[At the first touch of Claude's hand against his upper arm, he pauses very slightly, not enough to be noticeable. It's not that they don't touch each other, Marcel and he, but they definitely don't touch like this - probably because they're long since done exploring. That, and there's something gentle about Claude that's altogether different, about his entire demeanor and it bleeds into how it feels to be touched by him. As Claude's hand travels upwards over his neck and into his hair, Jean Louis simply lets the moment run towards its natural finish. The other man tastes of coffee, of course, and the echoes of all the expensive wine they drank during dinner and the heat of his mouth feels nice, like a promise.
It's very well, however, that Claude draws back right after leaving his hand on his thigh. Though Claude's not pushing any limits or boundaries by doing so, there's still something about it that makes him feel strange. Cold, as if there's a print of ice forming gradually beneath the other man's fingers. Pulling back, he meets Claude's gaze, his own eyes slightly narrowed and his breathing just a bit shaken.]
Well. [His voice is low, even by his standards. Rough, too.] A step in the right direction, don't you think?
[He runs his palm down Claude's arm, fingers curling lightly over the crook of his elbow.]
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It's very well, however, that Claude draws back right after leaving his hand on his thigh. Though Claude's not pushing any limits or boundaries by doing so, there's still something about it that makes him feel strange. Cold, as if there's a print of ice forming gradually beneath the other man's fingers. Pulling back, he meets Claude's gaze, his own eyes slightly narrowed and his breathing just a bit shaken.]
Well. [His voice is low, even by his standards. Rough, too.] A step in the right direction, don't you think?
[He runs his palm down Claude's arm, fingers curling lightly over the crook of his elbow.]