If you think we shouldn't, Vincent mumbles, words sinking into each other in a perfect reflection of how Claude is well on his way to sinking far, far, far beneath the surface of his common sense. His best intentions. Vincent's fingers are nimble and work fast, work precisely and with every button flicked open, his cock gains a little more ground for itself. Freedom. Claude could stop him, he knows. Tell him that they're being improper and that Nicolas would throw them out on their arses, if he found them actually... But surely, Ganymède has seen worse than Vincent's hand granting him his rightful climax. Didn't he see Strauss run through here naked once? ... It doesn't matter. Nicolas is lenient, as a rule. Is good at overlooking what he doesn't need to see. It's fine. It's fine. It's good, so good.

"Don't stop," Claude manages to whisper, through gritted teeth as he lifts himself up enough to help the process along. No, he doesn't want Vincent to stop, but they need to be fast about it, if not necessarily, exactly discreet. The gentlemen in the corner sure have noticed already. He breathes in, breathes out. Smiles faintly, head dipped back and gaze on the ceiling, all muscles straining from the back of his neck to his inner thighs. "Can you feel how much I've missed you?"