Though Claude’s voice is little but a whisper, it carries across the mostly figurative distance between their bodies quite unmistakably. Though it’s odd to think of himself as a lover – after all, he’s been cradling little beyond his own sheets for so many years – he’s nevertheless come to realise something about his own character when it comes to sex. A very general observation, even. He’s never been a cruel person by any means and in bed, this becomes all the more obvious for how teasing simply doesn’t appeal to him. He’s no wish to keep Claude hanging by the tips of his fingers (not even counting the way he’s more or less pulling out his hair at the moment), no need to drag him along, to withhold or overwhelm.

Thus, he doesn’t waste many minutes keeping the other man on the edge. God knows he wouldn’t mind just staying here with his throat blocked out, with the scent and taste of the other man melting through his system. He’s getting all that he’s been missing for the past many weeks and more, his own cock positively soaking his breeches. How selfish would it be, then, to take and take without any thought to Claude’s desperate breathing, his plea for more, constricted only by their circumstances?

Relaxing his body and muscles once more, Vincent pulls back very slightly, then dives back in. Repeat. Repeat, until there’s a semblance of rhythm to it, a sense of in and out. The table and Claude’s hands aren’t leaving him room for too much but really, it’s blatantly obvious, isn’t it? That ‘too much’ isn’t needed anyway and isn’t that just a wonderful thought?