The Perfect Ingredient (Kinky ABC #3)

Chapter 1

I’m the fourth son of a wine magnate, which is to say: irrelevant.

By the time I was born, the name de Rochefort had already been poured into three far worthier glasses.

My eldest brother is a politician. The second one runs the vineyard.

The third married well and breeds horses near Bordeaux.

And then there’s me, twenty-five and a genius—though in truth, I began burning soufflés at eleven and insisted it was divine inspiration.

Still, it was enough to get me into Le Cordon Bleu. God bless nepotism and the weight a name carries in a donor’s signature.

My parents agreed when I said I was leaving home to go live in a small village near Lyon. They nodded, vaguely supportive, perhaps hoping I’d open a quaint little shop, marry some village girl, and keep my eccentricities confined to provincial air.

Instead, I bought a crumbling old bakery with ivy in the walls and mildew in the beams.

It crouches crooked on the corner of a cobbled alley like an old drunk made of medieval bones and creaking wood. For some reason, there’s a gargoyle carved into the lintel above the main entrance. His tongue’s been sticking out at me since I bought the place.

But I love him.

I love all of it.

I could’ve stayed in Paris. Sleek ovens, white marble counters, the decadent arrogance only a city like that cultivates.

But I didn’t want to perfect éclairs. I wanted to taste something new.

I wanted to create pastries that felt like being kissed behind a church during Mass.

Like fevered hands in the dark. Like sin.

So I bought a ruin.

The village is small. One of those places barely touched by time or the aftermath of war, save for the worn-out boys who never came back and the ones who did, with hollow eyes and crutches instead of limbs.

Sometimes I think the wind here still carries the smell of gunpowder and mud.

Sometimes I think it’s just my imagination, sweetened by too much absinthe.

The bakery hasn’t seen a customer since 1914.

The front room is gutted: dirty stone, counters torn down, a half-collapsed ceiling revealing beams blackened with soot and rot.

But I made sure the kitchen was first to be restored and modernized a little—thank God for the creation of refrigerators, and for the fortune that lets me own one.

Now the place looks great with polished copper, imported enamel stove, and spices in labeled jars I refuse to alphabetize because I find chaos charming.

My little sanctum that, today, looks like a horrible mess.

There are bowls stacked on bowls, each with a different experiment, some still warm.

Ganache has formed a thin skin while waiting too long.

The smell of burnt sugar lingers, cloying.

I have flour on my cheek, I think. Or it might be powdered rose petal.

Either way, I haven’t looked in a mirror since dawn, and I doubt I’d like what I see.

I lick the back of a silver spoon.

Lemon, thyme, chocolate and yet, flat. Just a little too sweet, clinging to the tongue without seduction, like a needy lover with nothing new to say.

“Merde,” I mutter, and drop the spoon into the sink.

There’s a knock at the back door—three times. I glance up from the flat abomination I created, and want to scream in frustration. I wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.

Still, I make my way to the door.

When I open it, the sun hits something golden.

Or rather, someone.

He’s so tall, he blocks half the morning with his shoulders alone. He’s balancing a sack of flour over one of them, arms bare and freckled under the rolled sleeves of a coarse work shirt. There’s a lazy blush on his cheeks—sun kissed for too long.

His hair’s a shag of dirty blond curls falling into soft brown eyes, a little tangled, a little damp with sweat. His cheeks are ruddy, his mouth soft, and he smells faintly of hay and sweat and the pure, clean scent of sun-warmed skin.

“Flour from the mill for… Louis de Rochefort?” he says. His accent is thick and rural, and his tone is deep and calm. I’m already obsessed.

“That’s me,” I say, and lean in the frame. “Bring it in. Kitchen’s through here.”

“I can leave it out here, if you want. Don’t want to mess anything up.”

I laugh. Mon Dieu, he’s adorable!

“Darling, it’s already beyond salvation. Come in.”

He follows me in, careful with his steps, eyes darting around. I gesture toward a clean corner of the kitchen, and he sets the sack down with a thud that puffs a cloud of flour into the air.

“What’s your name?”

“Jean-Pierre,” he says quickly, then clears his throat. “Just Jean’s fine.”

“Jean,” I repeat, tasting the short, solid sound of it. “You’re new.”

“Started last week. Usually it’s my boss that does the deliveries out here, but he’s got a cold.”

“Well,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “A happy little misfortune for me, then.”

He gives me a look that’s half puzzle, half panic, probably wondering if I’m joking or if I’m always like this (I am).

“Tell me something,” I continue, turning toward the counter. “How do you feel about sweets?”

