Oh. That’s… nice. Definitely nice, definitely a move he approves of, even if it’s obviously an attempt to get his mind off whatever’s cooking in the kitchen. Vincent’s thigh rubs up against his crotch, over his cock which is slowly – Claude is 49, after all – beginning to take an unmistakable interest in all the various stimuli thrown his way, hardening gradually as a consequence. His breath hitches in his throat and he draws back from the kiss in order to catch his breath. To tug at Vincent’s hair with a playful sort of impatience, whether it be for food or sex… Right now, at this very moment, he can’t be made to choose.

Their sex life has been great from the beginning. No complaints there. It just so happens that a man can’t live his life in accordance with the needs of his cock alone, not all the time at least and this is one of those times when someone is going to have to persuade him and persuade him good – that a full arse is preferable to a full stomach. Then again, one must never (never) underestimate Vincent’s persuasive skills. Claude already knows they’ll end up somewhere appropriate for fucking and he doesn’t mind. Not really. Not at all.

“You’re behaving like I’m not too starved to fuck right now,” he says anyway. Jokingly. Out of breath and in every way betraying that his body agrees fucking is first priority, always. Around Vincent.