Page 37 of The Perfect Ingredient
By the time we pull apart, our breathing is ragged. Jean’s face is wet and flushed, eyes glassy. My lips are tingling.
“See? Better like this.” I murmur against his cheek. “But it would taste even better with your cum all over it.”
“The only proper garnish,” Hessou says, watching us through half-lidded eyes. He then leans in and kisses Jean too, his mouth sweeping over what’s left of mine, tasting it from Jean’s tongue.
His fingers stroke Jean beneath the table, and this time I watch the way his hand is wrapped around Jean’s thick, throbbing cock. It looks massive in his fist, already leaking so much that Hessou’s palm glistens with it. Jean’s hips give a tiny, involuntary lift, fucking into the circle of Hessou’s fist, and a choked-off sound catches in his throat. He’s beautiful like this. Shameless and pulsing with need.
The tablecloth hides most of it, but if any waiter came here now, they would be able to see it too.
I wonder if they would like the sight.
Jean gasps into Hessou’s mouth while they kiss, hips jerking when I reach down, my hand joining Hessou’s, sliding along the wet length.
“So shy,” Hessou says as they part, licking again at Jean’s kiss-bitten mouth. “But not saying no.”
Jean tries to shake his head, but his neck just arches back instead, exposing the line of his throat. His hips rock helplessly between our hands, searching for rhythm.
“Because I… Ilikeit,” he whispers.
“What wasthat? Say it again,” I tease, biting the shell of his ear.
“Ilikeit,” he groans louder, eyes squeezed shut, face tipped toward the ceiling.
The velvet curtain shifts slightly in the breeze from the open door to the main dining room. But no one comes.
OnlyJean.
The oysters become delicious.
7 Grams
We didn’t stop at the oysters.
The afternoon became golden in the gluttonous, bourgeois way only Lyon can afford. From silken cravats to imported leather shoes, we dragged Jean through every damn shop that dared open its doors to us.
He didn’t say much, but he touched things. Let his fingers trail over lapels and spines of books he didn’t know anything about. I liked watching him look.
We bought everything.
Scarves. Cigarette cases. A ridiculous enamel cufflink set shaped like miniature grapes. We filled bags with things Jean couldn’t pronounce. I ordered cigars we wouldn’t smoke. Hessou bought two bottles of absinthe from a man with a glass eye.
Now the night comes down around us with a honeyed quiet that only happens after too much money has been spent. The motorcar pulls into Hessou’s private driveway, the chauffeur paid too well to comment on three men stumbling through the door like lust-drunk dogs.
The moment the door closes, Jean kisses me—clumsy, hot, hungry—and I push him against the wall. Hessou laughs, hands already at his own shirt, and says, “Well, I suppose we’re skipping dinner.”
We don’t make it to bed. Jean drops to his knees like he’s been doing this for years. He hasn’t, of course. He’s still awkward. Still messy. Still the boy who ran away after coming inside my mouth.
But now his mouth is desperate while mouthing over the hardness in my pants. Now he moans while doing that, licking and making a wet mess. Now he looks up like I hung the moon and offered it to him to lick the sugar off it.
Hessou mouths at my neck from behind, one hand stroking Jean’s thick hair, the other unfastening my pants.
“Greedy little thing,” Hessou says. “I can’t believe he used to flinch when I looked at him.”
Jean groans, mouth full of me now.
We fall apart and come back together a dozen times—in the hallway, in the living room, tangled in silken sheets with teeth marks blooming down our hips. At one point, I sit on the cold tile of the bathroom while Hessou feeds Jean bits of ripe fig dipped in liquor, and I jerk off just watching their mouths.
We don’t sleep until the horizon bleeds pale blue.
