Rotherhithe Rapture
"Boat restorer Nneka revives Thames vessels at her Rotherhithe yard. When banker Marcus buys a wreck for his midlife crisis, she shows him restoration involves stripping down to the essentials."
The boat was a disaster—forty years of neglect turning what was once beautiful into a floating ruin. But Nneka saw something there.
"You bought this why, exactly?"
Marcus shrugged. "Needed something to save."
"Hmm." She circled the wreck, her thick body confident in overalls, her hands running over rotten wood. "You'll need to get your hands dirty. I don't fix things for people. I teach them to fix themselves."
"I don't know anything about boats."
"Then you'll learn."
Weeks of stripping away old paint, old wood, old failures. Marcus worked beside Nneka in her riverside yard, learning to see what could be instead of what was.
She was Nigerian-British, mid-forties, with strength in every curve. Her thick arms could haul equipment most men struggled with. Her eyes saw beauty in brokenness.
"You're changing," she observed one sunset.
"The boat?"
"You. Less tense. More real." She wiped her hands on her overalls. "Stay for dinner. I want to see more."
Her houseboat was cozy—all warm wood and river views. She cooked while Marcus tried not to stare at the way she moved, the way her overalls hung low enough to show the curve of her back.
"You watch me like I watch boats," she said. "Looking for what's beneath."
"Is that wrong?"
"It's honest." She turned to face him. "I like honest. Show me what's beneath you."
They made love with workshop hands—callused, skilled, knowing exactly how to handle material. Her thick body was the best vessel he'd ever touched.
"Here... yes... deeper..."
She pulled him inside the way she pulled nails from wood—with purpose, strength, precision. Her thick thighs gripped him as she took control.
"Let go. Stop fighting. Just float."
She rode him through one release and demanded another, her endurance matching her work ethic. They moved from couch to bed, from bed to deck, eventually ending pressed against the windows watching the Thames flow by.
"Best restoration I've ever participated in," he gasped.
She laughed, warm and real. "We're just beginning. The boat's not done. Neither are you."
"Come back tomorrow," she said at dawn. "We have hull work to do."
"And after?"
"After, we work on other things." She kissed him slowly. "Restoration is patient work. Takes as long as it takes."
"I'm in no rush."
"Good." Her hand traced his chest. "Because some wrecks take years to fully restore. And I think you're worth the investment."
His Rotherhithe rapture had begun as a midlife crisis. It became something worth living for.