Hackney Heat Wave
"When the summer heat breaks Hackney's air conditioning, Jamaican-British chef Marcia invites her neighbour Ryan to cool off in her flat—where things get even hotter."
Forty degrees in Hackney. The hottest July on record. Ryan's AC had died, and the repair man wasn't coming until Thursday.
A knock. His neighbour Marcia, thick and gorgeous in a sundress that hid nothing.
"Mi have AC. Come nuh, before yuh melt."
He didn't need to be asked twice.
Her flat was cool, smelling of jerk spices and mango. She ran a catering business, and the kitchen was her kingdom.
"Sit. Eat. Yuh too skinny anyway."
She fed him curry goat that made his eyes water. Rum punch that cooled the throat and warmed everything else.
"Better?" she asked.
"Much."
"Good. Because mi have dessert."
Dessert was her.
She kissed him between the kitchen and the bedroom, that thick body pressing him against walls, her hands finding what she wanted.
"Been watching yuh all summer," she breathed. "Time fi stop watching."
"No complaints here."
Her bedroom was paradise. That thick body laid out like a feast, dark skin against white sheets, curves that went forever.
"Taste mi," she commanded. "Tell mi what yuh think."
He tasted. He thought she was heaven.
"Yes! Right there! Don't stop!"
She rode him like the heat wave—intense, unstoppable, making him sweat in the AC cool. Her thick thighs gripped, her moans filled the room, her body took everything he had.
"More! Give mi more!"
He gave her everything. Multiple times.
The heat wave lasted a week. So did Ryan's stay.
"Yuh AC fixed now," she observed on day seven.
"I know."
"Yuh going home?"
He pulled her back into bed. "Why would I do that?"
Marcia laughed and showed him why her flat would always be cooler.
And hotter.
Both at once.