His kiss is hot and full of harsh breathing, the taste of whiskey and cognac in a strange blend - the sensation of their fronts pushed halfway up against each other, Vincent's fingers rubbing in distractingly long motions up the underside of his cock. On the backside of his closed eyelids, all Claude sees is stars, bright like the stage lights when you look up during a performance. He groans into Vincent's mouth and drops his own hand lower, a fast plunge, inelegant (but what have you) in its efficiency... The bulge that meets his palm is hard and palpably throbbing and Claude closes the entire expands of his palm and splayed fingers out over it, rubbing up against it with a touch from all sides. A cup and feel, yes? Just like that. Another groan, a halfway mumble against Vincent's lips. Perhaps a cuss.

Positioning himself more comfortably, Claude finds himself draped in against Vincent's side, careful not to let him carry the full force of his weight (muscles weigh a ton), but enough to completely abandon himself and just push his arse off the bench, pelvis up against Vincent's fingers, his now fully erect cock rubbing along the entire length of the other man's touch, into his palm, around... He leans his head back, breathes out hard and doesn't care that besides Vincent watching, there is probably an entire audience out there in the shadows. He's used to audiences. Usually, though, he's the pleaser. Right now --

"It's amazing, Vincent," he manages, a hoarse, deep whisper. Thrust, thrust, thrust. He only halfway manages to keep moving his own hand in time. "My God."