Jon had been afraid that Jean-Claude would take forever given his experience. He is gratified when instead Jean-Claude climaxes with a reasonable application of effort. He's not even fussed about having to swallow— not that he gets a chance, as Jean-Claude scruffs him like a kitten and then kisses him, rubbing his own semen between their twining tongues.

Jon groans lightly in indignant arousal. It had been easy enough to ignore his own need when he was focusing on Jean-Claude. He had never cared for pleasure for its own sake which, combined with the inherent absurd sloppiness of the act, had left him largely indifferent to sex. But the kiss brought Jon back to the insistent physicality of it. His own cock still swollen in the confines of his trousers, sweat-damp cotton clinging to his sensitive skin when he shifts. Jean-Claude's hands on his bare skin would be a relief.

He shudders lightly as Jean-Claude's voice ghosts over his lips, shifting in Jean-Claude's immovable grip and dragging friction against his half-hard cock. Swallowing, Jon reaches up to loosen his tie and the top button of his shirt. Dotted along his throat are a couple more of those pale, round scars and there is a jagged knife scar at the base of his throat. He can't grouse much about the double-sided nature of Jean-Claude's gratitude: they both know what being fed from will do to Jon, and it fills him with a fluttery anticipation, anxious and eager to lose himself to it.

"V-very well," he rasps softly. He tries to clear his throat to sound a bit firmer. "As I said—you can have your fill."