Chapter 3
The morning drips slow and honeyed through the tall windows, pale gold filtering past heavy velvet curtains.
The sheets are a tangled wreck beneath us, sticky, fragrant and warm with the scent of skin and oil and everything we did last night.
Hessou lies behind me, one arm under my head, the other draped lazily across my waist, fingers stroking my hip in lazy, distracted circles.
I can feel the weight of his cock soft against the small of my back, the trail of his breath against my shoulder.
We’ve been here for hours, limbs overlapping, whispering stories into each other’s necks.
He told me about his brand—how the perfume house has taken on a life of its own, how Berlin smells like vetiver and ambition. His latest scent apparently sold out in three weeks. I believe it. Everything about Hessou is addictive.
I told him about Jean first.
I couldn’t help it—the words tumbling out somewhere between a kiss and a sigh.
I told him about this tall, quiet farm boy who delivered flour, who smelled like wheat fields and fresh sweat, whose skin had the warm glow of late summer. I told him I’d never tasted anything like him.
Then I told him about the bakery, how I found it half-dead and choked in cobwebs in that sleepy village.
How it felt like unearthing something ancient, all stone and soot and wood beams blackened by time.
And how I’ve been pouring every franc and every drop of myself into resurrecting it.
How I spend my nights in the kitchen chasing impossible flavors.
He’s quiet for a moment, his palm warm on my stomach, lips close to my ear.
“Tell me more about this boy of yours,” he says softly.
I grin, tipping my head back so I can catch his eye.
“You’d like him.”
“Would I?”
“He smells like sunshine,” I say, half-laughing, tracing lazy lines along his thigh. “Golden skin, warm to the touch. And God, you should’ve seen it! He came so much I swear I thought he might faint.”
Hessou laughs, indulgent, and shifts behind me, pulling me closer.
“That much?”
“Mmhmm.” I press a kiss to his jaw, then keep talking into the skin there, lips brushing as I speak.
“It went everywhere. On me, on the counter, on half the pastries I’d just finished.
And I swear, Hessou,” I pause, remembering it, the taste still ghosting on my tongue, “it was divine. Better than half the things I’ve ever made. ”
“I found someone like that once,” he murmurs, fingers skating up my side now. “Years ago. I only saw him twice. Came like a fountain. But he tasted like… milk gone off. You would’ve gagged.”
I grimace. “Please. Don’t ruin the fantasy.”
He grins and kisses my neck.
I twist a little in his arms to look at him fully, putting one of my legs between his, our cocks touching.
“Only two people ever tasted good enough that I stopped thinking about technique mid-suck.”
“Mm?” He quirks a brow, amused. “And I’m one of them, I hope?”
“You and Jean,” I say shamelessly.
That earns a small huff of a laugh from him.
“Are you trying to make me jealous?”
I smile, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
“I’m saying this as someone with a refined palate, thank you very much. This isn’t about jealousy.”
“You want to use it as an ingredient, don’t you?”
“I do.”
He kisses me, lips dragging against mine gently.
“You’re so smart,” he murmurs when he pulls back, hand cupping my jaw now, his thumb brushing beneath my lip.
I chuckle, biting his thumb.
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“After that feast last night?”
He kisses me again and then pulls away with a grin.
“Well, I’m starving.”
He swings his legs out of bed, all effortless grace, and picks a silk robe from a chair. He tosses a pale cream one at me, and I let it drape over my shoulders without tying it, still sticky between the thighs.
He offers me a hand, and leads me down the wide hallway, past tall glass doors and framed etchings, his bare feet silent against the floor. I half expect the house to be asleep, but we step into a sunlit dining room heavy with the scent of coffee, and the table already made.
Freshly baked brioche, slices of duck prosciutto folded into tiny crescents, glistening jam jars, glass bowls full of figs and almonds and deep purple grapes.
Coffee already poured. Orange juice freshly squeezed.
Eggs still steaming under their cloche. And three members of staff ghosting around the room in silence.
I don’t feel embarrassed, but they obviously do.
The butler glances up and immediately drops his gaze, and the girl setting out a tray flushes so hard her ears go pink. The third—a cook, I believe—stands frozen at the far side, clutching a folded napkin like it might shield him from the very concept of Hessou’s personal life.
I lean forward and murmur under my breath, “You haven’t lived here long, have you?”
He raises a brow, smirking as he pulls out my chair.
“Why?”
“Because they’re clearly not used to your inclinations.”
Hessou laughs and takes the seat beside mine.
