“Say it again,” Francis demanded, brushing his thumb, then his tongue over the hardened nipple of the youth on his lap.
Matthew shivered. Not that he was cold, despite the fact that somehow the Frenchman had removed most of his clothing, leaving him clad in nothing more than his socks and his unbuttoned collared shirt, but rather the opposite. Heat was pooling in his extremities and on his skin, tingling like comet trails where ever those long fingered hands stroked him.
“Parles-tu,” the Frenchman whispered again, his teeth grazing the Canadian's chest, his hand stroking the already arched spine, making the youth gasp and wiggle deliciously on his lap.
“No,” Matthew managed to get out. “You'll just make fun of me again.”
“Never!” the blond smiled against the man's throat. “But until you do, I'm not going to give you what you want.”
Matthew threw his head back and grabbed at the shoulders in front of him, his fingers digging into the soft velvet of the man's jacket as that magical hand slid lower and lower towards that part of him that ached for touch so badly. However, he bypassed that part of him, sliding instead to Matthew's inner thigh, tracing curlicues on the soft skin.
“You're so mean,” Matthew gasped, tears of frustration coming unbidden to the corners of his eyes.
The Frenchman chuckled softly and removed the youth's glasses, folding them and settling them on the table beside him. “You're the one denying yourself,” he responded. Instead of letting the boy reply though, he kissed the Canadian thoroughly, taking his time to taste every soft ridge inside his mouth as Matthew sagged against him.
Francis pulled away, smiling to himself as Matthew attempted to follow. Instead, he pressed two fingers into the boy's warm mouth. Matthew instinctively grasped the man's wrist, but his eyelids slid closed as Francis slowly slid his fingers in and out over the youth's tongue in an erotic preview of his next move.
His fingers were slick when he finally pulled them from Matthew's mouth. Holding the other man's gaze steadily, he slowly slid the moistened fingers into his own mouth, eliciting a gasp from Matthew. In a way, it seemed oddly intimate, even in light of what they were doing.
Pulling his digits from his own mouth with a wet sound that made Matthew blush even harder, Francis smiled and tightened the grip on Matthew's ass.
“Wait, Francis!” Matthew squeaked, panicking slightly when he felt those slickened fingers nearing their final destination.
Francis just chuckled again and nuzzled the underside of the younger blond's jaw. “Je ne parle pas l'anglais,” he teased, pushing in slowly, enjoying the youth's gasps and the way his hips jerked and his hands tightened his jacket.
“Francis,” Matthew groaned, his body finding the rhythm of the other man's fingers. The heat of those hands had increased to a burning, wanting more, needing more, overriding all his other senses. For that reason, he didn't seem to notice the door opening behind him.
Francis did, however, and his smile deepened as he saw the Alfred and Arthur walk in and stop absolutely dead in their tracks at the sight before them.
“What is it, mon petit?” he crooned, pressing his nose behind his ear and inhaling the smell of the blond's wavy hair.
“Me le donnez,” Matthew replied in a husky whisper wrapping his arms around the older man's neck.
Francis smiled. “Avec plaisir,” he murmured back, shifting the youth forward. Matthew was almost frantic by now, roughly pushing himself against the Frenchman's length.
“Ah, doucement, doucement,” the Frenchman cooed softly into the shell of the younger man's ear, running his lips along the soft cartilage. The youth's pants were heavy, holding the edge of his voice in them, but not outright moans quite yet.
A sharp groan came from both of them as he buried himself to the hilt. Matthew pressed his face into the crook of Francis' neck, attempting to regain his breath and adjust to the intrusion, but Francis lifted his gaze to the stunned on lookers and mouthed a single word.
Mine.
Then he began to move.
The American and the Englishman could only watch in astonishment as the flushed youth writhed and cried, his arms wrapped around Francis' neck, his hands tangled in the Frenchman's long blond hair as he rode the Frenchman recklessly.
Francis took Matthew's chin, tilting his face down so he could take his mouth, never taking his eyes off of the observers. The Canadian returned the kiss eagerly and unschooled, unaware of their audience.
“No, Francis… I…” Matthew panted, breaking his mouth away. “I'm going to… You're going to…” A shudder cut off his words as Francis took one of the youth's nipples into his mouth again.
“En français, mon petit,” he replied tugging at the nub with his teeth.
“Ah! Ah! Mon dieu!” And then he was gone, and the only sounds issuing from his mouth were wordless cries of pleasure.
Francis smiled and tightened his grip on the younger man's hips, pushing himself as deep as he could go, so deep that Matthew would never be able to be free of him, not completely, and let his climax overtake him, moaning into the top of the boy's head.
Matthew collapsed against him, completely spent, his eyes closed, his mouth open and panting. Francis slid his fingers into the wavy blond hair, holding the boy to his chest again, as he did when Matthew was young. He gave a cocky smile to the two shaken blonds still standing stock still at the door before tracing his lips over the gentle curve of the youth's ear softly.
“Vive le Canada libre,” he whispered with a grin.