Page 25 of The Perfect Ingredient
I lean forward, brushing my lips against Jean’s shoulder blade.
“Is it too much?” I ask, brushing a hand down his spine. “Say so and we stop. But you’re doing beautifully.”
Jean just shakes his head, face buried in the crook of his elbow.
“I-it’s not bad,” he murmurs. “It’s just…”
His explanation shatters into a shudder as Hessou slides his fingers out, letting the thick cream slip down his inner thighs.
“Your body wants to come again already, doesn’t it?” I ask, pressing my cheek to the curve of his back, before kissing the soft skin of his ass. “So greedy.”
He makes a small sound.
“I want to try something,” I say, moving to the sideboard.
There’s a shallow bowl of berries I picked up this morning in the market—late summer fruit, plump and colorful: raspberries, blackberries, currants.
I hold a raspberry between my fingers and show it to Hessou.
“What do you think?”
He smiles slowly.
“Juicy.”
I press the raspberry to Jean’s hole and let it rest there, watching how beautifully red it looks against his skin, held in place by the clench of his muscle, before I gently push it inside. His hole is already soft, open from all the cream, and the berry slips inside with a slight squelch.
Jean moans, shifting his legs, breath stuttering.
I press another, watching it disappear past the pink swell. Then a third.
Hessou’s hand covers mine.
“Let me.”
He takes a blueberry and presses it against Jean’s hole with his thumb, guiding it deeper.
Jean’s breath quickens, but he doesn’t stop us.
One more raspberry. A blackberry, firmer than the rest.
Each one slides in with its own particular resistance, the juice bursting and mingling with the cream and salt already inside him. It’s gorgeous, filthy and excessive.
I lick my fingers. The taste is already changing.
“He’s turning into dessert.”
“I want to taste what we’ve made.”
Jean lets out a choked sound, hips rocking backward instinctively. He’s still holding the bag over his cock, both to keep it from spilling and perhaps to keep himself from touching—though he’s clearly struggling.
Hessou is the first to try.
I watch him lower his face, spreading Jean’s cheeks open with both hands. The sight from his angle must be obscene—cream-slicked skin flushed and stretched, the rim swollen from everything we worked into it, the fruit nestled just inside.
He breathes him in like perfume.
Then his tongue flicks out.