“Give it time.”
I reach for a slice of toast, then pause, scanning the spread. My nose twitches.
Hessou watches me with that lazy fondness.
“To your taste?”
I squint, tilt my head, poke at a dish of paté with my spoon.
“Mm… good enough to fill.”
Hessou barks a laugh.
“You’re such a snob.”
“Moi? After last night’s culinary masterpiece?”
“Oh, pardon.” He grins, nudging a plate toward me. “Please, do enlighten me.”
I pick up a wedge of brioche and bring it to my mouth. I take one long, slow bite—then sigh, licking a crumb off my lip.
“This would be edible,” I say with a frown, “if you came all over it.”
He chokes on his coffee, then laughs, eyes glinting wickedly.
“I can make that happen.”
My gaze flicks immediately to the staff. One of them nearly drops a bowl.
“You need to give them the day off or they’re going to combust when they see what I have in mind.”
Without missing a beat, Hessou turns to the room.
“Everyone out. Full discretion.”
They’re gone within seconds.
And now, the house is ours.
I approach him and skim the breakfast layout, my hand going straight to the cut-crystal honey jar. The dipper chimes softly against the glass.
Hessou raises a brow.
“You’re not going to behave, are you?”
“No,” I murmur, turning to him with the jar in one hand and a small porcelain dish in the other. “But you would have been dreadfully bored if I did.”
His smile curves lazily, and he shifts in the chair to give me room, legs spread, silk parting.
I sink to my knees between them.
His cock is already thickening, familiar with my breath and my hunger by now. I take the honey dipper and swirl it slowly, then bring it high above him and begin to pour. A long amber thread drips, landing on the head of his cock, pools in the slit, then drips down his shaft, slow and indecent.
It sticks to the skin in glossy trails.
I use my index finger to nudge the honeyed slit, then forcing the thick sweetness up under his foreskin, filling it.
I feel him pulse, feel the skin stretch tight and sticky around my finger.
I twist it slightly, a vulgar corkscrew motion, before pulling back to watch the honey and a gleam of his own pre-cum weep out.
Then, and only then, do I seal my mouth over him to suck the sweetness clean.
“Mon Dieu, Louis—”
From the base to the head, my tongue follows the trail I painted, curling under, teasing the slit, tracing the line of honey now clinging to his balls. He groans, his hips twitching up as I press a kiss there, then lap again, my lips already tacky and wet.
The sweetness amplifies everything—the salt of his skin, the heat, the solid weight of him on my tongue. I take him deeper, my nose buried in the thick thatch of hair that still smells like last night. I hum around him, needy, messy, the honey smearing on my chin, his cock twitching on my tongue.
I pull back to lick at the head, then I reach for the honey again, my fingers trembling just slightly as I dip the spoon and let the golden thread fall.
It drips over him, pooling thick along the base and down his balls, running down the crease of his thigh.
I smear it with my palm, working the gloss into his skin until every vein and dip shines.
Sticky. Sweet. Utterly obscene.
I lean down and slurp messily at the trail, groaning against his skin, my face already tacky, my lips glossed with sugar and pre-cum. He groans above me, hips twitching, and I can’t stop.
Then I take him back into my mouth, my lips stretched and shining, a low moan vibrating around his shaft. Every inch I manage to take makes me throb. I want to gag on him, want the burn, the rawness, the feeling of being used and full.
His hand tangles in my hair.
“You’re so filthy,” he groans.
I smile around him.
I can’t answer.
But I suck harder.
And when his hips start to jerk, his breath stuttering, I reach for the porcelain dish and hold it just under him, pulling off with one last wet pop. His cock glistens, twitching, a new pearl of honey-slicked pre-cum already gathering at the slit.
“Come for me in this,” I say, stroking him. “Give me your best.”
He chokes on a moan, one hand fisted in my hair, the other braced white-knuckled against the chair. It doesn’t take long; he was already teetering on the edge from the honey, the mouth, the filthy worship I’d wrapped him in.
Then he comes.
His head drops back, a curse snarling in his throat, his cock jerking in my grip as thick, hot ropes spurt into the porcelain dish. It hits the edge, pooling sticky and white against the smooth ceramic. One drop misses and lands across my knuckles. I lap it off slowly, eyes locked on his.
Hessou pants when I sit back on my heels, holding the warm dish between my hands.
“I’m not going to eat it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to use it.”
I rise from the floor, legs aching pleasantly, the porcelain dish cupped in my hands like a sacrament, and climb into his lap without a word of warning.