Chapter 8
SOL
Ben, I have come to appreciate, has that kind of easy charm that disarms you before you realize it’s happening; the steady kind, not the performative kind.
He listens, smiles like he means it, and when he talks, he actually looks at me.
Not in the way Matías used to look at me—a few seconds at a time in between swipes of his phone, especially in the last year or so of our marriage.
By the time we sit down for lunch, I’ve stopped pretending this is casual. I went back and forth in my head all morning between wanting to run far away and working up the nerve to casually mention that maybe we should head up to his room before I leave.
The restaurant we pick is one of those open-air ones by the pool, all white umbrellas and woven chairs and joy in the air.
I order the fish tacos again, because I’m so predictable, and he orders something off the grill and jokes that he’s trying to get enough protein to balance all the mojitos he’s going to drink this week.
“You keep talking about these tacos like they changed your life,” he says when the waiter walks away.
“They kind of did,” I reply, tilting my head. “Didn’t you say you took your food seriously? And haven’t you ever had food so good you forget about your problems for three whole bites?”
He grins. “Only three?”
I roll my eyes. “Four, maybe, if the salsa’s spicy enough.”
He leans back, watching me with that crooked smile that should honestly be illegal. “And what kinds of problems are you having that you’re trying to forget about?”
“Oh, just the classic mid-life crisis ones. Work and relationships and just being an adult.”
The waiter drops our food in front of us, and we dig in. I’m thankful for the interruption, but Ben doesn’t talk. Instead, he continues to watch me, hoping I’ll keep going.
I tear off a piece of tortilla and dip into the salsa, mostly to have something to do with my hands. Somewhere behind us, a blender roars to life, loud enough to drown out a few seconds of silence.
“Being an adult,” he says after a while, like it’s a foreign concept and he’s trying to make sense of it. “Sounds overrated.”
“It is.” I glance up, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Do you ever feel like you’re just… improvising? Like everyone else got a manual that you missed.”
Ben leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. “Every day.”
That makes me smile. “Good. I was starting to think I was the only one.”
He shrugs, picks up his drink. The ice clinks softly against the glass. “Especially living in New York. I feel like everyone has it together all the time and sometimes I just feel like moping on the subway is the only acceptable reaction to a shitty day.”
“You live in New York?”
“Yeah,” he says, surprised I didn’t already know. “Upper West Side. Although I’m mostly only there on the weekends. Work keeps me moving for like three-quarters of the year.”
Something in my chest stutters. It’s small, fleeting.
New York.
Of course he lives there. Out of all the people I could’ve met on this island, the one man who makes me forget, even for a second, how tired I am of everything… happens to be from the same city I ran away from.
“That’s funny,” I say, a little too fast. I chase it with a sip of my drink, the lime stinging the back of my throat. “Me too.”
His brows lift. “Really?”
“West Village.”
He laughs, and the sound pulls something warm and unfamiliar in my chest—the kind of laugh that reminds me what it feels like to actually enjoy myself without thinking about tomorrow. “Well, that’s practically next door. Small world.”
When lunch ends, neither of us mentions parting ways. We simply drift toward the pool like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The water’s cool against my skin when we slide in, and the afternoon sun hits the surface in a thousand scattered reflections. The main pool is crowded, so we swim to one of the quiet corners, half-hidden behind a row of palms.
It’s almost peaceful.
Until he floats closer and my pulse picks up at the sight of him.
There’s a moment—that micro second before it happens—when I could turn, swim away, say something light and harmless to keep my distance.
But I don’t, because I’m itching to touch him again.
Hoping against hope that he reaches for me and pulls me against his warm body.
His hand brushes the water beside my hip, deliberate but careful. “You keep doing that,” he says softly.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending you’re not having a good time.”
I glance down at the water. My arms are crossed over my chest, shoulder still tense even here. I’ve been smiling, sure, but it’s the polite, controlled kind I wear in work meetings or at parties where I don’t know anyone.
“I’m not pretending,” I say, even though I probably am.
He moves closer, slow enough that I should stop him, but I don’t. His voice drops lower, warm with humor. “Then prove it.”
