Chapter 6
Jean stands barefoot on a low wooden platform, shirtless, his arms held out. The light linen pants sit low on his hips, clinging only where the body beneath it demands to be seen.
The tailor—a man of sharp cheekbones, increasingly nervous fingers, and a complexion turning pinker by the minute—orbits around him like a very flustered moon.
The measuring tape snakes across Jean’s bare chest and ribs, trembling just enough to betray how much he’s trying not to react to the expanse of golden skin stretched over muscle.
His hands hesitate at Jean’s pectorals, fingers fluttering slightly before forcing themselves to work.
I don’t blame him. Jean’s body does that to people.
He’s beautiful in a way that feels mythic—a farm-boy Apollo pulled from the field and kissed by the sun, with a kind of unstudied beauty that makes everything else look too designed.
Hessou lounges beside me on the green velvet settee, legs crossed, his cane balanced across his knees, sunglasses still on despite being indoors. I think he does it just to unnerve the staff. Or seduce them. The result is usually the same.
I sip the lemon water they brought us and lean back, watching the scene unfold like theatre. The tailor draws the tape across Jean’s chest once more, the edge of it catching his nipple. Jean’s breath hitches—a twitch of his stomach, the faintest flinch in his thigh. His ears go bright red.
“Oh,” I murmur, tilting my head. “He’s sensitive today.”
“Always is,” Hessou replies. “It’s one of his most endearing qualities.”
When the tailor reaches for Jean’s waist, we all see the unmistakable twitch of his cock beneath the linen.
“Jean,” I say, biting back a grin, “are you enjoying your fitting?”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, mortified, though the bulge says otherwise. His hands twitch slightly where they hover, outstretched. He doesn’t dare lower them to cover himself. The poor thing looks like he wants to disappear into the floor.
“Our boy responds to praise and also to being watched,” Hessou says, amused.
“And to the soft friction of silk,” I add, my gaze drifting down the tense line of his stomach. “And accidentally rubbing against me.”
Jean glares at me, but there’s no real venom in it. Just the helpless heat of someone trying not to implode while two devils provide a live commentary in front of an unwilling witness.
The tailor crouches, visibly flustered now, and reaches for the inseam.
His hand falters when Jean tenses, his cock now fully hard and visibly twitching against the linen.
There’s a long, uncomfortable pause as the tailor tries to pretend nothing is happening, while Jean stares at a fixed point on the wall.
“Be quick,” Hessou says, amused. “Or it will get messy.”
The poor man startles.
And Jean, bless him, exhales hard through his nose and whispers, “Please.”
“You’re being so good for us,” I say, my chin propped in my hand.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you don’t need to,” Hessou replies, unbothered. “Just let us dress you.”
“And then undress you again,” I add, sipping the lemon water. “It’s a cycle.”
Jean smiles.
We’ve only been here for thirty minutes.
I told the assistant we want everything. Three tailored suits. Shirts in ivory and sea-glass blue. Pants that cling to his ass, obviously. Leather shoes. A cashmere coat that made Jean whisper, “This costs more than my mother’s roof.”
“Which is why you’re not paying,” I said, tossing it onto the growing pile.
“And because your ass deserves better than patched workwear,” Hessou added, smoothing the collar dramatically.
Everything is being sent to Hessou’s residence—there’s no way we’d carry it.
But I’m still holding onto one tie, silk and dark with honey-gold embroidery.
I keep brushing it against my lips while I watch Jean turn crimson under all the attention.
I want to see it around his neck. I want to see him stripped down to just that, wearing nothing else but a ribbon of luxury.
“He looks edible,” I whisper.
“He always does.”
* * *
When we leave the boutique, Jean is looking like a half-finished dream.
The jacket isn’t bespoke, but it fits close enough. Deep green wool, hugging his shoulders, darker pants slightly too tight at the thigh, and around his throat, the silk tie I chose. It draws the eye up to his face, his lashes, the way his pink mouth keeps twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
His hair’s still a mess. His hands are still rough. He still blushes when a woman looks at him too long.
But he looks stunning. Which was, of course, the entire point.
People turn to stare as we leave. Some try not to. Others don’t bother pretending.
He gets looks from women in lace gloves and veiled hats, fans held tight beneath delicate chins.
From men smoking cigars outside cafés, pausing mid-sentence to track him with their eyes.
Some of them narrow their gazes, clearly sizing him up.
