Oh, fuck. The combination of Claude’s touch against his trousers, the motion of his fingers and his words almost make Vincent want to go back on his word (that moan in particular is just hot). A few more strokes to his cock and he’s pretty sure he’d come all over his good intentions soon, with or without Claude’s assistance. But in any case – this is a date, not a masturbation session. The weight of Claude’s forehead against his shoulder feels good, too, if he must focus on something else. It’s a sweet distraction. Kind of impractical, though, seeing as Vincent’s going on his knees in about ten seconds from now. He slips his hand away a bit reluctantly.

Shifting, he slides down to the floor nimbly (he’s passed forty, that’s some damn incredible flexibility!), leaving it to Claude to find a comfortable position. He considers turning them around for a moment but dismisses the thought – with Claude’s trousers that far down his legs, who knows what sort of mess that might result in. That’s what happens when you have sex with enough partners in enough, different settings and contexts. You just don’t bother with all of the impractical shit. Let it all work itself out. That’s what makes sex such a fucking easy activity.

Like this, he’s on eye-level with the bulge in Claude’s briefs, the outline of his cock clearly visible through the navy-blue fabric. That’s a spectacular view, isn’t it? He’s more than ready to take advantage of it, too. Reaching forward with both hands this time, he works the elastic hem over Claude’s lower body swiftly, pulling the briefs down far enough to let them slide to the floor by force of gravity. Then, without much pause, he takes hold of his cock again, fingers closing firmly around its base.