His breathing grows progressively more irregular as Claude thrusts upwards into his hand, his own palm busy handling Vincent’s arousal with as much grace as you’d rightfully expect. All the same, it feels as if the other man has lit a match to his entire system, his cock straining in his trousers now and his blood rushing through his veins, shrouding up any last remains of rational thought. God. God. Turning his touch into a grip, he strokes Claude through his trousers, following the movements of his hips. The stimulation of Claude’s hand isn’t enough by any means and that’s good – that’s fortunate, in fact, because all he wants to focus on right now is making him as happy as humanely possible. Happy and sated.

In the back of his mind, he keeps revisiting the same scenario – the two of them on Claude’s sheepskins, the warmth of the fire and the taste of cock on the back of his tongue. Brow furrowing, he pushes his other hand downwards, fumbling around for the buttons on the other man’s trousers. Whether or not this is the time for it (and really, his mind doesn’t truly want to deliberate propriety, not with Claude’s cock pressing into his palm), surely the only logical step is forward and he can’t think of any other way than to flick each button free, one at a time, feeling the fabric loosen in turn.

“I’m sorry – I… if you think we shouldn’t…” He’s speaking against Claude’s lips, words as ragged as his breathing. But despite his words, his hands aren’t even pausing, movements bordering on frantic. If Claude doesn’t stop him, in a short moment at best he’ll be slipping that gorgeous cock free from its confinements and it’s been so long, it’s been weeks and weeks and weeks…