Islington Inferno
"Food critic Amara's scathing reviews have made enemies across London—until a thick Nigerian chef named Chidi invites her to a private dinner to change her mind, one course at a time."
Amara's pen had destroyed restaurants.
Her reviews in the Evening Standard were legendary—brutal, precise, career-ending.
So when Chidi Okafor invited her to a private tasting at his Islington restaurant, she expected begging.
She didn't expect him.
Thick. Gorgeous. Arms that made his chef's whites strain at the seams. Eyes that said he wasn't afraid of her at all.
"Let me cook for you," he said. "Then judge."
Seven courses. Each one better than the last.
Nigerian flavors she'd never experienced. Techniques that made her speechless. And throughout, Chidi watching her reactions with intense focus.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I think you're talented."
"And?"
"And I think you're staring at me like I'm the next course."
"You are." He stood and approached her table. "I've read every review you've written. The precision. The passion. The cruelty when something doesn't meet your standards."
"Your point?"
"I want to meet your standards. In everything."
His hand found her chin, tilted her face up.
"Let me feed you one more thing."
The kitchen became the dining room.
He lifted her onto the stainless steel counter, still warm from cooking, and knelt between her thick thighs.
"You want to know real Nigerian flavor?" he murmured.
"Show me."
What followed was not on any menu.
He tasted her with a chef's attention to detail.
Every note, every nuance, every reaction catalogued and responded to. His tongue was as skilled as his knife work.
"Oh God—Chidi—"
"Don't critique. Just feel."
She felt. Completely.
They made love against every surface in that kitchen.
The counter. The walk-in cooler. Bent over the prep station where he'd created masterpieces.
"Your review?" he asked afterwards.
"Five stars. Unqualified."
"For the food?"
"For everything."
The review ran the following week.
It was the first truly positive piece Amara had written in years.
Critics talked about her going soft.
She knew the truth: she'd just found someone worth praising.
"Same time next week?" Chidi asked.
"Private tasting?"
"Very private."
Islington's culinary scene had never been more delicious.