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We drank the better part of the bottle of Côtes du Rhône that I had opened. With his fair skin, the flush of the wine went to Illya's cheeks and lips far before mine. His lips were beginning to show the traces of a stain, and I found myself imagining the flavor of his mouth, thinking that it would taste like the ripest plum, or the glittering, juicy red of a pomegranate. Lost in my thoughts, I didn't hear Illya's question until he cleared his throat softly.
"Napoleon. Shall we indulge in something sweet?"
"Yes, yes, shall we?" I murmured, looking more at his lips than anything else, knowing that somehow I would taste that forbidden fruit tonight.
I told Illya to sit in the living room, then I would join him in a moment. I told him to put anything he wished to hear on the hi-fi, while I tided the kitchen and returned with coffee and our desserts. While I stacked the plates in the sink and poured water from the kettle into the French press, I searched for the whisk in my drawer.
Earlier in the evening, I had placed a small amount of sugar, one vanilla bean, and good quality heavy whipping cream into a bowl and put it in my ice box. By now it was sufficiently chilled, and the perfect temperature to make one of the few things I could create in the kitchen: vanilla whipped cream. I beat the mixture in the bowl vigorously, until the folds were light, fluffy and looked like white peaks. It was perfect. I put the bowl on a lacquered tray along with two cups and the French press pot, and started toward the living room.
"What's playing, Illya?"
"Feathers. I thought you might like it."
I did like it. It had a sultry yet mysterious quality to it, much like the man sitting across from me. I poured a cup of coffee and gave it to him. He eyed the bowl of whipped cream ravenously.
"Did you make this?"
"Indeed I did."
Illya stuck a small spoon into the mixture. He sniffed it cautiously, then stuck it in his mouth. He moaned rapturously, closing his eyes slightly in pleasure. "It's light and airy, with a hint of ... vanilla?"
"Yes. I find coffee goes well with it.
"It does. Nicely."
We sat in appreciative silence. My nerves were starting to fray, ever so slightly, the only giveaway the light tremor of my hand against my coffee cup. The slightest noise did not escape Illya.
"Are you feeling well?"
I swallowed hard, and I could feel the blood pumping faster, almost certain that I was beginning to flush.
"Fine. Everything's fine, partner mine."
He smiled, took a heaped spoonful of the cream and licked it slowly off of the spoon. then Illya rose, bent closer to my ear, and whispered, "Ah, Napoleon. Now the hunter is captured by the game, eh?"
My next thought was wiped away with the sensation of his lips on mine. I blindly held onto his shoulders, then ran my hands through his hair, feeling its softness, tasting the splendor of his mouth. The coffee, vanilla, sugar, and hint of the superior red wine we had drank all blended together in a tasty, sublime kiss. All the while, his continued his exploration of my mouth, his tongue plundering, seeking mine. I could only sit there, half in heaven, half wondering if I had drank too much of the wine at dinner and was hallucinating. If it was a fantasy, I did not want to wake up, for his kiss was everything I dreamed about and more.
When he paused and allowed me to breathe again, I looked up into those guileless blue eyes. Illya smiled at me, then ran a finger down my jaw.
"That was a fine treat, Napoleon. Sweet, sweet... But I asked about dessert."