Forest Hill Fantasy

Derek had written thirty children's books, but none had found the right illustrator. Until he saw Chiamaka's portfolio—watercolors that made fantasy feel real, colors that danced off the page.

Her Forest Hill cottage was cluttered with art supplies and finished pieces. But the real artwork was her—Nigerian curves in paint-spattered dungarees, natural hair crowned with pencils, and eyes that saw worlds others couldn't imagine.

"Your writing," she said, reviewing his manuscript. "It's beautiful. Magical."

"It needs your pictures to complete it."

"Then let's create something together."

They worked for weeks—trading drafts, sharing visions, building a world page by page. Late nights became routine, delivery containers piling up, the line between work and something else blurring.

One evening, reviewing a particularly emotional scene, their hands touched over a drawing. Neither pulled away.

"Derek," she said softly, "what are we doing?"

"I don't know. But I don't want to stop."

"Neither do I."

The first kiss tasted like the mint tea she always made, sweet and unexpected. She pulled him toward her studio couch, already tugging at his shirt.

"I've imagined this," she admitted. "Drew sketches I'll never show you."

"Show me in person instead."

Her dungarees came off to reveal a body as fantastical as her art—thick and soft, curves like hills in a fairy tale landscape. He explored her like uncharted territory.

"Yes... there... that's perfect..."

She painted his skin while they made love—brushstrokes of color trailing down his chest as she rode him. Her thick hips rolled like waves, her breasts bouncing gently, her artist's eyes never closing.

"You're beautiful," she breathed. "Want to remember this."

"Then don't stop."

She didn't. She rode him through one climax, then another, her paint-covered hands leaving masterpieces on his skin.

"The floor," she gasped. "I need you on the floor."

They moved to the paint-stained hardwood, and she lay back, spreading her thick thighs. He entered her again, surrounded by her creations.

"Yes! Derek! Yes!"

She came screaming, her body arching off the floor, knocking over a jar of brushes. He followed, collapsing into her arms among the scattered art supplies.

Later, still naked, they surveyed the damage—paint everywhere, pencils scattered, but neither caring.

"The book," Derek said. "We should finish it."

"We will." She pulled him close. "But I have another project in mind first."

"Another book?"

"Another collaboration. Personal. Ongoing." She kissed him softly. "Interested?"

"Where do I sign?"

His Forest Hill fantasy had become reality. And Derek had found the illustrator for everything he wanted to create.