I laugh, and that’s when he kisses me.
It’s gentle at first—cautious, almost—but then I kiss him back, and something unravels between us.
The heat of the sun, the cool of the water, his hands finding my body like they belong there.
We’re half-submerged, half-weightless, and it feels like being suspended between two decisions: stop this before it means something, or go all in.
When we finally pull apart, I’m breathless and smiling. His forehead rests against mine, and all I can manage is a whisper. “We should probably stop.”
“Probably,” he agrees. Neither of us moves.
Then I laugh again, softer this time, and he catches the sound with another kiss.
The next few minutes are a blur—the rush of water, the heat in my chest, the shared, unspoken understanding that this isn’t over quite yet.
By the time we stumble into his room, dripping and sun-flushed, I can’t remember who reached for who first. His fingers find the small of my back, and my heart does something traitorous.
The door clicks shut behind us, and I’m already turning toward him when he catches my face with both hands.
The kiss is harder this time, more certain. Less what if and more I need.
“Shit, okay,” he says into my mouth, dropping a kiss and walking me backwards deeper into the room.
He stops mid-hallway and pulls me against his body, grabbing at my ass and wrapping my leg around his hip.
He rocks his hips slowly, his erection pressing against my core and my knee buckles.
Somehow, in the fumble, I end up with both legs wrapped around him, and he’s carrying me to the bed, peppering kisses down my neck while tugging at my hair with one of his hands. “Fuck, yes.”
“Yes?” I say, but I mean to say yes! Absolutely and enthusiastically yes.
“I mean, are you sure?”
“Yes,” I say with a laugh, and he smiles into my mouth before dropping me on top of the covers, dripping wet from the abrupt pool departure. “But I only have two hours so—”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he cuts me off.
“That’s absolutely not what I was going to say but I won’t oppose that idea.”
He laughs and starts taking off his clothes.
His shirt comes first, and I’m mesmerized by his movements; hurried and urgent, but efficient and intentional at the same time.
He pulls me towards the edge of the bed and slips my bikini bottoms off and a shiver runs up my spine at the way he inspects me, licking his lips like I’m the most delicious meal.
He’s been doing this all day—watching me with those blue eyes like he wants to memorize every inch of me.
“Fuck.”
“You’ve said that already,” I tease, my voice softer than I intend. He drops his shorts, tugging at his cock a couple of times so casually that I lose focus. “Get over here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with that fucking smile of his and I don’t know what to do, because it’s completely undoing me.
When he reaches for me, the world narrows—heat, breath, touch, and the impossible awareness of how close we are. Everything blurs into sound and movement, and for once in a long time, my thoughts finally go quiet.
“Do you have any idea the dirty, dirty things I want to do to you?” he whispers, licking from my shoulder to my ear as he crawls over me.
I barely catch his words over the rush of blood in my ears.
Whatever he’s saying, it isn’t rehearsed.
It’s raw and instinctive and feral. And it sends another shiver down my spine.
I drag my hands up his inked arms and tangle my fingers through his tousled hair. His pupils are blown, and I know I’m in trouble as soon as he looks at me. He leans in until our foreheads touch, and for a second, neither of us moves.
My breathing grows erratic and I slam my lips against his, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow—partly because there isn’t. I’m leaving in a few hours and won’t see him again. There’s no point in holding back, really.
“Do them, then,” I say into his mouth. I feel his smile on my lips, and he starts rocking his hips into mine, thrusting slowly and pressing his cock against my clit in slow motion.
“Oh, Sunshine,” he says, reaching his hand to the nightstand where a box of unopened condoms sits. “I don’t think we have time for that.”
The air feels thick, unsteady, charged with everything we’re not saying.
I don’t make a sound, instead choosing to follow him with my eyes as he covers his dick with a condom with so much precision.
I’m losing my patience, but at the same time this gives me a moment to simply observe: how his muscles bunch as he moves, how the fine lines of his tattoos shift with him and not because of him.
My heart thrashes in my chest, and I know that this is the right thing, right now.
