Brockley Bombshell
"Craft beer brewer Folake runs Brockley's best microbrewery. When beer journalist Marcus comes for an exclusive tasting, she introduces him to flavors he never knew existed."
The Brockley Brewery was housed in a railway arch, all exposed brick and copper tanks. But Marcus's attention went straight to the woman emerging from the fermentation room.
Folake was Nigerian-British, built like a goddess, wearing a brewery apron that somehow made flannel look sensual. Her thick figure moved with confidence among the tanks, and her smile when she spotted him could warm any cold brew.
"The famous beer journalist. Ready to be impressed?"
"Always optimistic."
"Then let's begin."
The tasting was extraordinary—chocolate stout, mango IPA, a porter aged in rum barrels that made his eyes water in the best way.
"You're incredibly talented," Marcus admitted.
"I know." She poured them both another sample. "Brewing is about passion. About understanding ingredients so deeply you can feel them. Can you feel, Marcus?"
"Feel?"
"This." She took his hand and placed it on a warm fermentation tank. "Life being created. Transformation happening."
Her hand stayed on his. Her eyes held a different kind of heat.
"Come," she said. "Let me show you the cellar."
The cellar was cool and dark, lined with barrels. She pressed him against one, her thick body warm against his.
"I don't usually do this with journalists."
"What do you usually do?"
"Bore them with chemistry. But you..." She kissed him, tasting of hops and honey. "You're different. You actually care."
"I care about a lot of things right now."
"Show me."
He lifted her onto a barrel, her legs wrapping around his waist. The wood creaked as they moved, surrounded by aging beer and desperate hunger.
"Yes... Marcus... yes..."
She was warm everywhere, her thick thighs gripping him, her full breasts pressing against his chest. She came with a moan that echoed through the cellar.
"More. Against the wall."
He took her against the cool brick, her apron discarded, her magnificent body on full display. She was strong from years of heavy lifting, meeting his thrusts with power of her own.
"Harder! Give me everything!"
The cellar filled with their sounds—gasps, moans, skin against skin. She came twice more before he finally followed, both of them sliding to the floor among the barrels.
"Best tasting I've ever had," he managed.
She laughed, breathless. "We haven't even finished the menu."
Later, back in the taproom, she poured them both a rare vintage from her personal stash.
"This review," she said. "What will it say?"
"That you're the most talented brewer in London. And some things are better experienced than described."
"Diplomatic."
"True."
She clinked her glass against his. "Come back next weekend. I'm bottling a new batch. Could use an extra pair of hands."
"Just hands?"
"To start." Her smile promised more. "We'll see what else you're useful for."
His Brockley bombshell was intoxicating. And Marcus intended to get drunk on her again and again.