Streatham Sweetness
"Baker Morenike's late-night baking sessions get sweeter when she discovers her landlord's grandson—a thick-thighed fitness instructor—has a weakness for curves and cinnamon rolls."
Morenike's bakery opened at six, which meant she was up at three, elbows deep in dough.
She wasn't expecting company.
"Grandma said you'd be awake," said the voice from her kitchen doorway. "I'm Femi. Just moved into the flat upstairs."
She turned to find him—mid-twenties, fit in that personal-trainer way, but with thick thighs that she appreciated. He was holding an empty plate.
"She also said you might have something sweet."
His eyes traveled over her flour-covered body. "Looks like she was right."
He started showing up every night.
3 AM. Her kitchen. Coffee and conversation while she baked.
"Why are you always awake?" she asked.
"Can't sleep." He watched her hands knead dough. "Besides, the view down here is better."
"I'm covered in flour and butter."
"Exactly."
It happened over cinnamon rolls.
She was teaching him to frost them—his hands clumsy, her hands guiding—and suddenly she was pressed against the counter with his body against hers.
"I shouldn't," she said. "You're half my age."
"You're what, thirty-five? I'm twenty-seven. That's not half."
"Still too young."
"Too young for what?" His mouth found her neck. "Because I know exactly what I want."
He lifted her onto the counter—right next to the rising dough.
"Tell me if this is wrong," he said, pushing up her skirt.
"It's definitely wrong."
"Want me to stop?"
"Don't you dare."
He took her right there in the bakery. Flour everywhere, cinnamon in the air, the sweet smell of baking mixed with something much more primal.
Her thick thighs wrapped around him. His hands gripped her curves like he'd been dreaming about them.
"God, you're beautiful," he groaned. "Every inch."
"Less talking. More—oh!—more of that."
The bread rose. So did other things.
By the time the sun came up, they'd christened every surface in that kitchen.
"The health inspector would be appalled," she said, straightening her apron.
"The health inspector doesn't know what they're missing."
The arrangement continued. Every night, 3 AM, he'd come down.
Sometimes they baked. Sometimes they didn't.
"People will talk," she warned. "Your grandmother especially."
"Grandma sent me down here on purpose. She's not stupid." He kissed her forehead. "She wants to see me happy."
"And are you?"
"I'm in a kitchen with the most beautiful woman in Streatham, eating fresh cinnamon rolls and making love until dawn. What do you think?"
The bakery became famous for two things: the best pastries in South London and the glow on the owner's face.
Both were Femi's doing.