I might regret it later, but I feel like this is exactly what I needed to get out of my funk and I hate that my friends were right all along.
Ben surges forward, his mouth on my lips before I can take a breath. His tongue is moving with mine, and his hips are pressing against me—his cock is so hard and hot and pressing against my clit in just the right way.
My hands find his hair and he whimpers, and I swear that makes me almost come. It feels like we’re both needy for each other, just trying to find pleasure in each other in a desperate way. I’ll never see this man again.
He sucks on my bottom lip and I moan, feeling how his cock is moving against my pussy. The press of him makes my breath catch, and everything in my tightens, heat spooling deep in my belly.
“Fuck,” he says as he moves slowly in and out. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
Heat surges through my body, and my toes curl slightly because I’m suddenly aware I’m so, so close to orgasm.
He moves at a steady pace as he kisses up my shoulder and neck, licking right below my ear.
My hands keep searching for something to hold on to but I’m too distracted by the pressure building in me, and the way his movements are hitting that spot in just the right way.
“Touch your clit, Sunshine,” Ben whispers in my ear. His words are clipped, and it’s almost like he’s out of breath as he mutters words of affirmation, something about being so warm and so tight and how this can’t be real. “Come with me, honey.”
His mouth finds my collarbone, slow and patient, and my pulse stumbles. The air between us is heavy with everything that’s happening—this thing that ends right now and the meaning it has for me… My hands hover at his shoulders, then fall back to my sides.
“I—” The word trips out, soft, uncertain. I don’t even know what I’m about to say. Maybe wait. Maybe I’ve never done that before. Maybe I’ve only had sex with three people my whole life and you’re asking too much of me.
Ben stops moving immediately. Pulls back just enough to look at me. His hands are flat on the bed, right by my head, and I can feel his warmth from head to toe. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You okay?”
I nod too fast. “I’m in my head.”
“Get out of it,” he says with a slight lift of his lips. It’s not demanding or aggressive, but playful and it makes my body relax. The embarrassment eases and the rush quiets. And this moment becomes something else—steady, careful, real.
“Have I told you how hot you are?” he whispers in my ear, then places a careful kiss on my forehead. His blue eyes are searching mine and I think I know what he’s doing.
“Are you trying to distract me?”
“Yes, honey,” he replies, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like we’ve done this a million times and he’s just concerned for my pleasure. “I want you to get out of your head and enjoy this.”
“I am,” I say, and a nervous laugh starts bubbling in my chest and up my throat, until I can’t contain it. He’s still moving inside me, slowly and casually, so I tighten my legs around his waist and pull him in. “More.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with that crooked smile, and his lips find mine once again.
This time, it’s needy and urgent, and like he’s definitely trying to get me out of my funk.
It works, because the next thing I know, everything in my body coils and tightens, and the only thing I can hear is Ben’s groan and my own scream following after.
My hands press to the cool tile as I breathe, steam curling around me. The door is slightly ajar, and I can hear Ben moving around the room—low, quiet sounds of him getting dressed, the rustle of fabric, the zip of a suitcase.
I step out, dry myself with the large towel, and glance outside. I can see him in the reflection: sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s trying to collect himself.
“I should go,” I say once I’m changed.
He looks up, startled. “Already?”
I nod, managing a small smile. “I’ve got a flight to catch.”
He stands, runs a hand through his hair. “Right.”
For a second, neither of us moves. The air feels very thick, and I want to blurt out that maybe we should exchange numbers. We live in the same city… maybe this could work?
“Thanks,” I say finally. It sounds stupid the second it leaves my mouth, especially given all the thoughts I’m having. But I mean it. “For today. For… everything. This was fun.”
His smile is softer this time, almost careful, a little sad. “Anytime.”
I grab my things and head to the door, glancing one last time before I cross the threshold. He’s still there, watching me, eyes steady and unreadable.
“Goodbye, Ben.”
He nods. “Goodbye, Sunshine.”
And that’s it. No grand ending or promise. Just the quiet thud of the door closing between us and the sound of my footsteps fading down the hall.