Claude stares up into Jean Louis' face, eyes following the strong rise of his nose and finding, for a moment, that there's a hint of red to the other man's skin, though it's honestly hard to tell. His complexion doesn't make him go bright red like Claude's does; that is, if he's actually getting flustered at all right now. Everyone does sometimes, however. Evidently, Monsieur Girard is just a bit more fortunate in regards to hiding the telltale signs. As such, Claude doesn't comment on it, not just in case his eyes are deceiving him, but because pointing out each other's nerves is neither very sexy or very fair, shivering slightly in the wake of Jean Louis fingering his nipple some more, his whole upperbody feeling wrought tight and tingling.
Whatever gives when Jean Louis sighs, and for whatever reason he's sighing in the first place, all Claude focuses on is how he lets go without stepping out of touching distance, he's not taking away Claude's ability to react, to physically respond, when he finally pulls the shirt over his head, seemingly having to fight his shoulder at a particular angle which Claude finds curious. Another mystery, along with his name, right?
After that, he forgets himself. Although their builds are pretty similar, Jean Louis' and his, Claude finds that they've tended to their bodies extremely differently. Jean Louis looks like he works out in at least a number of ways, all major muscle groups from his thighs to his pecs shaped for some kind of usability. It's the best description Claude can come up with and it doesn't sound as attractive as it really is, but it fits the man. The man who cares about convenience and value in a completely different way from him. Of course his body would look like this, toned, mastered, controlled. Claude feels want pool deep in his abdomen, waiting for Jean Louis to step up to him again, feeling himself be touched, shoulders, arms, neck, head, curve of it. In turn, he himself welcomes the other man with open hands, widely spread fingers, palms connecting with midriff, further up, chest, further up, shoulder. He's mapping out every inch of him he can reach, noticing scarring here and there, like Jean Louis has been in some unfortunate circumstances at several points in his life.
You know, Claude wouldn't be surprised.
His skin is warm, heated, hot and Claude swallows hard, looking up at Jean Louis whose hair is everywhere and he wants to touch it, but he doesn't want to stop tracing his ribs (scarring there) or feel the fine hair of the strip running from his navel and beneath the hem of his trousers. Claude's mouth waters, automatically. No, he doesn't wanna not reach up and rub his thumb over the other man's right nipple, quickly withdrawing to suck his thumb well and good before returning, circling it, finger wet and sticky from spit.
Wanting everything always leaves you with the question of where to begin. One more reason greed is problematic.
Does he care at the moment? Not at all.
When he catches Jean Louis' eyes, he notices it. He notices it and he realises he might have forgotten himself, but he's definitely forgotten the other man in the process. He's more than body. He's valuable in a non-physical, uncountable way.
And he wants him to know. So, Claude smiles, leaning up on the balls of his feet to press their foreheads together. There, he mutters, ]
I'd really fucking love to eat you. Non-cannibalistically.
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Claude stares up into Jean Louis' face, eyes following the strong rise of his nose and finding, for a moment, that there's a hint of red to the other man's skin, though it's honestly hard to tell. His complexion doesn't make him go bright red like Claude's does; that is, if he's actually getting flustered at all right now. Everyone does sometimes, however. Evidently, Monsieur Girard is just a bit more fortunate in regards to hiding the telltale signs. As such, Claude doesn't comment on it, not just in case his eyes are deceiving him, but because pointing out each other's nerves is neither very sexy or very fair, shivering slightly in the wake of Jean Louis fingering his nipple some more, his whole upperbody feeling wrought tight and tingling.
Whatever gives when Jean Louis sighs, and for whatever reason he's sighing in the first place, all Claude focuses on is how he lets go without stepping out of touching distance, he's not taking away Claude's ability to react, to physically respond, when he finally pulls the shirt over his head, seemingly having to fight his shoulder at a particular angle which Claude finds curious. Another mystery, along with his name, right?
After that, he forgets himself. Although their builds are pretty similar, Jean Louis' and his, Claude finds that they've tended to their bodies extremely differently. Jean Louis looks like he works out in at least a number of ways, all major muscle groups from his thighs to his pecs shaped for some kind of usability. It's the best description Claude can come up with and it doesn't sound as attractive as it really is, but it fits the man. The man who cares about convenience and value in a completely different way from him. Of course his body would look like this, toned, mastered, controlled. Claude feels want pool deep in his abdomen, waiting for Jean Louis to step up to him again, feeling himself be touched, shoulders, arms, neck, head, curve of it. In turn, he himself welcomes the other man with open hands, widely spread fingers, palms connecting with midriff, further up, chest, further up, shoulder. He's mapping out every inch of him he can reach, noticing scarring here and there, like Jean Louis has been in some unfortunate circumstances at several points in his life.
You know, Claude wouldn't be surprised.
His skin is warm, heated, hot and Claude swallows hard, looking up at Jean Louis whose hair is everywhere and he wants to touch it, but he doesn't want to stop tracing his ribs (scarring there) or feel the fine hair of the strip running from his navel and beneath the hem of his trousers. Claude's mouth waters, automatically. No, he doesn't wanna not reach up and rub his thumb over the other man's right nipple, quickly withdrawing to suck his thumb well and good before returning, circling it, finger wet and sticky from spit.
Wanting everything always leaves you with the question of where to begin. One more reason greed is problematic.
Does he care at the moment? Not at all.
When he catches Jean Louis' eyes, he notices it. He notices it and he realises he might have forgotten himself, but he's definitely forgotten the other man in the process. He's more than body. He's valuable in a non-physical, uncountable way.
And he wants him to know. So, Claude smiles, leaning up on the balls of his feet to press their foreheads together. There, he mutters, ]
I'd really fucking love to eat you. Non-cannibalistically.