[ The mood warms gradually as Claude looks back at him in turn, his roaming gaze making his skin feel heated, like a slap of electric current. The familiar sensation of being watched. Before he entered politics, he'd hated the feeling of people looking at him too closely; somehow, it triggered a habitual watchfulness and it still does today, though in a different, less difficult manner. With a half-smile, he steps out of his trousers fully, folding them before putting them away on the nearby office chair. Unlike Claude, he's wearing boxers and while they wouldn't really hide much of anything if he'd been truly aroused, they're mostly just folds and shadows still, his body warming up slowly. Slower, he notes, by... comparison.
Thank God it's always been like this, regardless of time or place or, even, partner. If not, he'd certainly feel old by now.
Toeing out of his socks and leaving them on the floor somewhat negligently, he takes a moment - just a moment - to register that Claude's half-hard cock matches up perfectly with the rest of him, a matter of volume without even a hint of outright vulgarity. It's almost ridiculous, isn't it, for someone to be so perfectly, unquestionably consistent. With Claude (unlike himself, come now, he knows how it is), it doesn't even stop at the physical attributes. It's in the way he looks at you throughout a conversation, too, how he seems so ready to absorb without giving away his integrity, a work in progress as it's bound to be for a man in his mid-twenties. It's a pleasant combination. Peaceful.
Dropping his boxers, he stretches up. Eyes Claude calmly, unhurried, before unfastening his rolex watch, the only thing still left on his body. He loosens the strap and pulls the silver off his wrist. There's something about dropping the watch, leaving his small but completely, utterly, significant tattoo visible, that makes him feel more naked than before. Last time he did this, chose to... be with a man who wasn't Marcel... that had been a disaster, hadn't it? But looking at Claude now, the younger man at least to some degree out of his element, knowing what he knows about him already...
It's different, this time. He knows, as his body knows, arousal rising slowly without even a trace of apprehensiveness. He holds out a hand, palm open. A suggestion. ]
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Thank God it's always been like this, regardless of time or place or, even, partner. If not, he'd certainly feel old by now.
Toeing out of his socks and leaving them on the floor somewhat negligently, he takes a moment - just a moment - to register that Claude's half-hard cock matches up perfectly with the rest of him, a matter of volume without even a hint of outright vulgarity. It's almost ridiculous, isn't it, for someone to be so perfectly, unquestionably consistent. With Claude (unlike himself, come now, he knows how it is), it doesn't even stop at the physical attributes. It's in the way he looks at you throughout a conversation, too, how he seems so ready to absorb without giving away his integrity, a work in progress as it's bound to be for a man in his mid-twenties. It's a pleasant combination. Peaceful.
Dropping his boxers, he stretches up. Eyes Claude calmly, unhurried, before unfastening his rolex watch, the only thing still left on his body. He loosens the strap and pulls the silver off his wrist. There's something about dropping the watch, leaving his small but completely, utterly, significant tattoo visible, that makes him feel more naked than before. Last time he did this, chose to... be with a man who wasn't Marcel... that had been a disaster, hadn't it? But looking at Claude now, the younger man at least to some degree out of his element, knowing what he knows about him already...
It's different, this time. He knows, as his body knows, arousal rising slowly without even a trace of apprehensiveness. He holds out a hand, palm open. A suggestion. ]
Come here, please.