Hull Heat
"Fishmonger Obi has the freshest catch in Hull. When restaurant owner Faith needs supplies after hours, he delivers more than she ordered."
Faith's restaurant was Hull's best-kept secret. Nigerian-British fusion, fresh ingredients, word-of-mouth only. And she owed half her success to Obi's fish.
"Late delivery today," he said, appearing at her back door at 8 PM. "Boat was delayed."
"Better late than never." She held the door open. "Bring it in."
He was a big man, Igbo, with hands that could fillet a fish in seconds and arms that carried crates like they weighed nothing. Faith had been fantasizing about those arms for months.
"Kitchen's closed," he noted, looking around.
"Just finished service." She started unpacking his delivery. "You can stay. Have something to eat."
She fed him jollof rice and fried plantain while he told her about the day's catch. Easy conversation, easier silences. Outside, Hull went quiet.
"You never told me why you started this restaurant," he said.
"Wanted to prove Nigerian food could work here. Everyone said it wouldn't."
"Everyone was wrong."
"They usually are." She met his eyes. "You ever do things people say you shouldn't?"
"Like what?"
"Like stay late with a woman who's been thinking about you since the first time you delivered fish."
The air between them changed. Faith saw his eyes travel down her body—still in her chef's whites, flour-dusted and warm from the kitchen.
"Faith..."
"I know. You're my supplier. It's unprofessional." She stepped closer. "But my kitchen, my rules."
"Your rules?"
"My rules say I've been alone too long, and you've been looking at me for months, and we're both adults who don't have to justify anything to anyone."
He answered by pulling her against him. The kiss tasted like the spices she'd been cooking all day.
They didn't make it out of the kitchen. He lifted her onto the prep counter, spreading her thick thighs.
"I've wanted this," he admitted, pushing up her whites. "Every delivery, wondering what you looked like under these clothes."
"Now you get to find out."
He unwrapped her like she was precious cargo. Her body was soft and full, built by years of tasting her own cooking. He seemed to appreciate every curve.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
"Stop talking and show me."
He showed her. Right there on her kitchen counter, with the smell of spices still in the air. His strength was obvious—he held her, moved her, controlled the rhythm without making it feel like control.
"Yes—there—don't stop—"
She came with his name on her lips, gripping his shoulders. He followed soon after, shuddering against her.
"Same time next week?" she asked when they'd caught their breath.
"I could do earlier deliveries. More frequent."
"I'd like that." She kissed him. "I'd like that very much."
Obi's deliveries became suspiciously regular. Nobody questioned why Faith's fish was always the freshest in town, or why she seemed happier than she'd been in years.
"Secret ingredient," she'd say when customers asked about her glow.
The secret was a six-foot fishmonger who knew exactly how to handle his catch. And Faith wasn't planning on changing suppliers anytime soon.
"You're good for business," she told him one night.
"You're good for everything," he replied.
Hull's best restaurant got even better. And so did Faith's after-hours menu.