"Melt the chocolate in a heavy saucepan over water. Add the egg yolks, espresso, and creme de cacao."
I love the moment when the moistened folds deep inside of you become like heavy cream beaten, soft and thick, concupiscent, your pussy the bowl, my fingers the beater.
As I go down on you, I am reminded of all the desserts I love best, the ones of luscious ambiguity, neither liquid nor solid, but a combination of both: mousse, Key Lime pie, vanilla ice cream, soufflé, a banana split, creme brule, raspberries.
"Stir together till smooth."
I dip my finger into your bowl. Your pussy holds me in rapt attention, and I want to suspend time, luxuriating inside of you, Ulysses remaining on Circe's island. I stir gently, no desire to depart.
"If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth."
As I feel you starting to firm, I start warming you gently, one hand over your heart, caressing your breast, the other smoothing you out, palm over labia, a finger stroking each lip, deliberately, persistently, then up inside, circling in the come hither motion, a spatula stirring inside the bowl.
"Then let cool."
I look at your face, and I listen to your breathing, slow at first, then quicker. I pull out my fingers and let you lick them like a father giving his child a spoon of cookie dough behind the mom's back. You are ravenous. You lick fervently.
You have taken me beautifully today, waking me with a kiss, feeding the morning hunger of our skin and heart, gorging on me, then straddling me, letting me drink from your cup of morning juices. It's my solace, my joy, to reciprocate.
"Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks."
I love raspberries. They are my favorite dessert, just eating them straight. I love to watch nipples become taut, berried up, on the peak of a bosom. I tongue and twist and bite-love your nipples. They hold their peaks.