Hampstead Hunger
"Wealthy widow Obiageli hasn't felt desire since her husband's death—until the thick Nigerian gardener who tends her Hampstead estate shows her that life still has pleasures to offer."
The Hampstead estate had been silent since Marcus died.
Obiageli wandered through her too-large house, surrounded by too much money and too little life.
Then the agency sent Dara.
The gardener was younger—mid-thirties to her fifty-five—thick with muscle and curves both, hands rough from honest work.
"I'll transform these beds," Dara promised.
Obiageli didn't know which beds she meant.
Days became weeks.
She watched Dara work—sweat glistening on dark skin, thick thighs straining against work trousers. Soil under those strong nails. A smile that made Obiageli feel things she'd thought were buried with her husband.
"You're staring again, ma'am."
"Obiageli. Please."
"You're staring, Obiageli."
"Is that a problem?"
"Depends on what you see."
"I see someone alive," Obiageli confessed. "Someone vital. I used to be vital."
"You still are." Dara set down her trowel and approached. "You're beautiful. Wealthy. Free."
"Free is just another word for lonely."
"Then don't be lonely." Dara's soil-stained hand found her cheek. "Let me tend you like I tend your garden."
In the greenhouse, among the orchids, they found each other.
Dara was gentle but certain. She undressed Obiageli like she was unwrapping something precious.
"You're magnificent," Dara breathed. "Why have you been hiding?"
"No one wanted to look."
"I want to look. I want to touch. I want to taste."
She did all three.
Obiageli came alive under those rough hands, those soft lips. Pleasure she'd forgotten existed cascaded through her as Dara worshipped every curve.
"Oh—Dara—I can't—"
"You can. Let go."
She let go. Completely.
The garden flourished. So did they.
Dara moved from the guest cottage to the main house. From employee to companion. From companion to lover.
"People will talk," Obiageli warned.
"Let them." Dara kissed her forehead. "You've spent enough time caring about others. Care about yourself now."
The Hampstead estate became alive again.
Parties. Laughter. A mistress who glowed with contentment.
"You look different," old friends commented.
"I found a good gardener."
She didn't explain what kind of gardening.
Some beds, she'd learned, just needed the right tender.