There is something so innately sensual about food.
Long lingering glances over linguine carelessly twirled around a fork, slick with a rich sauce.
Tearing off heavy chunks of crisp, fluffy bread and dredging them in the seafoody sweetness of vongole simmered with white wine, or mopping up the remnants of a rustic coq au vin or beef shortrib, fingers licked with carnal abandon.
The suggestive slip of a cool, fresh oyster with just a squeeze of lemon, no more and no less, to enhance the briny oceaness that says you may not know it, but I want you now and I will have you.
