Ilford Inferno
"Zara runs the hottest Caribbean restaurant in Ilford—both for her jerk chicken and her curves. When food critic Marcus gives her a bad review, she invites him back for a private tasting that changes everything."
The review had been scathing. "Bland seasoning, overcooked plantain, and service as cold as the rum punch was warm." Marcus had published it three weeks ago and hadn't thought about it since.
Until Zara's message appeared in his DMs.
"Come back. After hours. Let me change your mind—or prove you right. Either way, you eat free."
Professional curiosity. That's what he told himself as he drove to Ilford at 10 PM.
The restaurant was empty when he arrived, chairs stacked on tables, but the kitchen light was on. Zara met him at the door, and he realized his review had left out the most important detail.
The owner was breathtaking.
Trinidadian curves barely contained by a chef's whites that she'd customized—buttons straining, fabric tight across her generous hips. Her skin was dark as her coffee, her lips full, her eyes challenging.
"The famous Marcus. The man who said my jerk was—what was it?—'disappointingly mild.'"
"I stand by my palate."
"Then sit. Let me burn it clean."
Course after course came from that kitchen, and Marcus ate his words along with everything else. The pepper sauce alone made him sweat through his shirt. The goat curry was transcendent. By the time dessert arrived—a rum cake so moist it was almost obscene—he was ready to rewrite his entire review.
"Well?" Zara asked, standing over him with her arms crossed, her chest heaving with each breath.
"I was wrong. This is... incredible."
"Damn right it is." She leaned down, her face inches from his. "You insulted my food. My passion. My heritage. You know what that deserves?"
"What?"
"Punishment."
She kissed him with the intensity of her cooking—hot, spicy, overwhelming. Her hands pulled at his clothes while her tongue explored his mouth.
"In the kitchen," she breathed. "Where you disrespected me. That's where you're going to make it up to me."
She led him to the prep station, sweeping containers aside, and hoisted herself onto the stainless steel surface. Her chef's pants came off, revealing thick thighs and no underwear.
"Taste this," she commanded, spreading her legs. "Tell me if it's bland."
Marcus knelt between her thighs and worshipped her. She was sweet and tangy and utterly addictive—better than any dish she'd served. Her hands gripped his head, pushing him deeper.
"That's it... yes... now you're getting the flavors..."
She came against his mouth, crying out words in patois that needed no translation. Before she'd finished shaking, she was pulling him up, freeing him from his trousers.
"Inside me. Now."
He obliged. The steel table was cold against his thighs, but Zara was furnace-hot. She wrapped her thick legs around him and pulled him deep.
"Harder," she demanded. "Cook me like you mean it."
He pounded into her on that prep station, the industrial kitchen echoing with their sounds. She reached back to grip the edge, her chef's whites falling open to reveal her full breasts bouncing with each thrust.
"Yes! Yes! Right there, don't stop!"
She came again, her whole body tensing, and the sight of her—this magnificent woman undone in her own domain—pushed him over the edge too. He finished inside her with a groan that rattled the hanging pans.
Afterward, they sat on the kitchen floor, sharing the last of the rum cake, barely dressed.
"So," Zara said, "you updating that review?"
"Five stars. Might be the best meal of my life."
She laughed, that rich Caribbean sound. "The food or the dessert?"
"All of it." He pulled her close. "When can I book another private tasting?"
"For you? The kitchen's always open." She kissed him, tasting of rum and sugar. "But next time, you're helping me cook. And we're doing it naked."
Marcus had never looked forward to a meal more. His Ilford inferno had set him on fire, and he never wanted to cool down.