Grenada Spice
"Spice plantation owner Celestine shows visiting buyer Jonathan that Grenadian nutmeg isn't the only thing on her island that's warm, aromatic, and absolutely intoxicating."
The plantation spread across the Grenadian hillside like a green paradise. Jonathan had come for nutmeg contracts. He got much more.
Celestine met him at the gates—thick, dark, dressed in white linen that the breeze made transparent at the edges. Her family had grown spices here for generations.
"Welcome to Paradise Estate. Let mi show yuh around."
She showed him the nutmeg trees, the cinnamon bark, the cloves drying in the sun. All the while, her body moved beside his, that natural Caribbean grace hypnotizing him.
"Yuh interested in more than spices," she observed.
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yuh been watching mi hips, not mi trees." She smiled. "Is okay. Mi don't mind."
Dinner on her veranda. Local food, local rum, her local beauty glowing in candlelight.
"The contract," he started.
"Will still be there tomorrow." She stood, held out her hand. "Tonight, mi show yuh why they call Grenada the Spice Island."
Her bedroom smelled like everything that grew on her land—warm, complex, intoxicating. That thick body was spice itself, making his head swim.
"Taste mi," she commanded. "Tell mi what yuh detect."
He tasted every inch. Found flavors he couldn't name.
"Celestine..."
"Shhh. Just feel."
She rode him like the trade winds—warm, steady, building to something unstoppable. Her thick thighs gripping, her moans filling the tropical night.
"Yes! Give mi everything! Yes!"
They came together, voices lost in the plantation's endless green.
The contract signed the next morning. Jonathan extended his trip.
Then extended his life. Now he runs the export side while Celestine runs the land.
Partners in business. Partners in bed.
Grenada gave him spice beyond measure.
And Celestine gave him home.