[Claude's just a comfortable person through and through, that much is obvious, for he doesn't attempt to take any liberties and doesn't really try to run the show in any other aspect, either. A rare thing concerning most men, which is probably why Jean Louis never sleeps with anyone but Marcel, whom he trusts with every fiber of his being. Women are different; though modern times call for women to take charge, be leaders, be masculine - such a shame and completely unnecessary - the ones he usually sleeps with love the feel of giving in. And ultimately, it's hard to feel truly challenged by a them. For all their strengths and positives, they're physically just weaker.
Claude, on the other hand, is a ballet dancer and whilst some would probably scoff at the idea of a ballet dancer possessing any kind of male authority, he can feel the hardness of Claude's upper arm as he runs his hand upwards towards his shoulder. Marcel's a monster, obviously, and no body truly compares, but this man's definitely no weakling. The thought's good, makes him feel right at home.
Inhaling slowly, languidly, he pushes his tongue between Claude's ready lips, this time a bit insistently, seeing as the man's practically asking him for it. The warm, wet slide of their tongues and the softness of Claude's lips is a powerful cocktail, a flare of heat rushing over his skin. Hand tightening against Claude's shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to avoid their noses clacking together, feeling suddenly rather intent on more.]
[ The balance that Jean Louis strikes is oddly comfortable, through and through. He takes charge in a very assertive fashion that one might think fits with the general view of male politicians. Even so, Claude likes it, he likes the feeling of the other man's hand against his upper arm, on his shoulder, he likes how he uses his tongue (definitely orally inclined, the thought makes his breath catch in his throat) and how he tilts his head slightly to the side to avoid a nose collision, all of it holds a great degree of sensuality and Claude finds it attractive, he really does. The old-fashioned romantic feel of it. Responding to the kiss, letting his tongue run up along the underside of Jean Louis', twirling around the tip of it, he finally allows himself to reach out, deciding that if Jean Louis would prefer him not to, maybe they shouldn't be doing this at all and he's sure the man knows how to say stop. So he reaches up with his right hand, lets it run over upper arm and shoulder, follow the line of neck (Jean Louis' is strong), the trail of his jaw to his hair, where he runs his fingers lightly through, mostly to have a feel first - of the texture, the coarseness, the strength. Everything about Jean Louis seems to scream strength.
Strength of character, strength of convictions.
The other comes to a rest on Jean Louis' leg, closer to thigh than knee. He isn't being presumptuous, he doesn't run his hand all the way up, but he lets it grace the transition between the two stages, demure and forward. Drawing back from the kiss, gasping for breath, he meets the other man's eyes. ]
[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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Claude, on the other hand, is a ballet dancer and whilst some would probably scoff at the idea of a ballet dancer possessing any kind of male authority, he can feel the hardness of Claude's upper arm as he runs his hand upwards towards his shoulder. Marcel's a monster, obviously, and no body truly compares, but this man's definitely no weakling. The thought's good, makes him feel right at home.
Inhaling slowly, languidly, he pushes his tongue between Claude's ready lips, this time a bit insistently, seeing as the man's practically asking him for it. The warm, wet slide of their tongues and the softness of Claude's lips is a powerful cocktail, a flare of heat rushing over his skin. Hand tightening against Claude's shoulder, he tilts his head slightly to avoid their noses clacking together, feeling suddenly rather intent on more.]
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Strength of character, strength of convictions.
The other comes to a rest on Jean Louis' leg, closer to thigh than knee. He isn't being presumptuous, he doesn't run his hand all the way up, but he lets it grace the transition between the two stages, demure and forward. Drawing back from the kiss, gasping for breath, he meets the other man's eyes. ]
no subject
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.]