Hot Springs Heat | Calor de Aguas Termales
"A wellness retreat in Costa Rica leads to steamy encounters in and out of the water"
Hot Springs Heat
Calor de Aguas Termales
The hot springs were supposed to be empty at midnight.
"Oh!" I froze at the edge of the water. "Lo siento. I didn't know anyone was here."
"Neither did I." The voice came from the shadows—female, rich, amused. "Midnight swim?"
"Couldn't sleep."
"Same." She emerged from the steam, and my breath caught. Long dark hair, golden skin, curves that the water caressed like a lover. "There's room for two."
Her name was Valentina. She was from Venezuela, visiting Costa Rica for a cousin's wedding, and staying an extra week "to find herself."
"Find yourself?" I sank into the hot water across from her. "What were you before?"
"Lost." She smiled sadly. "Divorced. Starting over at forty. You know how it is."
"I do, actually." I thought of my own empty apartment back home. "Thirty-five and wondering what happened to my life plan."
"Life plans are overrated." She moved closer through the water. "The best moments are unplanned."
The steam rose between us, softening the edges of the world until nothing existed but her face and the heat.
"I don't usually talk to strangers," I said.
"Neither do I." She was close now, close enough to touch. "But something about tonight..."
"The springs. They're supposed to have magical properties."
"Magic?" She laughed. "Or just hot water and honest company?"
"Maybe the same thing."
She kissed me without warning—soft, questioning, tasting of mineral water and wine.
"Was that okay?" she asked.
"More than okay."
"Good." She kissed me again, less soft. "Because I've been watching you at breakfast all week, too shy to say hello."
"You've been watching me?"
"How could I not?" Her hands found my waist beneath the water. "You're beautiful. And you always eat alone. And you smile at the iguanas like they're friends."
"They might be."
"See? Beautiful and strange. My favorite combination."
We made love in the hot springs under a canopy of stars, the warm water swirling around us as we found rhythms more ancient than any spa treatment.
"This is crazy," she whispered.
"The best kind of crazy."
"My cousin would have a heart attack."
"Don't tell your cousin." I pulled her closer. "Some things are just for us."
We spent the rest of the week together—hiking through cloud forests, eating gallo pinto for breakfast, talking until dawn about everything and nothing.
"I don't want to leave," she said the night before her flight.
"Then don't."
"I have a life. Responsibilities."
"Have them here." I pulled her onto the balcony, where the jungle sang below us. "Stay another week. Figure out what you're looking for."
"What if what I'm looking for is already here?"
She stayed. One week became two, then a month. We found a little house near the springs, started each day in the warm water, ended each night in each other's arms.
"This wasn't the plan," she said one morning.
"What was the plan?"
"Find myself." She smiled. "I found something better."
"What's that?"
"Someone who sees me. Really sees me." She kissed me. "Turns out, that's all I needed."
We built a life in Costa Rica—unexpected, unplanned, perfect. Some nights we return to those hot springs where we met, floating in the dark like we did that first night.
"Magic?" she asks sometimes.
"Definitely magic."
"Or just us?"
"Same thing."
Hot springs heat—healing waters, burning hearts.