touch me not
It's going to be one of those nights, clearly. "Do stop that, petit."
"Jehan--!" Driven to impatience, he seizes the wayward hand more roughly than he intends.
But Jehan, anything but chastened, rolls over with a breathless laugh of triumph and sprawls atop him, kissing him with abandon. By the time Bossuet gets a breath, Jehan's other hand is locked in his, Jehan's thighs are clasping his waist, and he has lost all interest in sleep.
It is awkward, and oddly thrilling, without hands free to guide and fingers to probe and caress. Pleasure is painted in broad strokes; ecstatic cries end half the time in snickers as someone's elbow or someone's cock gets comically misplaced.
"God, chéri--" he gasps at one point, half overcome by teasing kisses. "You're going to kill me."
"Let me go then."
But this is all too absurdly delightful, and in any case he's not sure he remembers how to move his fingers. "Shan't," he says, and Jehan laughs again and melts against him.
In the end they're clinging together, heedless of the creaking bed, entwined improbably in an effort to touch everywhere at once. When desire overflows at last, leaving them dazed and boneless, it turns out to be too much trouble to disentangle. Bossuet falls asleep with Jehan's sigh of satisfaction in his ears.