Whirlwind

24

[Riley]

"Mm, this is so good." 

A moan was the only audible sound that fled my lips as I savored the sweet taste of whatever dessert Tate had me trying. It was no secret that he knew his way around the kitchen, and even with his eyes closed Tate could still prepare some of the most foreign and appetizing meals I've ever indulged in. His desserts though, they were top tier maybe even orgasmic if I had to add another adjective to describe them. I had no problem conversing with him for over an hour now as he fixed us both dinner then transitioned over to his self-made aphrodisiacs. "What is this called again?"

"The warm base you're tasting is called Zabaglione," He accentuated as if he were an Italian breed himself. "It's egg yolk, sugar, and a saccharine wine called Marsala whisked together. I added the strawberries in there for the hell of it. Do you like it?"

"I love it! What's the purpose for warming it other than it being part of the original recipe?"

"It just tastes better on the tongue that way and easier to swallow." Tate stated coolly, and I was sure the sexual innuendo I caught drag of wasn't intended. Especially since he had yet to look up from the pot of hot elements cooking on the stove to his second dessert of the night.

"Is that right?" I quizzed, hoping my roguish tone would catch his attention. It did though, Tate had finally glanced up from the stove noticing in that moment his statement had an interesting play on words that only tainted my already aroused thoughts.

"That came out all wrong, didn't it?"

"Yeah, it did," I admitted as a smirk spread along my lips, placing the small glass bowl held in my hand beside me. "How about this. When I was younger my mom used to bake all the time, and as you probably can imagine, I was that kid that sat on top of the counter and waited to clean the bowl out."

"Oh, so you're used to watching people slave in the kitchen until they feed you?" He teased, speaking nothing but the truth. 

I was never that girl who cooked and I wasn't going to start acting as if I was now. Most of the time I ordered take out and if I did utilize my kitchen it wasn't for anything major. Having someone, and a man might I add, cook for me and not mind was a blessing in itself; a blessing I took advantage of too.

"I mean, yeah I am." I chuckled while shrugging.

"Have you ever tried to cook?"

"You know, my mom tried to teach me when I was in high school. This one time, I think I was about fifteen, she held me responsible for watching the greens and making the cornbread for Thanksgiving dinner. Mind you this was the one year out of all years everyone came to our house to celebrate. So me being a busy body and not caring or knowing when to lift the lid and stir, or how to whip the cornbread ingredients, I ruined two of the main dishes of the night. Somehow she saved dinner though, but I told myself I was better off making reservations or something with no more than five steps of preparation."

"You burned greens, Riley?" Tate continued on to gradually stir his mixture of what was now beginning to smell of coco and something else smooth on the nose. My place on the counter remained as flashbacks of my childhood became vivid before me, almost as if I were existing in those moments right now. My father was one of the main images that my thoughts couldn't help but settle on. That itself reminded me how much I missed him, something I was afraid to admit.

"They weren't quite burnt, just a bit overcooked," I insisted, my laughing rising at the mere thought of the holidays with a large black family. "She should've just called them spicy greens and those folks would've dealt. The issue was my mother wanted to appease my father's side of the family while doing the same for her own. So she was left cooking soul food while trying to create Trinidad's top dishes. "