He doesn’t answer, favouring Claude with a thoroughly lewd smile instead. What’s there to say, really? He’s all about making it as hard as fucking possible. Especially with Claude being all passive and receptive like this; it’s funny, really, how personality’s so multi-layered and, at times, self-contradictory. Like Claude, now, with his raw and rather undiluted masculinity, loving roses and a touch of softness just as much, if not more than harsh and unapologetic sex in the heat of a moment. Vincent knows him too, of course. Knows him well.

Pushing the shirt down Claude’s shoulders, he slides his palms down his overarms very slowly. Deliberately so. Enjoys the broadness of his built, the slight contour of muscle beneath his skin. Vincent's got no preference for highly-muscular studs (ew, actually); he just really enjoys the feel of man, so fucking sue him. Emphasis on "likes". Leaving the shirt swaying lightly by his elbows – the man can stretch out his arms himself, presumably – he looks him up and down slowly. Again, because why the fuck not. His flat chest, covered lightly in coarse curls; his stomach and the trail of darker hair, leading downwards. To the best stuff. Shit, he’s got an attractive husband. Actually, just right now… just this second… he kind of wants… yeah.

Reaching out, he places his palm flatly over Claude’s chest, rubbing against one nipple slowly, his touch going from light to assertive within seconds. With his other, he unbuttons his trousers and slips his hand down, cupping his hardening cock through his briefs. Quickly, effortlessly, keeping them still for the time being – and in movement, simultaneously, the way sex is always just a matter of pace.