Spicy Hot
Déessei can't sleep until i feel your touchi can feel you tremble when we touchcraving your touchinward trembling
She arranges the dishes on the low table near the fireplace, lights the fire prepared in advance, nods, and withdraws.
The smell reaches us: a clear consommé, fresh bread, fish in white sauce, tender vegetables. Strawberries. Chocolate. Light, soothing things. Things for invalids, or for lovers.
— Come.
I help her up, guide her to the large armchair by the fire. I sit first, then settle her on my lap, sideways, like a child or a mistress. The robe falls open over her legs. She instinctively nestles against me, seeking warmth.
I take the silver tureen. The consommé steams, golden.