Jean shrugs. “I like them.”

“You’ve got taste buds, then. Good enough.” With a flourish, I uncover tray after tray. “Here. Try this. No, sit. Right there. And don’t you dare argue.”

“I really shouldn’t—”

“Tch, tch.” I guide him by the elbow, planting him on the stool before he can finish protesting. “Just a bite of each. You can spit it out if you don’t like. I won’t cry… much.”

He blinks as I push the first sample toward him. A tiny tart topped with candied rose petals.

He bites. His eyes widen.

“Oh,” he says.

That’s enough for me.

“Next,” I say, sliding another tart, fig and goat cheese with pine honey.

Then apricot-lavender with caramelized fennel.

Then a spoonful of strawberry-orange mousse.

Then…

It continues like this—me shoving pastries into his hands, sometimes just straight into his mouth when he doesn’t reach for them fast enough. He eats everything.

And naturally, I ruin the moment.

I reach for a bowl of something creamy I meant to pipe, some whipped mascarpone concoction with lemon zest and ground vanilla. My hand slips. My fingers sink into the sticky white cream, a dollop clinging to my knuckles.

“Ah, putain,” I mutter, looking for a rag and finding none.

So I do the logical thing.

I bring my fingers to my mouth.

I lick the cream from my knuckle first, a long stripe.

Then I take my thumb into my mouth, sucking the sweet, rich vanilla from the skin.

I do the same for each finger, one by one, my eyes fluttering closed at the soft, round taste of it.

It’s good, but not enough. I smack my tongue lightly against the roof of my mouth, chasing the last note of lemon zest.

When I glance at Jean again, his lips are parted. His chest rises, shallow and fast. His pants are pulled taut, the bulge thick and impossible to ignore. I blink once. Then twice.

Oh.

Oh!

Is that it? Have I finally created my masterpiece?

I step closer to him and he tenses, looking ashamed. But I just reach for the tart he just bit into—the fig and pine honey—and pluck it right from his fingers.

“What did I do here?” I murmur.

I tilt the tart, examine the edge of his bite, then press my lips precisely to that same spot. I take it in slowly, letting the sticky filling touch my tongue, and close my eyes.

“Mmmm.” I swallow and lick a trace of honey from my bottom lip. “It’s good, Jean. You have very honest taste. But still… it’s missing something, isn’t it?”

He shifts on the stool, his hands knotted in his lap, hiding his hard-on poorly.

I smile and tap the tart against my chin.

“You know, that happens to me constantly when food is divine. It’s normal, don’t be shy.”

He blinks.

“Hard,” I clarify. “Once, at a tasting in Vienna, someone served me an anise-spiced pear with black pepper caramel. I got so turned on I had to excuse myself to… collect my dignity.”

A strangled noise escapes him—something between please stop and God help me.

“If you want,” I offer, suddenly realizing the state of things, “you can use the bathroom. Upstairs, past the—no, wait. No, don’t. A pipe broke, and it smells unholy in there.”

He just stares, wide-eyed and beautifully horrified.

“You are welcome to take care of that here,” I gesture vaguely toward the pantry. “I promise I won’t look. Unless you prefer I do. No pressure.”

His jaw drops.

“I-I’m not—! I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—!” His voice is soft, stumbling, sweet. It makes me want to put my mouth on his and stop the half words entirely. “…just happens sometimes. All the time, really…”

“All the time?”

His eyes flick from my hand, my fingers sticky with honey from the tart, to my lips, still shining from the cream.

And then I understand. It arrives not as a shock, but a slow dawning. I see it now, the specific heat in his look.

He got hard watching me.

My smile spreads.

Then falters.

“Wait. That was not the food?” Jean goes still, eyes wide like a deer that just realized it was halfway into a trap. I slap the tart down. “Sacre merde! I was sure I had it. The one. The orgasmic masterpiece. The pièce de résistance of pleasure.”

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, I’m not mad, darling. Well, I am. Just not at you.” I sigh, composing myself. “On the bright side...”

I take a step closer, and his shoulders tense.

“Would you like some assistance with that?” I arch a brow, letting my gaze settle where he’s trying and failing to hide his erection. “I was being indecent. It’s only polite to offer.”

His whole body shudders.

“Oh, mon ange,” I murmur, sliding a hand lightly up his arm.

He’s warm and solid under his shirt, the strength there so palpable I feel dizzy thinking of the ease with which he could pin me to the wall if he wanted to.

“It’s been weeks since I’ve had a good cock in my mouth.

Three, to be precise. Do you have any idea what that does to a man? ”

Jean’s breath hitches, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.