Chapter 8 Grams
I call it Crème Trois.
Because everything I love now comes in threes.
Three feelings in a perfect custard: silk, warmth, and sugar. Three tones in the scent of a man: salt, skin, and musk. Three names on my mind every morning, though only two ever pass my lips.
Butter, jam, and the smoke scent that clings to Hessou’s skin.
Jean’s neck, Hessou’s mouth, my own taste.
Desire, invention, ruin.
Lust, need, love.
We are in the kitchen when I say all this out loud.
The bakery’s almost finished now—floor scrubbed, copper polished, the counters gleaming with new marble.
The wrought-iron sign above the front door is already gilded in gold leaf, even though I still haven’t chosen what to write on it.
La Crème Secrète, perhaps. Or maybe nothing. Let them smell their way in.
I could open tomorrow if I wanted. There’s already gossip about it, I’ve heard. The restored building with the Parisian madman. The one with gold on the sign and strange smells coming from the chimney.
But I don’t want to open yet.
Because for now, everything that matters is here, in this room.
Hessou has been back for three days now.
Munich held him hostage for a fortnight—some perfumer’s congress, which sounds more tedious than it probably was.
He left a vial of something illegal and floral that smells exactly of his skin in the half-sleep of morning.
I’ve been rubbing it on my wrists like a woman in mourning.
Now he’s back where he belongs. Slouched in a sunbeam at my kitchen table, expensive in the bored, unbothered way that only old money can perfect. Jean’s next to him, still damp from the bath he took after I covered him in melted chocolate a couple of hours ago.
They both watch me like I’m something explosive. It’s how they always look at me when I bring out a covered dish.
I make a little show of lifting the silver cloche.
“Crème Trois,” I declare.
They stare at the plate: a single custard tart, baked in a gold-rimmed tin, topped with glazed figs, dark chocolate shavings, and one perfect rose petal.
It’s the tart.
It’s what I’ve been chasing since the beginning—since I stood in this ruined kitchen months ago with my sleeves rolled up and nothing but hunger in my chest. What I’ve been dreaming about while tasting skin and salt and sweat.
What I’ve failed to make again and again, even with all the ingredients in France.
But this one… I got it right.
“It’s done. Finally.”
Hessou smiles lazily.
“La recette?”
He doesn’t need me to answer. He knows what it is because he’s had it on his tongue more times than either of us can count—straight from my mouth, from Jean’s cock, from the times both of them came inside me.
He knows it from the nights when we take Jean together and everything mixes until the boundary of who gave what stops existing.
And this is ours. Mine, his, Jean’s. All three.
I take the knife and cut three slices.
Jean is the first to lift his fork. His eyes drift shut and a shiver takes him from head to toe.
“Bon?” I ask.
“It’s… I don’t know how to say it. It’s not just sweet. It’s—” He looks down at the plate, breath catching. “Warm. The way I feel when I’m full. But not from food. I mean…”
Hessou, watching him. “Comme l’amour.”
“Yes,” Jean says, with a smile. “It tastes like love turned into something we can eat.”
I take a bite of my own.
The custard gives in the moment it touches warmth. The figs carry a kind of ripeness that borders on indecent for this hour. The chocolate hits with a bitter edge, a small bite behind something tender. And the rose… that’s me indulging myself.
It works. God, it works. The textures, the depth, the way it lingers on the roof of my mouth like something I’ll never get enough of. When I close my eyes, I taste the three of us—Jean’s sweetness, Hessou’s sharpness, my obsession to bridge them both.
I swallow, and my fingers tremble.
I lick the back of my spoon. Jean steals a second bite from Hessou’s plate, and Hessou lets him, though he lifts one perfectly groomed brow in warning. Jean grins, and Hessou turns his head to kiss him.
Outside, the village is still. The square is swept. Church bells won’t ring for another hour. It feels like time has slowed down just for us.
Hessou puts his fork down. His silk robe falls open a touch at the collar, giving me that long line of his chest. He leans back with the grace of a cat, one hand ghosting over Jean’s bare knee beneath the table.
“Well, now that your masterpiece is finished…” His eyes land on me, amused. “What’s the excuse, mon c?ur?”
I don’t answer. I collect the last streak of custard with my finger and clean it off slowly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “You know what I want.”
“Oh, I know. You want to shut yourself in this kitchen, buried in flour and sugar, making fifty variations of the same tart until your hands fall off.”
“That was the plan. Until you ruined it.”
He laughs.
Jean looks between us, blinking. “Ruined?”
“Improved,” Hessou corrects. “Expanded. Set on fire, kissed it better, and then wrapped in velvet.”
