Page 17 of The Perfect Ingredient
He kisses my jaw then, teeth scraping affectionately as his hand finally starts to move again. The barest motion, enough to send sparks shooting up my spine. I lean back into him.
“You’re leaking again,” he murmurs, thumb smearing a drop of pre-cum across the tip. “My messy little thing.”
His fingers spread the slick, smearing it lazily as I gasp and jerk into his palm. He licks behind my ear, biting the shell right after.
“I haven’t eventastedbreakfast,” I murmur, breathless, my stirring faltering.
“You’re holding it in your hand.”
“Stoptouchingmefor a second,” I say with a soft laugh, my eyes fluttering shut. “God, you’re always touching.”
“You never mind,” he murmurs against my neck. “You melt when I touch you. You already are.”
“So is the butter. Now stop before you ruin it.”
He chuckles and stops his hand, but doesn’t let go.
I reach for a toast that is still warm from the covered tray, crust golden and perfect. I spread the mixture across it in thick swipes, the knife dragging through the creamy paste that smells of sex and sweetness and every decadence I wish to drown in. I bite into it, a moan vibrating in my throat, my eyes fluttering shut.
He kisses my neck again.
“Good?”
“I think I just came in my mouth.”
I swallow slowly, holding the toast but not bothering with another bite. The first was enough to unravel me completely. Some people would call itvile,but it’s not. It’s euphoric. Intimate. It’s him—his desire for me, and my desire for him.
Behind me, Hessou is still hardening.
I feel his cock swelling between my thighs, warm and as inevitable as the hunger coiling in my gut. His hand slides higher, leaving a faint trail of wetness across my skin as he moves from teasing to intent. When he reaches for the dish, I don’t stop him.
He dips two fingers in with a slow curl, coating them fully in the mixture we just made. I shiver at the sight, the scent, theknowledge that something I just created is about to be inside me in an entirely different way.
I twist in his lap, my back still pressed to his chest, and let my legs fall open. He kisses the side of my neck, then my cheek, then my jaw. His breath is unhurried, but his cock twitches against me again.
“Let’s see how it feels,” he says, his voice warm, rough and familiar. “You already know how good it tastes.”
I nod, biting my lower lip as his hand moves down again, slick fingers trailing past my testicles, finding where I’m already aching for him. He rubs slow circles first, and then slips the first finger in.
The heat and wetness arefilthy, and I moan outright, loud and needy.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hips tilting instinctively to meet the movement.
The second finger, then the third finger join inside, spreading that indecent paste deeper inside me, and I can’t tell if it’s my body or my mind unraveling faster—the softness of the butter, the puredevianceof being filled with something I tasted for breakfast.
“You’re dripping,” he says near my ear, and I don’t know if he means from my cock or from the mess he’s making inside me. Probably both. My robe is open, and the pre-cum has smeared across my belly, his other hand rubbing over, smearing it further, thumb teasing my navel absently while he opens me with the hand that smells like us.
“More,” I whisper, “more,don’t stop—”
He doesn’t.
He pushes his fingers deeper, and keeps them there, pressed inside, warm, thick and coated in what might be the best andfilthiest.
Then his other hand curls around my cock again, and I arch helplessly, caught between the slow building burn and the immediate hunger.
“Filthy little pâtissier,” he whispers, tongue dragging up the shell of my ear. “Will you serve this at your opening?”
“I’ll serveyou,” I choke out, “if you keep— fuck—there!”
