Peckham Passion
"Delivery driver Jerome finds himself making a special delivery to Adaeze, a thick Nigerian nurse who knows exactly how to tip a man properly after a long shift."
Jerome had done a thousand deliveries on Peckham Road, but he'd never had one answer the door like this.
Adaeze stood there in nothing but a silk robe, barely tied, her thick Nigerian body glistening like she'd just stepped out of the shower. The robe gaped open enough to show the heavy swell of her breasts, dark nipples barely covered.
"You're late," she said, her accent rich with Lagos. "My food is probably cold."
"Traffic on the Old Kent Road—"
"I don't want excuses." She took the bag, set it aside, and pulled him inside by his shirt. "I want compensation."
The flat was warm, smelling of shea butter and something floral. Jerome barely had time to process before she pushed him against the wall.
"I've been watching you," she breathed against his neck. "Every time you deliver to this building. That body. Those arms. I work twelve-hour shifts at King's College Hospital, and I deserve a treat."
Her hands were already under his shirt, nails dragging across his abs. She was a big woman—thick thighs, wide hips, belly soft and inviting, breasts heavy enough to make his mouth water.
"I could lose my job—"
"Then make it worth it."
She dropped to her knees right there in the hallway.
Her mouth was hot and wet and skilled. She took him deep, those dark eyes looking up at him as she worked. Her hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in, and she made sounds of pleasure like she was the one being serviced.
"Fuck," Jerome groaned. "Where did you learn—"
She pulled off long enough to answer. "Night shifts get boring. I've had time to practice."
Then her mouth was back, and she was doing something with her tongue that made his knees buckle.
When he was close, she stood up, letting the robe fall completely. Her body was magnificent—rolls and curves and soft brown skin that he wanted to worship.
"Bedroom. Now."
She pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top, not even waiting. She sank down onto him with a moan that echoed off the walls.
"Yes! God, I needed this!"
She rode him hard, her thick body bouncing, breasts swaying hypnotically. Her hands pressed against his chest for leverage as she took what she wanted.
"Harder," she demanded. "Give it to me harder!"
Jerome gripped her wide hips and thrust up into her, matching her rhythm. The bed creaked dangerously. She threw her head back and screamed.
They went three rounds. She was insatiable—on top, from behind, bent over her kitchen counter when they went to finally eat the cold food. Each time she came, she got louder, until he was certain the neighbors would complain.
"I work with dying patients all day," she explained between rounds, sprawled across him. "I need to feel alive. You understand?"
He understood.
At midnight, his phone buzzed. Twenty missed deliveries. He was definitely getting fired.
Adaeze saw his face and shrugged. "So? I need a new housekeeper anyway. Live-in position. Lots of benefits."
She demonstrated one of those benefits right there.
By morning, Jerome had a new job, a new address, and a very satisfied Nigerian nurse who promised their arrangement would be permanent.
"Best tip I ever got," he said.
"Baby," she laughed, "you haven't seen anything yet."
Peckham had never felt so much like home.