[ His briefs get worked off easily, landing somewhere out in the darkness of the rest of the room, there's just the two of them, the bedside lamp and the circle it creates where they exist. The rest is shadow. Claude finds his comfortable position once more, feeling Jean Louis lie back down next to him, propped up on his elbow and leaning in to kiss the back of his head, all his curls, he hopes he smells like sweat and arousal. He hopes the other man can smell all that on him. That it turns him on. His own cock, now lying snugly against his abdomen jerks at the thought, like sympathy of some kind. Empathy, he'd said to Jean Louis that first time they met, seeing how blank it left him looking. He doens't know, politically, maybe, but he knows here, between them.
That's good enough. That's perfect.
Let me know if I'm doing anything wrong, he says and Claude smiles, mutters sure, before the other man trails two lube-slick fingers down from his tailbone to over his asshole, to just below it. Giving him the sensation of that whole -- area existing, very much alive and kicking, apparently. He wants to tell Jean Louis that he can be loud enough, definitely, but then the other man leans down and kisses the back of his neck, applying the whole breadth of his torso to tell him, down and stay, probably, then pushing his whole fucking index finger into him, one long, insistent stretch and Claude's ass giving easily, opening and there's that feeling, of being open again, of being vulnerable, of giving, and he croaks out something before remembering himself, biting his lower lip and feeling the muscles in his thighs tighten, releasing, tighten on repeat while his hips lie still only because he wills them to. Down, right? Down. He stays down, taking it, Jean Louis' finger, feeling receptive and willing against him, against the feel of his knuckles, his hand pressing against his buttocks.
Claude is panting now, pressing his forehead down against his bent arm, everything on him feeling tight and wanting, wanting so much. More. More.
There's a brief moment where he remembers his first time with Rainier, like this, too, fingers in his ass, scissoring him open, then it's gone and it doesn't matter. What he liked then and what he likes now -- well, they're two different Claudes with different preferences. He wanted Rainier once and then he stopped wanting him. Now he wants Jean Louis and that hasn't stopped. That's what he knows. That, and the feeling of being full, of being open to him.
His voice sounds hoarse and a little bit lighter with air than usually when he speaks, turning his head and looking sideways at Jean Louis. ]
Fuck, I'd forgotten that feeling of opening up to -- [ Pant, pant. ] -- someone else. [ Forehead back to pressing against his arm. He forces himself to relax, his asshole tangibly loosening, then tightening slightly again, then loosening, opening up. ] God, you feel good.
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That's good enough. That's perfect.
Let me know if I'm doing anything wrong, he says and Claude smiles, mutters sure, before the other man trails two lube-slick fingers down from his tailbone to over his asshole, to just below it. Giving him the sensation of that whole -- area existing, very much alive and kicking, apparently. He wants to tell Jean Louis that he can be loud enough, definitely, but then the other man leans down and kisses the back of his neck, applying the whole breadth of his torso to tell him, down and stay, probably, then pushing his whole fucking index finger into him, one long, insistent stretch and Claude's ass giving easily, opening and there's that feeling, of being open again, of being vulnerable, of giving, and he croaks out something before remembering himself, biting his lower lip and feeling the muscles in his thighs tighten, releasing, tighten on repeat while his hips lie still only because he wills them to. Down, right? Down. He stays down, taking it, Jean Louis' finger, feeling receptive and willing against him, against the feel of his knuckles, his hand pressing against his buttocks.
Claude is panting now, pressing his forehead down against his bent arm, everything on him feeling tight and wanting, wanting so much. More. More.
There's a brief moment where he remembers his first time with Rainier, like this, too, fingers in his ass, scissoring him open, then it's gone and it doesn't matter. What he liked then and what he likes now -- well, they're two different Claudes with different preferences. He wanted Rainier once and then he stopped wanting him. Now he wants Jean Louis and that hasn't stopped. That's what he knows. That, and the feeling of being full, of being open to him.
His voice sounds hoarse and a little bit lighter with air than usually when he speaks, turning his head and looking sideways at Jean Louis. ]
Fuck, I'd forgotten that feeling of opening up to -- [ Pant, pant. ] -- someone else. [ Forehead back to pressing against his arm. He forces himself to relax, his asshole tangibly loosening, then tightening slightly again, then loosening, opening up. ] God, you feel good.