As Vincent lies down next to him, Claude shifts down the other man's body, arranging himself with easy access to all things of importance. Like the slope of Vincent's neck, extending into shoulder where he rests his face, pressing it into the angle of conjunction. All blissful shade and the sharp scent of Vincent's body, his sweat and his arousal and something much more personal than any such temporarities. Humming lightly in pleasure, he presses a kiss to the very, very first inch of well-defined shoulder, their chests pressed together and the hint of chest hair extending across Vincent's pecs in sparse trails. If he wasn't so spent, God knows he would be getting hard again just from the thought, the teasing sensation of softness over his nipples. Claude smiles, delegates another kiss to another part of Vincent's shoulder and draws back in order to mutter: "Aren't you a work of art, Vincent..." Only to ease back into position, one hand slipping down Vincent's stomach, fingers splayed out wide and covering a good third of the displayed skin. Warm to the touch. Slightly sweaty. Utterly delicious.
Inching just a bit closer, as close as they can get without Claude turned elsewhere and Vincent's cock burying into his ass (and wasn't that an idea worth cultivating), Claude follows the jutting line of Vincent's hipbone with his fingertips, letting himself be led straight to the crotch, the light touch of hair there as well and the immense expanses of hard, throbbing cock. He sucks in a sharp breath, the arousal an entirely mental state at this point, closing his palm lightly over the curve of the base, fingers following suit soon after. The hold tight, lots of pressure up along the underside as he drags out the first stroke.
Vincent's cock is equal parts length and warm hardness - not a balance you strike often, not so very perfectly, at least. Claude's an artist, he strives. He strives for this and holding it between his hands in the most physical sense is really not something you are allowed to achieve too often, on stage. Or in life. It's a once in a lifetime experience, isn't it? "You're perfect," he says then, speaking directly into Vincent's skin, nose nestled snugly along the trembling mount of Vincent's Adam's apple. Hand initiating a slow, but harsh rhythm, palm smearing out the droplets that Vincent's cock is leaking across the exposed roundness of the head for every downward motion.
no subject
Inching just a bit closer, as close as they can get without Claude turned elsewhere and Vincent's cock burying into his ass (and wasn't that an idea worth cultivating), Claude follows the jutting line of Vincent's hipbone with his fingertips, letting himself be led straight to the crotch, the light touch of hair there as well and the immense expanses of hard, throbbing cock. He sucks in a sharp breath, the arousal an entirely mental state at this point, closing his palm lightly over the curve of the base, fingers following suit soon after. The hold tight, lots of pressure up along the underside as he drags out the first stroke.
Vincent's cock is equal parts length and warm hardness - not a balance you strike often, not so very perfectly, at least. Claude's an artist, he strives. He strives for this and holding it between his hands in the most physical sense is really not something you are allowed to achieve too often, on stage. Or in life. It's a once in a lifetime experience, isn't it? "You're perfect," he says then, speaking directly into Vincent's skin, nose nestled snugly along the trembling mount of Vincent's Adam's apple. Hand initiating a slow, but harsh rhythm, palm smearing out the droplets that Vincent's cock is leaking across the exposed roundness of the head for every downward motion.