Hackney Heat
"Caribbean food truck owner Shanice gets more than she bargained for when she hires a new chef—a thick Bajan woman with magical hands and an appetite that extends beyond cooking."
Shanice needed help with the truck. Hackney's Caribbean food festival was in two weeks, and she was drowning in orders.
Then Marcia walked in for the interview, and Shanice forgot how to speak.
The woman was gorgeous. Thick in all the places that mattered—breasts straining against her chef's whites, hips wide enough to make Shanice's mouth water, skin the color of dark chocolate.
"You the owner?" Marcia asked in her lilting Bajan accent.
"Y-yes. Shanice."
"Good. I can start today."
Working together in the tiny truck was torture.
Every time Marcia reached past her, those breasts brushed against Shanice's back. Every time she bent to grab supplies, that magnificent ass was right there. And the sounds she made tasting the food—little moans that went straight to Shanice's core.
"You okay, boss?" Marcia asked one afternoon. "You look flushed."
"Fine. Just hot in here."
Marcia's eyes glinted. "Could always get hotter."
The festival night arrived. They'd sold out by nine, and the adrenaline was pumping.
"Drink?" Shanice offered, pulling out a bottle of rum.
"Thought you'd never ask."
They sat in the back of the closed truck, passing the bottle, thighs touching.
"I know you've been looking at me," Marcia said. "These two weeks. Thought I wouldn't notice?"
Shanice's heart pounded. "I wasn't—"
"Don't lie to me." Marcia took the bottle and set it aside. "Question is, you gonna keep looking? Or you gonna do something?"
Shanice did something.
She kissed Marcia right there in the truck, hands finally touching what she'd been dreaming about. Marcia kissed back harder, pulling Shanice onto her lap.
"God, I wanted this," Marcia breathed. "Wanted you so bad."
Clothes disappeared. In the cramped space, they made it work—Marcia's mouth on her breasts, her fingers inside Shanice, thick thighs trapping her in the best possible way.
When Shanice came, she bit Marcia's shoulder to muffle the scream.
"My turn," Marcia demanded.
Shanice dropped to her knees. The space was tiny, but she didn't care. She buried her face between Marcia's thick thighs and made her chef sing.
Marcia's hands gripped her hair. "Yes! Don't stop! Just like that!"
The truck rocked. Outside, the festival continued. Neither woman cared.
They stumbled out of the truck at midnight, disheveled and satisfied.
"So," Marcia said, straightening her clothes. "Same time tomorrow? The truck, I mean. And... everything else."
Shanice grinned. "You're hired. Permanently."
Their food truck became famous in Hackney—but the real magic happened after closing time.
Two thick Caribbean women making more heat than any jerk chicken ever could.