Page 36 of The Perfect Ingredient
Jean still hasn’t opened his mouth.
So I press my fingers to his lips.
“Open.”
He does.
I slide the oyster into his mouth, my fingertips grazing his tongue. He closes around them instinctively, lips wrapping the way he’s been taught, so warm andsopliant, sucking my fingers clean.
My cock gives a hard, interested twitch.
Hessou leans in quickly, fingers brushing his jaw.
“Don’t swallow yet.”
Jean freezes, obedient, my fingers still resting on his tongue.
Hessou reaches across the table for the small silver dish of sauce. Then, with the same elegant fingers he uses to tie a cravat or guide a cock into a waiting mouth, he dips two fingertips into the sauce, breaking every rule of etiquette he usually embodies. I snort, thinking about calling out the hypocrisy, but my cock is more interested in watching what he’s planning to do.
I pull my fingers from Jean’s mouth, and Hessou replaces them with his own. I watch as Jean’s lips close around Hessou’s knuckles with a quiet sound.
Hessou hums in approval.
“There we go,” he says, eyes fixed on Jean’s lips as he pulls his fingers out. He drags them across Jean’s bottom lip, over his philtrum, to the corner where his mouth tenses to hold back a moan. “Bite it this time. Before you swallow.”
Jean obeys.
His jaw works gently as he bites down on the oyster, savoring it now—mouth messy, breath uneven. I watch the tension build in his thighs, the way his hips shift subtly under the table, needing friction he won’t ask for.
He swallows. Gasps.
And then he just sits there, mouth parted, lips sticky with oyster brine and sauce, trembling slightly. He looks thoroughly debauched. As if he’s already been fucked senseless, though we’ve barely begun.
Hessou cups Jean’s face in both hands, thumbing his cheeks, tilting his head back a little to examine the ruin he’s made. Then he leans in and licks slowly across Jean’s bottom lip.
“I’d say we should stop,” he murmurs against Jean’s mouth, “but I want to see how red you can get.”
Jean’s eyes flutter down, lashes trembling. The flush has crept past his collarbones, over the curve of his throat, blooming red up the sides of his neck. His pants are straining visibly, the outline of his cock thick and twitching, the damp spot spreading at the front too dark to ignore.
“You’re hard,” I state. “Again.”
He chokes and grabs his napkin, his grip white-knuckled and pitiful.
“You always are, aren’t you?” Hessou adds, fingers stroking lazily down the column of Jean’s throat, resting there for a moment. “You get hard so easily. So good for us.”
Jean says nothing, but his thighs flex under my palm. I slide my hand up, thumb pressing into the soft inner muscle of his leg, watching him squirm just slightly in the seat.
I pull the oyster tray closer, and take another one.
“This one’s different. You’ll like it.”
I lean forward and slurp the oyster into my mouth, feeling it briny, cold, soft and obscene. I turn to Jean, grab his chin again, and kiss him.
His eyes go wide.
He swallows the oyster right from my tongue, lips sticky, a small noise leaving his throat. His mouth is hot, and I feel him shudder when I press deeper, our tongues sliding through the briny mess.
I can feel Hessou’s hand moving beneath the table, brushing mine as he works Jean’s pants open. I feel the soft shift of fabric. The faint, rhythmic movement of his wrist. The moment the heat of Jean’s cock escapes into the air and the slick tip grazes theback of my hand. Jean moans, deep in his chest, and I drink it from him.
