Alarm Clock

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He’s not handsome like this, because Aimé is rarely ever handsome, but Jean-Pierre adores to look on him nonetheless, loves these moments where he comes in after Aimé’s been painting and drinking wine by the bottle, and he is able to find him fast asleep, snoring quietly.

Jean-Pierre undresses himself, drops the jumper of Aimé’s he’d been wearing onto the pile with the rest of his clothes, and then he slides forward.

Aimé had stripped naked to crawl into bed — last night it had been hot and humid, and sweat glistens on his skin, clings to the hair on his chest and on his belly, and now Jean-Pierre clings to him too, comes to straddle him. Aimé doesn’t stop snoring, his eyes staying heavily lidded as Jean-Pierre sets his hands on the swell of Aimé’s tits on each sides, brushing over his nipples with each thumb.

Aimé groans in his sleep, his head tilting to the side, and Jean-Pierre reaches down between his legs for Aimé’s cock and finds it half-hard already. He grips at it, squeezes and pulls, and Aimé’s moan is lower now, comes from deeper in his heavy breast as Jean works him carefully and gently to hardness before he sinks down atop him.

Aimé’s eyelids flutter, his snore abortive and stopping midway through, but he doesn’t stir properly just yet, his fingers twitching. Jean-Pierre sighs at the wonderful weight of Aimé’s prick inside him, at the wonderful sink of it into his cunt, at the wonderful heat of Aimé’s body beneath his.

“Wonderful,” Jean-Pierre voices the thought, and leans forward, rests his chest against Aimé’s, his muscle meeting the softer meat of Aimé’s broader, hairier chest, and then he lays his mouth over Aimé’s and kisses him, tastes the red wine that still clings to his lips. “Aimé,” he whispers in soft tones, and as he begins to grind himself down into Aimé’s lap, feeling the other man’s cock within him, feel it sink into him again and again, Aimé groans, grunts. “Aimé, are you awake?”

“Mm,” Aimé hums, his eyes fluttering open — as Jean-Pierre tugs Aimé’s hands up by the wrists to rest on his waist. At first, his hands just rest sleepily against his middle before he wakes up a bit more, and he grips at him. “Jean?”

Jean-Pierre sits down on him, takes Aimé to the root, and Aimé moans, looking up at him.

“How the fuck am I going to go back to having an alarm clock when you go back to work?” Aimé asks, his voice hoarse from sleep, and Jean-Pierre laughs.

“Worry about that later, Aimé,” Jean-Pierre advises him. “Worry about me for now.”

And he pulls Aimé’s hand to his cock.