Page 6 of The Perfect Ingredient
When I pull off, I lick up every trace of cum from his skin, chasing the taste of it from the base of his shaft to the swollen, oversensitive head. I nuzzle into the thatch of hair at his root,tasting the salt of his sweat and the delicious essence of his pleasure mingled there, cleaning him with a devotion that’s already half obsession.
I don’t waste a singleprecious drop.
I lean against his thigh after, my cheek pressed to the firm, trembling muscle. My lips are sticky and wet, my breath comes in shallow pants, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the dizzying rush of it.
“You tastedivine,” I breathe against his thigh. The pressure in my own pants is a demanding throb, so I palm myself through the fabric as I look up at him.
He’s looking at me like I’m God.
I must be mirroring that look.
“Divine in a way that makes me wish I were a poet. I would ruin reams of good paper writing sonnets about the salty and silky perfection of you.”
I slump forward, pressing my face between his legs, nuzzling the heavy weight of his cock.
“I would carve this from marble…” I murmur, my lips moving against his skin. “Immortalize perfection… and poor Adonis would crack with envy.”
My hips stutter, my own pleasure coiling tight. I tilt my head back, looking up the long line of his body.
“I would paint your perfect cock spilling across my tongue and hang it in the Louvre.” I let out a choked gasp as my rhythm falters. “They’d call itThe Apotheosis of Jean-Pierre… and critics would weep… because no canvas… ohh… no canvas could ever capture the feeling of you fucking my throat…”
The words dissolve into a choked groan. My body seizes, back arching, as I come in a hot, shuddering rush right through mypants. A broken sigh escapes me, and I collapse against his leg, spent, my cheek nestled against the solid warmth of his thigh.
Jean makes a breathless, shattered sound and pushes me back. He lurches to his feet, stumbling back, his facecrimson. His eyes are wide, horrified by what he’s done, and what I’ve done to him. His cock is twitching again—amazingly still half-hard—and he clamps a hand over it, trying to hide it. His other hand fumbles at his pants, yanking them up, not even bothering with the buttons before he turns toward the back door.
“I-I have to… I need to…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He runs. Practically flings himself into the daylight, his boots thudding down the cobbled alley like he’s being chased by the devil himself.
I stay here, cum on my tongue, lips still tingling.
He forgot to charge me for the flour. Didn’t even close the door.
“Adorable,” I murmur to the empty kitchen, licking my lower lip. “Certainly not the Parisian type.”
They never run away, the Parisian boys. They strut, they flirt, they fuck, and then talk about it afterward over absinthe. Jean, on the other hand, stumbled through the whole thing as if he was caught in a dream he wasn’t sure he should be having. And came so hard I might need towipe downhalf the kitchen.
I stand, legs stiff, knees a bit shaky from crouching too long, and look over my ruined counter.
Almost every single pastry close to the edge is covered in cum.
It’severywhere. Puddled in the whipped ganache, streaking the cream puffs, soaking into the madeleines. The eclairs aredripping. The little tartlets are completely desecrated. My wholemorning’s work, transformed by the mess of a single boy’s orgasm.
The bitten fig tart is drenched, a creamy pool of cum mingling with the pine honey. There’s so much on it that it looks intentional, as if I’d piped it there myself.
I pick it up, slowly. Turn it in my fingers.
I bring it to my lips.
The tasteblooms.
Itmeltson my tongue, and then I find it—thatmissing note. The one I’ve chased through every recipe. The one every textbook, every chef, everyidiot in a toque blancheinsisted didn’t exist.
Obscenity as food.
I chew slowly, and my eyes flutter shut.
Oh, Jean, you’re going to change everything.
