It's faster, somehow, this time around. The entire act. Rushed, even as the pace is no more desperate or hurried than before. Claude feels Vincent move, lips trailing along his jaw until he lifts himself up a little, just enough to leave Claude's movements unrestricted. Not weighed down by their proximity, close enough that Vincent's face is buried in Claude's hair and his breathing hot puffs of air over the top of his head. Claude works Vincent's cock benevolently, generously, fast, wrist aching after the first minute, because the angle is awkward. Not that he cares, not with how Vincent's heaving inhalations and heavier exhalations (no sounds, no sweet words now) are telling him of the other man's impending orgasm.
When he climaxes, it's an eruption of hot semen all over Claude's hand, stray droplets up his stomach, a trace or two up his own, too. Claude waits for the first settlement, feeling how Vincent is shaking against him, palpable proof of his physical exhaustion. His cock throbs hotly between his fingers, losing rigidity only little by little, so Claude holds on to the sensation of hard flesh, girth and length as long as possible. When he lets go, it's gingerly, indeed, shifting away enough to glance up at the other man's face. Beneath the obscuring shadows of his bangs, the light catches in --
Uncaringly drying his dirty fingers off in the sheepskins, Claude twists his way up on eye-level with Vincent, brushing his hair out of his face and pressing a kiss to his brow. Saying nothing. There's nothing to say, when all comes down to it. Vincent's just been shown a world totally removed from everything he knows and now, it'll be bureaucracy and politics. Visa applications, passport checks, the works. Not all journeys are worth the trouble. Not for everyone. So Claude just turns onto his back, coaxing Vincent closer in an unspoken invitation to claim his chest, should he want to.
After all, Claude might be a brick wall physically, but he has learned how to adjust and all brick was clay originally. Couldn't be truer for him either.
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When he climaxes, it's an eruption of hot semen all over Claude's hand, stray droplets up his stomach, a trace or two up his own, too. Claude waits for the first settlement, feeling how Vincent is shaking against him, palpable proof of his physical exhaustion. His cock throbs hotly between his fingers, losing rigidity only little by little, so Claude holds on to the sensation of hard flesh, girth and length as long as possible. When he lets go, it's gingerly, indeed, shifting away enough to glance up at the other man's face. Beneath the obscuring shadows of his bangs, the light catches in --
Uncaringly drying his dirty fingers off in the sheepskins, Claude twists his way up on eye-level with Vincent, brushing his hair out of his face and pressing a kiss to his brow. Saying nothing. There's nothing to say, when all comes down to it. Vincent's just been shown a world totally removed from everything he knows and now, it'll be bureaucracy and politics. Visa applications, passport checks, the works. Not all journeys are worth the trouble. Not for everyone. So Claude just turns onto his back, coaxing Vincent closer in an unspoken invitation to claim his chest, should he want to.
After all, Claude might be a brick wall physically, but he has learned how to adjust and all brick was clay originally. Couldn't be truer for him either.