Chapter 3 #2
He shifts a little in the wide-backed chair to accommodate the weight of me settling astride him, the press of my thighs caging his.
His cock rests soft between my cheeks, but I feel the twitch of interest when I wiggle, the silk of my robe sliding against him.
My back finds the slope of his chest, and his arms circle me instantly—one hand low on my waist, the other palming my thigh.
“Sticky,” he murmurs against my neck, nuzzling the skin behind my ear, “and even sweeter.”
I hum, distracted, and tip the dish slightly, watching the still-warm cum shift like cream against the porcelain.
I set it down on the table with care, pick up the softened butter—pale yellow and rich, just shy of melting—and scoop a spoonful.
Hessou’s chin tucks close to my shoulder, watching in silence as I transfer it into the dish, right over the thick swirl of his cum.
The scent rises immediately.
Salt and musk, warmth and dairy. The beginning of something truly obscene. I breathe it in, nose hovering above the rim. My mouth waters.
I stir slowly, watching the butter fold into the white in lazy spirals, the mixture turning glossier with every turn of the spoon.
Hessou’s cock, still soft seconds ago, begins to swell again—thickening against the curve of my ass.
“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” I tease.
“Watching you make it is enough.”
His mouth drags across my shoulder as if the curve of the bone offends him by being untouched. His hand traces my stomach in idle, circling motions, his fingertip trailing up to brush my nipple, stirring it with his thumb in a mirror of my own stirring in the dish.
“Actually, what are you making, mon amour?”
“A spread,” I say, focusing on the spoon even when his hand goes down to my cock, his thumb playing with the sensitive head this time.
The butter and cum come together slowly, emulsifying with each gentle circle of the spoon into something thick and glossy and profoundly wrong. It clings to the silver like sinfully custard.
I dip a finger in and taste it.
It makes my knees weak.
The richness—the salt, the cream, the faint honey still clinging from before—is obscene. Better than anything I’ve tasted in the past weeks.
I moan, and his fingers tighten around my cock in response.
He chuckles into my neck, kisses it softly.
“You’d put it in a tart shell and serve it to nuns, I bet.”
“I’d bury it in pastry and make them lick it off silver.”
He kisses my jaw then, teeth scraping affectionately as his hand finally starts to move again. The barest motion, enough to send sparks shooting up my spine. I lean back into him.
“You’re leaking again,” he murmurs, thumb smearing a drop of pre-cum across the tip. “My messy little thing.”
His fingers spread the slick, smearing it lazily as I gasp and jerk into his palm. He licks behind my ear, biting the shell right after.
“I haven’t even tasted breakfast,” I murmur, breathless, my stirring faltering.
“You’re holding it in your hand.”
“Stop touching me for a second,” I say with a soft laugh, my eyes fluttering shut. “God, you’re always touching.”
“You never mind,” he murmurs against my neck. “You melt when I touch you. You already are.”
“So is the butter. Now stop before you ruin it.”
He chuckles and stops his hand, but doesn’t let go.
I reach for a toast that is still warm from the covered tray, crust golden and perfect.
I spread the mixture across it in thick swipes, the knife dragging through the creamy paste that smells of sex and sweetness and every decadence I wish to drown in.
I bite into it, a moan vibrating in my throat, my eyes fluttering shut.
He kisses my neck again.
“Good?”
“I think I just came in my mouth.”
I swallow slowly, holding the toast but not bothering with another bite. The first was enough to unravel me completely. Some people would call it vile, but it’s not. It’s euphoric. Intimate. It’s him—his desire for me, and my desire for him.
Behind me, Hessou is still hardening.
I feel his cock swelling between my thighs, warm and as inevitable as the hunger coiling in my gut. His hand slides higher, leaving a faint trail of wetness across my skin as he moves from teasing to intent. When he reaches for the dish, I don’t stop him.
He dips two fingers in with a slow curl, coating them fully in the mixture we just made. I shiver at the sight, the scent, the knowledge that something I just created is about to be inside me in an entirely different way.
I twist in his lap, my back still pressed to his chest, and let my legs fall open. He kisses the side of my neck, then my cheek, then my jaw. His breath is unhurried, but his cock twitches against me again.
“Let’s see how it feels,” he says, his voice warm, rough and familiar. “You already know how good it tastes.”
I nod, biting my lower lip as his hand moves down again, slick fingers trailing past my testicles, finding where I’m already aching for him. He rubs slow circles first, and then slips the first finger in.
The heat and wetness are filthy, and I moan outright, loud and needy.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hips tilting instinctively to meet the movement.
The second finger, then the third finger join inside, spreading that indecent paste deeper inside me, and I can’t tell if it’s my body or my mind unraveling faster—the softness of the butter, the pure deviance of being filled with something I tasted for breakfast.
“You’re dripping,” he says near my ear, and I don’t know if he means from my cock or from the mess he’s making inside me.
Probably both. My robe is open, and the pre-cum has smeared across my belly, his other hand rubbing over, smearing it further, thumb teasing my navel absently while he opens me with the hand that smells like us.
“More,” I whisper, “more, don’t stop—”
He doesn’t.
He pushes his fingers deeper, and keeps them there, pressed inside, warm, thick and coated in what might be the best and filthiest.
Then his other hand curls around my cock again, and I arch helplessly, caught between the slow building burn and the immediate hunger.
“Filthy little patissier,” he whispers, tongue dragging up the shell of my ear. “Will you serve this at your opening?”
“I’ll serve you,” I choke out, “if you keep— fuck—there!”
The pressure rises fast.
And then disappears.
He pulls his fingers out slowly, leaving a wet, clenching emptiness that makes my thighs jump. I make a sound, and before it even fades, I feel him pulling my robe from under me and his cock press between my cheeks.
He sinks in slow.
The whole length of him.
I drop my head back against his shoulder and groan, lips parted, jaw slack, every part of me going pliant and helpless around him. The slickness helps, but the fullness is overwhelming. Delicious. Perfect.
“Oh, God! Hessou—”
“I know,” he murmurs, kissing my temple as he bottoms out. “I know.”
We stay like that for a breath. The tremble in my thighs, the soft pulse of him twitching inside me, the obscene warmth pooling where our bodies lock. Then he starts to move, each thrust grinding against that spot that makes my toes curl and my spine try to leave my body.
I remember the toast, and with shaking fingers, I bring it to my mouth.
The taste hits just as Hessou thrusts in again.
And I nearly lose my mind.
The flavor pairs too perfectly with the drag of his cock inside me. I chew slowly, moaning against the crust, nearly choking on the overload.
Hessou fucks me through every bite.
I tilt my head and offer the last one to him blindly, too high to speak.
He takes it from my fingers, his teeth brushing my fingertips, his other hand gripping my thigh now to angle me just right.
The world becomes a rhythm I never want to end.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I can’t—fuck, it’s too good.”
I fall completely limp against his chest, my mouth falling open on a silent gasp. My body isn’t mine anymore.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up my jaw. “Feel everything. Don’t run from it.”
“I’m not—,” I gasp, the words shattering as he shifts his angle, “—I’m not running— fuck—”
“You wanted to taste madness,” he whispers, his breath a hot brand against my ear.
And then he gives it to me.
For the rest of the morning, and then the rest of the day, we don’t leave the house.
We stay buried in the sheets. In slick skin and shared breath. In the beautiful filth of taste and scent.
By nightfall, I forget what clean feels like.