Page 9 of The Perfect Ingredient
“You smell sweet,” he murmurs, licking a hot stripe up my stomach. “Just like I remember. Messy mouth, sugar tongue, divine sweat.”
I groan into it, nails dragging against his nape.
“Yes. I remember yousniffedme half to death behind the sculpture hall.”
“I should’ve fucked you in that gallery.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
He pins my wrists to the bed, presses his weight against me, and kisses mehard. It’s not careful or nostalgic. It’s tongue and teeth and groaning into each other’s mouths. His cock slides against mine, and I rut up against him, gasping, moaning, biting his lips.
“More,” I moan. “I need more of you—”
“You’ll get it,” he says, and bites my neck.
That’s not enough.
“Get on your back,” I say, pushing him.
He laughs, low in his throat, but obeys. He stretches out across the bed, his cock thick and dark, curved toward his stomach, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks.
I crawl between his legs slowly, flushed and open-mouthed, not even pretending I’m in control of myself.
“You have no idea how I missed this,” I murmur.
I lean in and press a kiss to the tip. I flick my tongue slowly across the slit, catching the pre-cum, and hum in pure appreciation. It’s a taste I’ve missed for years.
His thighs tense under my hands.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur against his shaft, kissing along the side, dragging my mouth over the thick vein. “God, I missed this. Missed your taste.”
I lick him from root to tip, then take the head back into my mouth.
“You taste even better than I remembered. You have no idea.”
I move lower, nuzzling into the heat of his balls, kissing one, then the other, then sucking them into my mouth, slowly, wetly, letting my spit drip, my tongue roll. He hisses through his teeth and shifts his hips, offering more.
I lick back up his shaft in one long stroke, then close my lips around the tip again, kissing, sucking, breathing hard through my nose.
Then Isink.
The weight of him hits my tongue, and heat floods my mouth, my spine, my cock—everything responding to the stretch, the fullness, the way my lips strain to seal around his girth. I groan loud and slide down farther, until the tip nudges the back of my throat. I moan around it again, shaking, dizzy from how good it feels to have him there.
I missed this.Thischaos.Thisstretch.Thisheat. The obscene mess we become the second our heartbeats sync.
There is no cleanliness purer than this kind of filth.
“God, Louis—” Hessou’s voice is hoarse. One of his hands fists the sheet, the other curls tight in my hair. “You’re still such aslutfor this.”
I can’t answer because my mouth is full and my tongue is busy. But I make a sound, because yes, yes, yes, Iam. And he knows it. He always knew it. So I keep sucking, mouth working without shame. I want to choke on him. I want the slick weight of him hitting the back of my throat until my eyes sting and I forget my name.
Saliva floods my mouth, sliding out in thick strands, dripping down my chin. It’s filthy, wet,delicious. I let him slide out fora second just to pant, spit hanging from my lip to the tip of his cock, which twitches like it already misses my mouth.
Then I shove him back in.
All the way.
My throat spasms and I moan loud, needy, starving. I hold myself there; nose buried in his curls, my jaw stretched wide, his cock pulsing against the back of my throat. My cock throbs untouched against the sheets.
