He’s forty-four years old, he needs a moment to recover, the orgasm lingering like a dull, pleasurable warmth in his body and his breathing only slowing down gradually – though, the sound of it not in any way overriding Vincent’s words. As Vincent rolls off the condom and puts it away only to sit back against the wall with a hard-on visible in his trousers and his face red, Claude raises both eyebrows slightly, looking down at him with a half-smile. Managing to answer, somewhat amused: “I bet you want to know the way to my bedroom right now, Vincent.”

Then, he straightens up and holds a hand out for the other man to take, to help him to his feet. It’s the least he can do as a show of gratitude. He can think of something much better, but he’d really prefer for them to move into bedroom territory first. He appreciates Vincent’s willingness to get on his knees on the unforgiving wooden floors of his apartment, but a quickie up the wall would ruin Claude’s back something terrible. Right now, he’d much rather continue to feel comfortable.

Let the heaviness of his orgasm stay in his system, since he can.