He reaches over and curls a hand behind my neck. I don’t resist when he pulls me forward and kisses my mouth, still tasting of us.
“I want to go,” he murmurs against my lips. “We said we would.”
Jean sets his fork down. “Go where?”
“Everywhere. Everywhere I’ve touched with my nose. Everywhere I’ve stolen scents. Everywhere Louis has read about in his dirty little cookbooks.”
“Dirty? They’re antique.”
“They’re pornographic.”
“You mean… you two have traveled together before?”
“Years ago,” I say. “Before I knew what I was doing. Before the patisserie. Before everything.”
“Before you broke my heart,” Hessou adds, smiling like he wants me to hit him.
“I did no such thing. You ran off to Germany.”
“I ran off to mourn you in style, mon amour. And to learn a few things I wouldn’t learn from licking sugar off your fingers.”
Jean swallows.
He likes that image.
“Well,” Hessou says, “it’s time we do it properly. The three of us out in the world.”
He leans forward, eyes bright with the particular intensity of when he’s serious.
When it’s not just about fucking or teasing or smelling out someone’s secrets for the fun of it.
This is the Hessou that terrified his professors, seduced investors, created scents that left women in tears and made men forget themselves.
Jean shakes his head.
“I’ve never been on a train, let alone a ship. I don’t even own a passport.”
“You’ll have one,” I say. “We’ll see to it.”
“I don’t speak anything but French.”
“We’ll teach you,” Hessou says. “I can teach you while I fuck you. You’ll learn fast.”
Jean laughs. He looks delighted with the idea.
“You’d really want me to come?” he asks then, voice small.
“I’d sooner die of boredom in this place than leave you behind.”
Jean flushes deeper, eyes bright. My own heartbeat kicks at the sound of those words.
“I’ll show you things.” Hessou takes Jean’s hand and kisses his knuckles.
“Things most people never hear of. There’s a cave in the mountains of Yemen where the air is so full of myrrh you’ll hallucinate from breathing.
There’s a temple in Kyoto where the monks cultivate a rare moss that, when burned, releases an earthy fragrance that I could never replicate.
There’s a perfumer in Cairo who only makes oils for the dead. ”
“And when I’ve shown you both my world,” Hessou continues, “Louis will show his. He’ll make us taste whatever poison he’s been dreaming up. And then…”
He trails off.
“And then?” I ask, leaning forward.
He smiles.
“Then we go find a place none of us know. And make it ours.”
Jean has already agreed—I see it in the looseness of his shoulders, in the steady way his eyes hold Hessou’s face.
Hessou sees it too.
He rises, unhurried, letting his robe fall open another inch, and circles the table with soundless steps. When he reaches me, he comes behind my chair and folds his arms across my chest.
I exhale and let myself sink back into him. His mouth grazes my neck. One kiss. Another. Then a pause to breathe me in like he always does, as if scent were more honest than words.
“He’s already said yes. But go on, ask him.”
I smile, resting my hands on his forearms.
“Jean, what do you think?”
Jean stands, his chair scraping across the floor. He’s all warmth and color, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and leaving a smear of cream behind.
Then he kisses me with sticky, sweet lips. It’s a perfect kiss.
His hands find my hips, and I barely have time to gasp before I’m lifted off the chair like I weigh nothing at all. The world tilts. I laugh, caught between surprise and excitement, my feet dangling a foot off the floor.
And then I’m on the table, thighs spread wide to accommodate his bulk. My robe slips, but I don’t care. My palms land flat against the wood, leaning back a little, exposing myself more for him.
Jean steps between my knees and rests one hand on my thigh, the other cupping the side of my jaw, gentle now, thumb brushing my bottom lip. This time, the kiss is slow and indulgent, with much more confidence than ever before.
“I think,” he whispers, forehead against mine, “that I’d go anywhere, if you asked.”
Hessou comes up behind Jean, his hands sweeping up Jean’s chest before reaching forward to brush across mine. He kisses the back of Jean’s neck, then leans in farther to catch my temple.
“I thought I’d make a career here,” I say. “Grow old with the oven. Let the seasons pass.”
“The bakery will be here when we return.” Hessou says. “But for now, let’s go. Let’s leave our mark in the world with more than just sugar and perfume.”
I smile into the crook of Jean’s neck, let my lips trace the salt clinging there, feeling him shudder under my touch. He nuzzles into my chest, breathing deep, his hair damp against my skin. One of his hands strokes my thigh, the other exploring slowly beneath my robe.
Hessou’s lips trace along the curve of my ear, then down the side of my neck.