Chapter 7 #2
“She’s better than the opium.”
He means last night, in Hessou’s rooms, with velvet music playing and thick smoke all around us. The three of us melted across his fainting couch, bare feet on thick rugs, limbs loose from the heat and the opium. Absinthe isn’t like that. Absinthe is a green fire instead of drifting fog.
Jean drags a hand through his hair and releases a breath. “That made me feel heavy. This makes me feel… beautiful.”
He does look beautiful. Glowing, even under the haze. Face flushed, pink mouth, collar loose, tie askew. There’s a softness to his expression now that wasn’t there when we walked in.
“You are,” I whisper, and lean in until my nose brushes his temple.
He blinks slowly, then looks between me and Hessou.
“Both of you are,” he murmurs.
His face reddens right after, as if the words escaped too honestly. He buries his cheek against my shoulder in embarrassment, and I feel his smile where his mouth touches my shirt.
Hessou shifts beside me and leans across, lips brushing the side of Jean’s neck with a kiss so deliberate it stills the breath in Jean’s chest. Hessou lingers for a second—then pulls away to sip his absinthe, eyes flicking lazily around the room.
Somewhere near the entrance, a man strips to applause. His nipples are painted rouge, garters snapped high, glitter caught on the curve of his hipbone. He twirls a glove between his fingers before tossing it into the crowd, laughter breaking around him.
Hessou’s hand lifts again, fingers sliding along Jean’s jaw to guide his gaze toward the show.
“You could do that. You’d make a fortune.”
Jean blushes. “No.”
But his hand grips my thigh tighter.
I lean into his ear. “I think you’d look beautiful like that. Bare under lights. In a room full of people who want you, knowing you belong to us.”
Jean inhales sharply. His mouth opens, then closes, like he doesn’t know what to do with the ache blooming behind his ribs.
Then he turns and kisses me.
It isn’t shy.
It’s clumsy, wet, a little too much tongue, but full of want and hunger. His big hands are suddenly in my hair, holding me in place. I groan into it, fingers digging into his shoulder, and when I break the kiss to breathe, Hessou’s mouth is already on my neck.
The room fades.
It’s just us—mouth to mouth, hand to thigh, pulse to pulse.
A triangle of breath, sweat and shared permission.
I don’t know whose hand is on my chest. I don’t know whose tongue flicks into my ear.
I don’t care. My knees are weak under the table.
My cock is hard against my pants. And both of them are watching me like I’m dessert and they’ve just remembered their hunger.
“You boys,” I whisper. “You’re going to ruin me.”
Jean laughs. “You started it.”
We drink more. The lantern throws a red wash across Hessou’s cheekbones. Jean’s eyes gleam. I feel my soul burning bright. We’re free. Unhidden.
It isn’t filth—it’s belonging. Being allowed to be hungry without shame or fear. It’s about the luxury of touch when we can simply be this close, in public, unashamed.
I press a kiss to Jean’s shoulder, feeling it tremble.
Hessou kisses the nape of my neck, and I can feel his breath spiral down across my skin.
Smoke curls upward, mixing with the absinthe haze. We laugh under it.
Someone passes our table, eyebrows raised and a knowing smile.
Hessou bites my neck.
“Do you think anyone is watching us and enjoying the sight?”
“Yes,” Jean says, leaning in to kiss my shoulder and then Hessou’s mouth above it.
“Do you like it?”
Jean hesitates. Then: “Yes.”
The night dissolved into light and shadow after that, into music and laughter and sweat.
Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, we quit pretending we weren’t going to dance.
Hessou pulled me first—dramatic as ever, shirt unbuttoned and collarbone glinting in the dim red light—and I followed as if he’d poured absinthe straight into my veins instead of down my throat.
Then Jean, blushing and radiant, let us take his hands and guide him too. By then, he was too drunk to be shy and we were too far gone to care. He stumbled once, right into my chest, and Hessou laughed so loudly the entire room looked over.
I don’t remember the music that played. Only the press of us together, bodies close, breath warm, sweat clinging. The feeling of Hessou’s cheek on my shoulder, Jean’s solid build pressing against my back, the three of us swaying like our souls belonged to each other.
And they do.
We spilled out onto the main street long after midnight, Hessou signaling for the motorcar he’d hired. I can’t recall a word we said on the drive home. I only remember Jean’s head on my shoulder, and Hessou’s fingers laced with mine.
At the apartment, we drank more—the absinthe he’d bought on our first outing. Only this time, instead of sugar cubes, we used something sweeter. Something richer. Something that came with a moan and a kiss and devotion behind it.
That night Jean fucked Hessou for the first time.
That night I fucked Jean, both of us shaking and gasping.
That night we fell asleep tangled in limbs, mouths still sticky, skin still wet, heartbeats still wild under our ribs.
We didn’t rise again until the next evening, and even then, only because our bodies, it turned out, hadn’t had nearly enough.