Perhaps faster than Claude would have expected (his stamina almost as well-developed in private as it has been over time in more official settings), Vincent strikes a rhythm with him - an even, deep, unyielding pace that leaves him to gasp for his breath, more loudly and more harshly than Vincent himself even as the other man repeatedly only just barely manages not to choke on the impressive amounts of cock he's sucking down his throat and without much prompting from Claude at all. Claude leans in over him, buries Vincent's head in shade, darkening his already undefinable shade of brownish hair, his hips working forward in little trembling thrusts to uphold the friction. The suction. Every single sensation... Fingers curling and uncurling along the curve of Vincent's skull, Claude doesn't even attempt to hold back while his climax builds. It builds like a stark muscle spasm along the already taut muscles of his inner thighs, up between his legs, to his balls and travelling up the entire length of his shaft. "You're..." he begins, groans, desperately clinging to the side of Vincent's face with one sweaty palm. "You're going to... I'm..." And then he simply can't process the words anymore, pleasure exploding throughout his entire lower body and his pelvis pressing forward as if it were living a life of its own. Outside of his control. Moaning, Claude spends himself in an endless cascade of long, hard spurts down Vincent's throat, eyes fluttering shut and world narrowed to nothing beyond that. The darkness and the pulsations and the intensity. The sheer intimacy of it all.

Only slowly, he regains his senses. Every exhalation eating away at the inhalation that follows, he lets his body stabilise itself in the buzzing wake of his orgasm, suddenly realising that the blood flow to his legs has been cut off and that every part of him suddenly aches, the culmination of his sexual desires having opened up for the post-performance flood of physical reactions. Doubled, too. The tiredness. The discomfort. However, the true wonder of sex, of course, is how none of it matters, not in comparison.

Thus, he rather unceremoniously slides down on his butt, gingerly beginning to extract his legs from their imprisonment beneath his own weight. Casts a long, lazy glance in Vincent's general direction.