Barbados Beauty
"Rum distillery tour guide Isabelle shows whisky expert Connor that Bajan rum isn't the only thing on the island that goes down smooth and leaves you intoxicated."
Connor had written books about Scotch. Won awards. Thought he knew spirits.
Then Isabelle poured him Mount Gay XO and his world changed.
"Yuh face," she laughed, that thick body shaking with amusement. "Scotch man discovering real rum."
She was his tour guide, dark and devastating in the distillery whites, curves that made the uniform interesting.
"Can I try more?"
"Stay after the tour. Mi show yuh the private collection."
The private collection was in a cellar only staff knew about. Barrels from the 1800s. Bottles worth thousands.
"This," she said, pouring something amber and ancient, "is special. For special people."
"Why am I special?"
"Because yuh looked at my rum the way most men look at mi body." She sipped, watching him. "Is refreshing."
One bottle became two. The cellar grew warmer—or maybe that was them.
"Yuh married?" she asked.
"Divorced."
"Good." She set down her glass. "Because mi about to do something unprofessional."
She kissed him between the barrels, tasting like aged rum and promise. That thick body pressed against oak and history, her moans echoing in the stone cellar.
"Yuh know how long since I had a man who appreciated fine things?" she breathed.
"Show me how you want to be appreciated."
She showed him. In detail.
Against the barrels. On the tasting table. Between casks worth more than his car. Her thick thighs wrapped around him, her cries bouncing off centuries-old walls.
"Yes! Connor! Yes!"
They christened the private collection thoroughly.
His article on Barbados rum won awards. What it didn't mention was how he'd researched it.
Now he visits quarterly. For "research."
Isabelle picks him up at the airport, takes him straight to the cellar.
The rum is secondary.
She's the real treasure.
And she goes down smooth every time.