Caribbean Heat
"A solo trip to Jamaica turns complicated when she meets a local tour guide half her age. What starts as snorkeling ends somewhere much deeper."
Negril was supposed to be healing.
Fifty years old, freshly divorced, empty nest since my daughter left for grad school. My therapist said I needed "new experiences." My best friend said I needed "to get laid."
Jamaica seemed like a compromise.
I meet him at the resort's activity desk.
"Snorkeling tour?" He smiles, and my stomach does something unexpected. "I'm Damian. I'll be your guide today."
He can't be more than twenty-eight. Skin like molten bronze, locs pulled back, body lean and muscled from obvious time in the water. His accent rolls over me like warm honey.
"Just me today," I manage. "Is that a problem?"
"Private tour?" His eyes travel over me—not rude, but definitely appraising. "No problem at all, beautiful."
The boat is small, just room for two.
Damian navigates us to a cove away from the tourist crowds. The water is impossibly blue, teeming with fish I've only seen in aquariums.
"You've done this before?" he asks, helping me with my gear.
"First time." I'm self-conscious in my swimsuit—a modest one-piece that still can't hide my curves. "Be gentle."
His hand lingers on my waist. "Always, beautiful."
The underwater world is magical.
But I keep getting distracted by Damian. The way he moves through the water like he belongs there. The way he points out creatures with obvious joy. The way his body catches the filtered sunlight.
When we surface for air, I'm not thinking about fish anymore.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're worth staring at."
His grin is devastating. "So are you."
We anchor in a private cove for lunch.
He's packed jerk chicken, festival, and rum punch. We eat on the deck while the boat rocks gently.
"Why Jamaica alone?" he asks. "Woman like you should have men lined up."
"Had one man for twenty-five years. He traded me in for a younger model."
Damian shakes his head. "Fool."
"Excuse me?"
"Your ex. Fool." He sets down his plate. "In Jamaica, we appreciate a woman with substance. Curves. Experience." His eyes hold mine. "Youth is easy. Beauty like yours is rare."
"Damian..."
"I know what you're thinking." He moves closer. "I'm too young. You're on vacation. This can't go anywhere."
"All of those things."
"So think of it differently." His hand finds my knee. "Think of it as... healing. New experiences. What your therapist ordered."
I laugh despite myself. "I didn't tell you about my therapist."
"You have that look. The one that says you're trying to find yourself again." He slides closer. "Maybe I can help."
I kiss him first.
Maybe it's the rum punch. Maybe it's the sun. Maybe it's three years of my husband making me feel invisible before he finally left.
Whatever it is, I grab this beautiful young man and kiss him like I'm drowning.
He kisses back like he's got all the time in the world.
"Inside the cabin," he murmurs. "More comfortable."
The cabin is tiny—just a bed, really—but it's private. He lowers me onto the mattress and covers my body with his.
"Tell me if you want to stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"Good." He finds the strap of my swimsuit. "Because I've been thinking about this since you walked up to my desk."
"Liar."
"Truth." He peels the suit down my shoulders. "Big brown eyes. Curves for days. I was praying you'd book a private tour."
His mouth explores every inch of me.
My neck, my collarbone, the heavy swell of my breasts. He sucks each nipple until I'm arching off the bed, then kisses lower—my belly, my hips, the tops of my thighs.
"Beautiful," he keeps saying. "So beautiful."
"Damian—"
"Shh." He spreads my thighs. "Let me taste the ocean's rival."
His tongue is wicked.
Long, slow licks that build heat like the Caribbean sun. He's in no rush—and why would he be? We're anchored in paradise with nowhere to go.
"That's it," he encourages. "Let go, beautiful. No one can hear you but the fish."
I let go. Come hard against his mouth while the boat rocks with my thrashing.
He doesn't stop until I'm begging.
"Condom?"
"In my bag." He retrieves it, rolls it on while I watch with hungry eyes. He's thick, curved slightly upward, already glistening at the tip.
"You're going to feel so good," I breathe.
"We both are."
He positions himself and slides inside, and the world goes white.
Sex on a boat has a rhythm all its own.
The waves rock us, set a pace that's slow and deep. Damian braces himself above me, muscles flexing, locs swinging with each thrust.
"So tight," he groans. "So hot. Like you were made for me."
"Harder—"
"Not yet." He leans down, kisses me. "We have all day, beautiful. No rush."
He edges me for what feels like hours.
Building me up, backing off. Building again. By the time he finally speeds up, I'm delirious.
"Now," he says. "Come for me now."
I shatter. He follows seconds later, pulsing inside me while we both cry out to the empty cove.
We lay tangled together as the sun moves across the sky.
"What time is it?" I murmur.
"Doesn't matter."
"My resort—"
"Will be there when we get back." He traces patterns on my skin. "Or you could stay. I have a place on the cliffs. Private. Beautiful."
"Damian, I'm old enough to be your—"
"Don't." He lifts his head. "Don't do that. Age is nothing but time. What matters is how you feel right now."
"How do I feel?"
"You tell me."
I think about it. My body is languid, satisfied. My mind is quiet for the first time in months.
"I feel... alive," I admit.
"Then stay." He kisses my shoulder. "Stay as long as you like."
My vacation was supposed to be one week.
I stay for three.
Damian's cliff house has a view of the sunset and a bed that sees a lot of use. We snorkel, we cook, we make love at all hours. He introduces me to his grandmother, who gives me her jerk recipe.
It's not forever. We both know that.
But when I finally board my plane home, I'm not the same woman who arrived.
I'm Veronica—fifty, thick, alive, desired.
And already planning my next trip to Jamaica.
Damian texts me as the plane takes off.
Miss you already, beautiful. The ocean is jealous.
I smile and text back: Save me a private tour.
Always, my love. Always.
Healing comes in unexpected forms.
Sometimes it has locs and a Jamaican accent.
And sometimes three weeks is exactly long enough to remember who you are.