Page 16 of The Perfect Ingredient
And when his hips start to jerk, his breath stuttering, I reach for the porcelain dish and hold it just under him, pulling off with one last wet pop. His cock glistens, twitching, a new pearl of honey-slicked pre-cum already gathering at the slit.
“Come for me in this,” I say, stroking him. “Give me your best.”
He chokes on a moan, one hand fisted in my hair, the other braced white-knuckled against the chair. It doesn’t take long; he was already teetering on the edge from the honey, the mouth, the filthy worship I’d wrapped him in.
Then he comes.
His head drops back, a curse snarling in his throat, his cock jerking in my grip as thick, hot ropes spurt into the porcelain dish. It hits the edge, pooling sticky and white against the smooth ceramic. One drop misses and lands across my knuckles. I lap it off slowly, eyes locked on his.
Hessou pants when I sit back on my heels, holding the warm dish between my hands.
“I’m not going to eat it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want touseit.”
I rise from the floor, legs aching pleasantly, the porcelain dish cupped in my hands like a sacrament, and climb into his lap without a word of warning.
He shifts a little in the wide-backed chair to accommodate the weight of me settling astride him, the press of my thighs caging his. His cock rests soft between my cheeks, but I feel the twitch of interest when I wiggle, the silk of my robe sliding against him. My back finds the slope of his chest, and his arms circle me instantly—one hand low on my waist, the other palming my thigh.
“Sticky,” he murmurs against my neck, nuzzling the skin behind my ear, “and even sweeter.”
I hum, distracted, and tip the dish slightly, watching the still-warm cum shift like cream against the porcelain. I set it down on the table with care, pick up the softened butter—pale yellow and rich, just shy of melting—and scoop a spoonful. Hessou’s chin tucks close to my shoulder, watching in silence as I transfer it into the dish, right over the thick swirl of his cum.
The scent rises immediately.
Salt and musk, warmth and dairy. The beginning of something truly obscene. I breathe it in, nose hovering above the rim. My mouth waters.
I stir slowly, watching the butter fold into the white in lazy spirals, the mixture turning glossier with every turn of the spoon.
Hessou’s cock, still soft seconds ago, begins to swell again—thickening against the curve of my ass.
“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” I tease.
“Watching youmakeit is enough.”
His mouth drags across my shoulder as if the curve of the bone offends him by being untouched. His hand traces my stomach in idle, circling motions, his fingertip trailing up to brush my nipple, stirring it with his thumb in a mirror of my own stirring in the dish.
“Actually,whatare you making,mon amour?”
“A spread,” I say, focusing on the spoon even when his hand goes down to my cock, his thumb playing with the sensitive head this time.
The butter and cum come together slowly, emulsifying with each gentle circle of the spoon into something thick and glossy and profoundly wrong. It clings to the silver like sinfully custard.
I dip a finger in and taste it.
It makes my knees weak.
The richness—the salt, the cream, the faint honey still clinging from before—is obscene. Better than anything I’ve tasted in the past weeks.
I moan, and his fingers tighten around my cock in response.
He chuckles into my neck, kisses it softly.
“You’d put it in a tart shell and serve it to nuns, I bet.”
“I’dburyit in pastry and make them lick it off silver.”
