He’s busy drowning in the feel of Claude’s tongue pressing into his mouth, the taste of him soft and rounded. It’s so overwhelmingly hot as well, each wet stroke against his tongue invoking a sense of urgency, sparks leaping through the rest of his body. He does pay note to the way Claude runs his hand down his chest but all he can think is stimulation, his body eating it all up and his mind staggering behind, making no valid attempts at catching up. God, but he’s never thought that kissing someone would feel like this. Every poor girl he’s taken out on strolls, to evening arrangements and parties – inevitably, at some point during every such arrangement, he would be left to wonder why the thought of intimacy repulsed him so, left him so cold and disinterested. He’d felt like… like a monster. But this – this is…
Claude’s hand slips further down and suddenly, his palm is pressing in between his legs, right up against his – and it’s definitely hard by now, embarrassingly so. Vincent yelps, managing by some miracle not to bite down on Claude’s tongue as he jumps backwards, the loss of body contact almost painfully stark. A part of him wants to keep going, of course it does – the part that wouldn’t care about (would relish) being naked and depraved right in the middle of a public alleyway. The rest of him is mortified, his mind suddenly bearing down with all the accusations, all the blame and all the guilt. Why can’t he control himself? What’s this, why can’t he just…
Blinking, he runs his hands down his clothes, movements frantic, managing to brush out neither the wrinkles in the fabric nor the sudden discovery of touch, of physical nearness. More importantly, inside his mouth the taste of Claude – of his warmness, of the underlying passion – lingers. The wetness along his lips, same. He’s doing nothing to wipe them clean, either; rather, he’s just staring owlishly at Claude, everything suddenly pulled to a stop though every inch of his body – and really, his mind, too – remains desperate to proceed.
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Claude’s hand slips further down and suddenly, his palm is pressing in between his legs, right up against his – and it’s definitely hard by now, embarrassingly so. Vincent yelps, managing by some miracle not to bite down on Claude’s tongue as he jumps backwards, the loss of body contact almost painfully stark. A part of him wants to keep going, of course it does – the part that wouldn’t care about (would relish) being naked and depraved right in the middle of a public alleyway. The rest of him is mortified, his mind suddenly bearing down with all the accusations, all the blame and all the guilt. Why can’t he control himself? What’s this, why can’t he just…
Blinking, he runs his hands down his clothes, movements frantic, managing to brush out neither the wrinkles in the fabric nor the sudden discovery of touch, of physical nearness. More importantly, inside his mouth the taste of Claude – of his warmness, of the underlying passion – lingers. The wetness along his lips, same. He’s doing nothing to wipe them clean, either; rather, he’s just staring owlishly at Claude, everything suddenly pulled to a stop though every inch of his body – and really, his mind, too – remains desperate to proceed.