Page 18 of The Perfect Ingredient
The pressure rises fast.
And then disappears.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, leaving a wet, clenching emptiness that makes my thighs jump. I make a sound, and before it even fades, I feel him pulling my robe from under me and his cock press between my cheeks.
He sinks in slow.
The whole length of him.
I drop my head back against his shoulder and groan, lips parted, jaw slack, every part of me going pliant and helpless around him. The slickness helps, but the fullness is overwhelming. Delicious.Perfect.
“Oh, God! Hessou—”
“I know,” he murmurs, kissing my temple as he bottoms out. “Iknow.”
We stay like that for a breath. The tremble in my thighs, the soft pulse of him twitching inside me, the obscene warmth pooling where our bodies lock. Then he starts to move, each thrust grinding against that spot that makes my toes curl and my spine try to leave my body.
I remember the toast, and with shaking fingers, I bring it to my mouth.
The taste hits just as Hessou thrusts in again.
And I nearly lose my mind.
Theflavorpairs too perfectly with the drag of his cock inside me. I chew slowly, moaning against the crust, nearly choking on the overload.
Hessou fucks me through every bite.
I tilt my head and offer the last one to him blindly, too high to speak.
He takes it from my fingers, his teeth brushing my fingertips, his other hand gripping my thigh now to angle me just right.
The world becomes a rhythm I never want to end.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I can’t—fuck,it’stoo good.”
I fall completely limp against his chest, my mouth falling open on a silent gasp. My body isn’t mine anymore.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up my jaw. “Feel everything. Don’t run from it.”
“I’m not—,” I gasp, the words shattering as he shifts his angle, “—I’mnotrunning— fuck—”
“You wanted totastemadness,” he whispers, his breath a hot brand against my ear.
And then he gives it to me.
For the rest of the morning, and then the rest of the day, we don’t leave the house.
We stay buried in the sheets. In slick skin and shared breath. In the beautiful filth of taste and scent.
By nightfall, I forget what clean feels like.
4 Grams
The kitchen smells of burnt sugar.
It’s the smell of a morning already gone wrong—I scorched the caramel for the second time, and Hessou has taken it as his personal cue to lounge on my counter in a silk robe and nothing else, one ankle hooked over the other, plucking dried rose petals from my garnish tray to chew like candy.
