Behind him, above him, the sound of his top hat scraping against the bricks disturbs the otherwise quiet intensity of the moment. Claude draws back, only slightly, only enough to breathe once or twice fully and reach up to push the offending thing off his head completely, without much care. Vincent's fingers are in his hair, they're long and delicate and run over his scalp with a heated precision that leaves his skin tingling, not only in their wake. Underneath his coat, he feels decidedly overheated. Blinking once, he leans back in, claims Vincent's lips again and pushes his tongue back into the heat of his mouth, sliding harshly over the tip and length of the other man's. He tastes like the dinner they shared, like cheese and wine and something understated beneath all the outside input. Like a barely emphasised beat in a large orchestral piece. The one beat you're required to follow.
Caressing down along the side of his tongue with just the tip of his own, Claude returns his hands to Vincent's body. He's getting ahead of himself, he can tell - probably getting ahead of them both, but beyond the physical aspect of it, how hard he's slowly growing in his trousers and how hard he can feel Vincent growing in his, Vincent's desperation is not only contagious. It's simply not just his anymore. Claude's gone too long at this point, without any real emotional investment in another human being. It's... simply been too long. The feeling of being adored is even less foreign than the feeling of needing someone else. Of wanting someone else for more than the five minutes the basics take, behind all the finesse. Vincent wants him. Claude had forgotten...
It's an automatic slip, born of too many hurried trysts where time was of the essence. One hand abandons the vast expanses of Vincent's chest and starts travelling down, down over his stomach, down over the front of his trousers, although his coat upholds a relative modesty. Claude's inhalations are shallow and fast, by now. They're hardly even parting, just breathing into each other. He presses his entire palm inwards, an overabundance of fabric eating up the brunt of it, but the gesture unmistakable regardless.
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Caressing down along the side of his tongue with just the tip of his own, Claude returns his hands to Vincent's body. He's getting ahead of himself, he can tell - probably getting ahead of them both, but beyond the physical aspect of it, how hard he's slowly growing in his trousers and how hard he can feel Vincent growing in his, Vincent's desperation is not only contagious. It's simply not just his anymore. Claude's gone too long at this point, without any real emotional investment in another human being. It's... simply been too long. The feeling of being adored is even less foreign than the feeling of needing someone else. Of wanting someone else for more than the five minutes the basics take, behind all the finesse. Vincent wants him. Claude had forgotten...
It's an automatic slip, born of too many hurried trysts where time was of the essence. One hand abandons the vast expanses of Vincent's chest and starts travelling down, down over his stomach, down over the front of his trousers, although his coat upholds a relative modesty. Claude's inhalations are shallow and fast, by now. They're hardly even parting, just breathing into each other. He presses his entire palm inwards, an overabundance of fabric eating up the brunt of it, but the gesture unmistakable regardless.