Camberwell Cream
"Barista Aisha makes the best coffee in South London from her Camberwell café. When regular customer Marcus finally stays past closing, she shows him her most exclusive blend."
Marcus had been coming to Aisha's café for eight months. Same order every day—cortado with oat milk, extra shot. Same smile every day—hers, bright and devastating.
He'd never stayed past 5 PM. Until the day his meeting canceled and her closing staff called in sick.
"I'll help you close," he offered.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Her smile changed then—something new flickering behind it.
"Okay. But first, let me make you something special."
The café was different after dark—intimate, quiet, filled with the smell of coffee and possibility. Aisha worked the espresso machine while Marcus wiped tables, both sneaking glances.
"Here." She handed him a drink he'd never seen her make. "My private blend. Not on the menu."
He tasted it—rich, complex, with notes of chocolate and something floral. Like her, it was unexpected beauty.
"It's incredible."
"It's called 'Cream Dream.'" She sat beside him. "I made it for someone specific. Someone I've been wanting to share things with."
"Someone?"
"You, Marcus. Obviously you."
She kissed like her coffee tasted—intense, layered, warming you from the inside out. Her curves pressed against him as she climbed into his lap right there in the booth.
"I've wanted this for so long," she breathed.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Why didn't you?"
Fair point. He stopped asking questions and started answering with his hands.
Her barista apron came off, then her shirt, revealing full breasts barely contained by a lace bra. Her Somali curves were magnificent—thick waist, full hips, thighs that promised warmth.
"Touch me. Like you've been imagining."
"How do you know I've been imagining?"
"Please. I see you watching me over that cortado every morning."
She guided his hands, showing him exactly what she wanted. And he gave it to her—right there in the booth, then on the counter, then bent over the espresso machine she loved so much.
"Yes! Yes! Right there!"
She came against the coffee equipment, her moans drowning out the ambient jazz. He followed, and they collapsed against the bar, breathing hard.
"Best closing shift ever," she managed.
"Can I help tomorrow too?"
"You can help every day." She kissed him softly. "But only if you promise to stick around for the good stuff."
"The coffee?"
"Everything." She pulled him close. "I make more than drinks, Marcus. I make moments. And I want to make them with you."
From then on, Marcus arrived early and stayed late. The café regulars noticed something different—in Aisha's smile, in his devotion, in the way they looked at each other across the steam.
"Your usual?" she'd ask each morning.
"And whatever comes after."
His Camberwell cream was the best thing he'd ever tasted. And Marcus intended to keep coming back for refills.