat to the very base, the road there goes through Vincent in every conceivable way. Claude isn't like Ludovic or, really, many of the men he's met in the milieu in Marais. Just the thought of forcing himself on another person, on a lover of all things... It makes him sick. To him, physicality is about control and choice. Carefulness. Carefulness above all else. Still, the words sound enticing and although body language might be his main means of expression, sound travels far and wide.

A slight shift to take the worst weight off his heels, the motion travelling forward as well, leaving him thrusting (slowly, gently) against the tightness of Vincent's lips and the touch of his tongue.