[ The hand on his hip makes itself noticeable first, like -- not a warning, but as a portent, something that heralds something else. And the something else that follows after, Claude staying as still as he can with his cock half-buried in Jean Louis' mouth, is the other man hollowing his cheeks and sucking on his cock, creating the perfect kind of pressure, wet suction around the head, the shaft, everything vibrating maddeningly.
His breath hitches in his throat, catches somewhere where the air definitely doesn't get all the way to his brain, his mind feeling hazy, thick, throbbing. Like his cock is, currently, getting eaten. An inch up his length and Jean Louis repeats, Claude definitely moaning this time, writhing beneath the other man's hold, forcing himself not to thrust, not to insist. There's a time and a place. This isn't it.
They're going slow, it seems, and it's good, it's great; he writhes a little more, moaning again, helplessly, as Jean Louis makes a rhythm of it, not a pace, there isn't much in the way of slide, but everything else... yes, everything else is there and the rest will come.
That's what Claude believes, generally speaking, too.
Deciding he'd rather just give himself over, relax into what he's given, he eases down on his back completely, reaching up with his other hand and running his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, his hand on his shoulder coming up to caress the side of his neck, feeling the muscles bulge from how the other man's mouth is working. Very hot. He groans and glances down, looking at the spectacle of Jean Louis sucking him off, shoulders broad and his whole upper body bent in over Claude's lap. He can actually see his scar from here, the huge area of broken, torn skin, sewn together in some haphazard-looking way. A smaller scar, much less distinctive matching on his other shoulder. Claude looks at his muscles flexing beneath the skin, he looks at the placement and the rise of scar tissue over his shoulder blades from this angle, eyes half-closed and his breathing ringing in his head... and he gets a chilling feeling.
Suddenly, he remembers where he's heard about Jean Louis Girard before. The Luxembourgish politician, the home invasion robbery, it was a big thing a year ago. No one knew what to believe.
Looking at those scars, Claude understands why. What he also understands is that Jean Louis is showing him something extremely vulnerable, trusting him not to -- trusting him, period. Trusting him.
His hips buck a little, a little too hard probably up against Jean Louis' mouth, when Claude realizes that he trusts him right back. His hands keep soothingly stroking the other man's hair, his neck, the side of it where the pulse pounds away. He can't believe how turned on he is right now, when he gets a feeling that he should wonder, worry, maybe.
And yet, he's unafraid and he's here. Muttering under his breath, he forces himself completely still, letting Jean Louis hold him, letting himself be held. ]
Sorry, sorry, I -- [ His abdominal muscles work, tightening regularly as he fights his urge to push upwards. ] -- it's so good, don't stop, don't even think about it, don't --
[ When it comes down to it, you can insist any day, anytime, it all depends on what you're insisting on. ]
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His breath hitches in his throat, catches somewhere where the air definitely doesn't get all the way to his brain, his mind feeling hazy, thick, throbbing. Like his cock is, currently, getting eaten. An inch up his length and Jean Louis repeats, Claude definitely moaning this time, writhing beneath the other man's hold, forcing himself not to thrust, not to insist. There's a time and a place. This isn't it.
They're going slow, it seems, and it's good, it's great; he writhes a little more, moaning again, helplessly, as Jean Louis makes a rhythm of it, not a pace, there isn't much in the way of slide, but everything else... yes, everything else is there and the rest will come.
That's what Claude believes, generally speaking, too.
Deciding he'd rather just give himself over, relax into what he's given, he eases down on his back completely, reaching up with his other hand and running his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, his hand on his shoulder coming up to caress the side of his neck, feeling the muscles bulge from how the other man's mouth is working. Very hot. He groans and glances down, looking at the spectacle of Jean Louis sucking him off, shoulders broad and his whole upper body bent in over Claude's lap. He can actually see his scar from here, the huge area of broken, torn skin, sewn together in some haphazard-looking way. A smaller scar, much less distinctive matching on his other shoulder. Claude looks at his muscles flexing beneath the skin, he looks at the placement and the rise of scar tissue over his shoulder blades from this angle, eyes half-closed and his breathing ringing in his head... and he gets a chilling feeling.
Suddenly, he remembers where he's heard about Jean Louis Girard before. The Luxembourgish politician, the home invasion robbery, it was a big thing a year ago. No one knew what to believe.
Looking at those scars, Claude understands why. What he also understands is that Jean Louis is showing him something extremely vulnerable, trusting him not to -- trusting him, period. Trusting him.
His hips buck a little, a little too hard probably up against Jean Louis' mouth, when Claude realizes that he trusts him right back. His hands keep soothingly stroking the other man's hair, his neck, the side of it where the pulse pounds away. He can't believe how turned on he is right now, when he gets a feeling that he should wonder, worry, maybe.
And yet, he's unafraid and he's here. Muttering under his breath, he forces himself completely still, letting Jean Louis hold him, letting himself be held. ]
Sorry, sorry, I -- [ His abdominal muscles work, tightening regularly as he fights his urge to push upwards. ] -- it's so good, don't stop, don't even think about it, don't --
[ When it comes down to it, you can insist any day, anytime, it all depends on what you're insisting on. ]