Page 33 of The Perfect Ingredient
“Feed youuntil you moan.”
Jean’s entire face blooms a helpless crimson.
He’ll get fed, certainly. Just not the way he expects.
6 grams
Jean stands barefoot on a low wooden platform, shirtless, his arms held out. The light linen pants sit low on his hips, clinging only where the body beneath it demands to be seen.
The tailor—a man of sharp cheekbones, increasingly nervous fingers, and a complexion turning pinker by the minute—orbits around him like a very flustered moon. The measuring tape snakes across Jean’s bare chest and ribs, trembling just enough to betray how much he’s trying not to react to the expanse of golden skin stretched over muscle. His hands hesitate at Jean’s pectorals, fingers fluttering slightly before forcing themselves to work. I don’t blame him. Jean’s body does that to people. He’s beautiful in a way that feels mythic—a farm-boy Apollo pulled from the field and kissed by the sun, with a kind of unstudied beauty that makes everything else look too designed.
Hessou lounges beside me on the green velvet settee, legs crossed, his cane balanced across his knees, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. I think he does it just to unnerve the staff. Or seduce them. The result is usually the same.
I sip the lemon water they brought us and lean back, watching the scene unfold like theatre. The tailor draws the tapeacross Jean’s chest once more, the edge of it catching his nipple. Jean’s breath hitches—a twitch of his stomach, the faintest flinch in his thigh. His ears go bright red.
“Oh,” I murmur, tilting my head. “He’s sensitive today.”
“Always is,” Hessou replies. “It’s one of his most endearing qualities.”
When the tailor reaches for Jean’s waist, we all see the unmistakable twitch of his cock beneath the linen.
“Jean,” I say, biting back a grin, “are you enjoying your fitting?”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, mortified, though the bulge says otherwise. His hands twitch slightly where they hover, outstretched. He doesn’t dare lower them to cover himself. The poor thing looks like he wants to disappear into the floor.
“Our boy responds to praise and also to being watched,” Hessou says, amused.
“And to the soft friction of silk,” I add, my gaze drifting down the tense line of his stomach. “Andaccidentallyrubbing against me.”
Jean glares at me, but there’s no real venom in it. Just the helpless heat of someone trying not to implode while two devils provide a live commentary in front of an unwilling witness.
The tailor crouches, visibly flustered now, and reaches for the inseam. His hand falters when Jean tenses, his cock now fully hard and visibly twitching against the linen. There’s a long, uncomfortable pause as the tailor tries to pretend nothing is happening, while Jean stares at a fixed point on the wall.
“Be quick,” Hessou says, amused. “Or it will get messy.”
The poor man startles.
And Jean, bless him, exhales hard through his nose and whispers,“Please.”
“You’re being so good for us,” I say, my chin propped in my hand.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you don’t need to,” Hessou replies, unbothered. “Just let us dress you.”
“And then undress you again,” I add, sipping the lemon water. “It’s a cycle.”
Jean smiles.
We’ve only been here for thirty minutes.
I told the assistant we wanteverything. Three tailored suits. Shirts in ivory and sea-glass blue. Pants that cling to his ass, obviously. Leather shoes. A cashmere coat that made Jean whisper,“This costs more than my mother’s roof.”
“Which is why you’re not paying,” I said, tossing it onto the growing pile.
“And because your ass deserves better than patched workwear,” Hessou added, smoothing the collar dramatically.
Everything is being sent to Hessou’s residence—there’s no way we’d carry it. But I’m still holding onto one tie, silk and dark with honey-gold embroidery. I keep brushing it against my lips while I watch Jean turn crimson under all the attention. I want to see it around his neck. I want to see him stripped down to just that, wearing nothing else but a ribbon of luxury.
