It’s a rhetorical question, obviously, but Claude answers it anyway, once the moan rising in his throat has died out, passing over his lips as a low, growling sound. “Good. God, it feels so good,” he manages, breathing uneven and the words much the same. Hips jerking frantically against Vincent’s hand, pushing forward, into his touch. Against his cock. Slick skin against slick skin. Fuck, they should probably have used a condom, but he honestly can’t find it in him to care right now. The condom can wait. It’ll be more important later, as is. Whatever history Vincent carries with him, and Claude still suspects there’s quite the history to tell, his precome won’t tell the whole of it. So, it isn’t the safest of sex, but neither is it the unsafest. Right now, the happy medium is very happy indeed.

The pressure building in his balls is beginning to feel overwhelming, though. Frottage just won’t cut it anymore, not with the promise of anal at the horizon. Drawing back, away from the stroking of Vincent’s hand, Claude can hear himself panting like an animal in a frenzy. You could say that the hunt’s over now, but there’s still that last distance to go before it’s a kill. It isn’t a problem to him that the pace is slower, because he's fully aware that he isn’t twenty anymore – isn’t a cheetah, but other (slower) predators get their bite of flesh, too.

“You should turn over,” he says, therefore. Simply. Moving off Vincent as swiftly as his stiff cock and even stiffer knees will allow him.