I know those looks. I know the ones that bristle with intimidation, the ones that say, “How the fuck does a boy like that even walk through the world”, and I know the ones that linger too long, hunger hidden poorly behind politeness.
Eyes that linger longer on his hips. His chest. His cock.
I lean in closer to Jean just enough to let them see it.
He’s mine.
Hessou walks ahead, cane tapping like punctuation on the cobblestones, guiding us through the heart of Lyon. He’s dressed like sin incarnate, as always, but even so, he glances back at us with a smirk.
“You’re getting more attention than me,” he says. “That’s new.”
“Because he looks fresh,” I say, patting Jean’s bicep.
“I’m always the one people look at. In a bad and a good way.”
“You’re still the one they can’t look away from,” I point out.
“Yes. But not anymore the first thing they see.”
Jean glances between us, confused and already tugging at the tie like it’s strangling him. “Why would people look at you… badly?”
Hessou’s mouth tugs sideways into something almost a smile, almost a wince. He slows his pace slightly so we draw up beside him.
“Because of my skin, Jean,” he says. “Because this beautiful republic loves liberty and fraternity, so long as you don’t look too closely at where its wealth came from.”
Jean’s face pales. “I— I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” Hessou says gently, his hand brushing Jean’s forearm. “You’re not the problem. The problem is older than all of us and smells like old church pews.”
Jean’s quiet for a second, his shoulders curling inward as if trying to apologize with his whole body. I see the conflict on his face—he’s too sweet to get defensive, too inexperienced to grasp the complexity. Politics simply don’t stick to him.
“I’ll teach you,” Hessou adds. “Eventually.”
“About politics?” I ask, already picturing the disaster.
“About everything,” Hessou promises, touching Jean’s arm again, leaning on him a little too flirty to look casual in the middle of the street.
“I think he’d rather learn to tie a cravate first.”
“I can do both,” Hessou says with a shrug. Then, his voice dropping to a soft command for Jean: “Stop pulling at it, chéri. You’ll ruin the silk.”
Jean’s hand drops immediately.
We reach the restaurant a few steps later—one of Hessou’s favorites. It’s a place where velvet cushions line the banquettes, the silverware glows from being polished twice, and the ma?tre d’ smiles before we even open the door.
Jean hesitates at the threshold, stiffening like a stable boy caught inside a dream he isn’t sure he’s allowed to have. He shifts beside me, a little embarrassed, as if he’s waiting for someone to tap him on the shoulder and say not you.
The ma?tre d’ guides us through the opulent hush of the restaurant, past gilt mirrors and white-linen tables, then farther still—through a narrow archway half-hidden behind a heavy velvet panel that drapes not fully closed, but enough to suggest separation.
It isn’t a private room, but it feels like one.
Intimate, but visible to those who know how to look.
I wonder how much Hessou paid for the privilege. Not the booth, but for the waiter’s discretion, the ma?tre d’s silence. Hessou has always liked it risky. Suggested indecency is good, but actual indecent acts in public places is his favorite kind.
We slide into the crescent-shaped banquette, Jean in the middle by quiet design.
He hesitates, then sinks down with an awkward grace, his legs falling open a little too wide.
I settle to his right and Hessou takes the left, and I know we must look like two mad men claiming something that’s already ours.
“What’s that smell?” Jean asks under his breath.
“Brine and desire,” I say.
“Mostly oysters,” Hessou translates, his voice lazy as he removes his gloves, one finger at a time, laying them beside his plate.
The waiter arrives, and Hessou orders with the calm authority of someone who always knows better than anyone else in the room. I don’t even glance at the menu. He orders for me the way one might for a wife or a favorite pet—no offense taken. I trust his taste.
White wine is poured and bread is placed on a silver tray between us.
The waiter vanishes. Jean grabs a piece instantly, tearing it with his hands and stuffing a huge bite into his mouth like we’ve starved him.
Hessou watches him chew with soft amusement—anyone else other than Jean would be judged so badly, I’d feel sorry for them.
Then, the oysters arrive on a bed of shaved ice inside a vast silver basin, glistening and obscene. I select one, and work the fork gently to loosen the meat, then I lift the shell between my fingers, holding it near Jean’s mouth.
“Open.”
His lips part without protest.
I slide the oyster into his mouth, watching his expression twist the instant the cold hits his tongue. He jerks, gags, and swallows as if it’s a betrayal.
“That’s not food,” he gasps. “That’s— That’s a prank.”
A burst of laughter escapes me before I can stop it. Even Hessou snorts, shaking his head as he sips his wine.