Day 10: feast Word count: 425
When Mel mentioned she had a strained relationship with food, Frank took it as a personal challenge. Every Friday after work he'd invite her over to his apartment and prepare a feast just for her.
It made her feel bad, all that food going to waste on her. But he assured her it wasn’t, that he would turn her into a foodie in no time.
As was to be expected, after five months of regular dinners together, she still wasn't a foodie. Unexpectedly, though, she had become fascinated by his cooking abilities. Shamefully, she had also become captivated by his eating habits.
Frank had always been expressive, excessively so at times —he said it was the Italian blood on his mother's side. But when they ate together, under the dim lights above his kitchen table, with the low murmur of an old-fashioned, slow song drifting through the apartment, he seemed to forget the world.
He'd tear into the focaccia with his fingers before dipping it into the red Bolognese sauce, moaning softly as the bread hit his tongue. He'd throw his head back, exposing the long line of his neck, after licking the cream of the tiramisu from his spoon. It made Mel blush, to say the least.
To say the most, it made her pulse race and her whole body ache.
It was shameful and weird how much she wanted to eat directly from his mouth. To feel the gravelly hum that escaped him after the third bite of panna cotta vibrating through her as she bit at the tip of his tongue. To make his palm slam against the cold kitchen counter, the same way it had after he'd tasted the five-chocolate brownies, while she licked melted chocolate from his bicep.
It all blew up in her face when he tasted the peach mousse she'd brought—the only thing she knew how to prepare—and moaned. She echoed the sound.
The solo guitar playing somewhere in the apartment suddenly sounded deafening. Time froze. His pupils were blown wide, his expression unreadable, until his gaze dropped to her untouched plate and then slowly climbed back to her face.
Her blush deepened. Without breaking eye contact, he scooped a bit of cream onto his fingertip and licked it clean. Her jaw dropped and another sound escaped her throat. His smile turned into a smirk.
He repeated the motion, but this time he smeared it on his bottom lip and chin.
“Want some?” he asked, not a trace of teasing in his tone.
Finally, she had a feast.