Whatever Vincent said after Claude's breeches finally come undone, Claude doesn't hear. It is a combination of the tablecloth slurring the words and, more prominently, the feeling of Vincent's lips brushing up the underside of his now very bare, very hard cock. He doesn't even attempt breathing normally, although Prudence has entered from the bar area and (fortunately) gotten into conversation with an elderly man who at times plays the fiddle on their music nights. It's torture, how he can feel Vincent so close to his crotch, palms flat where they are resting against his inner thighs, warm through the fabric - but not the heat of his mouth, the wet softness, the suction... Trying to bow his head a little to the side, to keep his voice low and private, he exhales the plea: "Vincent, don't --" A pause as his hips work forward in a helpless thrust against Vincent's face. Claude frowns, reaches beneath the table with one hand to bury his fingers in the hair at the back of Vincent's head, hand taking the brunt of the table's edge. Vincent better thank him, thank him now, too. "Don't dally. I really need --"

Another broken, unfinished sentence, but surely the man will understand the message. Take pity on him. Sweat is beginning to pearl down his temples, over his brow and he dries off the worst with the back of his free hand. The other already tightening something awful in Vincent's hair. Pavel and he did something like this once, didn't they? Here. Not right here, but somewhere around... And yet, it was nothing -- like this. Dear Lord, have mercy.