The linen of my sundress was scratchy against my sunburn, but his hand was rougher, catching on the fabric like a burr.
19 min read·3,690 words·10 views
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NOW
[11:14 PM MST] Mateo: You still have that dress?
[11:15 PM MST] Me: It’s at the bottom of a storage bin in Silverthorne. Why?
[11:17 PM MST] Mateo: I hated those buttons. Forty-two tiny white pearls. I counted them while you were sleeping.
[11:18 PM MST] Me: You were supposed to be checking the bilge pump, not counting my buttons.
[11:20 PM MST] Mateo: The pump was fine. The girl in the cabin was the problem.
THEN
The air off the coast of Positano doesn’t move; it just sits on you like a damp wool blanket. I’d spent the last three days on the M/Y Aludra, a sixty-foot slab of billionaire ego, pretending I knew which fork to use for the grilled octopus. My job was to write a 'hidden gems' piece for a luxury zine, which mostly meant taking photos of chilled rosé while trying not to look as bored as the owner’s third wife.
I’m used to the thin, dry air of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, where the wind bites and the sun is a clean, sharp blade. Here, everything was soft, salt-slicked, and smelled of expensive sunblock and diesel fumes.
I met Mateo on the fourth day, when the wind finally picked up and a stray mooring line whipped across the teak deck, nearly taking out a tray of crystal flutes. I was standing by the rail, watching the coastline blur into a haze of terracotta and lemon trees, when he lunged for the rope.
He didn’t look like the rest of the crew. They were all in crisp white polos and pleated shorts, looking like they’d been grown in a lab for Ralph Lauren. He wore a faded navy t-shirt that had seen too many wash cycles and a pair of board shorts that were frayed at the hem. His skin wasn’t just tan; it was cured by the sun, deep and leather-tough, the kind of texture you only get from working outdoors in every season.
'Watch the rope,' he grunted, his voice a low vibration that seemed to come from his chest rather than his throat.
He had the line coiled in seconds, his forearms corded with muscle that shifted under his skin like rolling hills. He didn't look at me, but I looked at him. I couldn't help it. In a world of polished chrome and botoxed smiles, he was the only thing on the boat that felt grounded. He looked like he’d be more at home scaling a granite face in Eldorado Canyon than scrubbing salt off a hull.
'You're the girl who takes photos of her shoes,' he said, finally looking up. His eyes were the color of stagnant harbor water—not quite green, not quite brown, but deep and murky.
'I take photos of the scenery,' I corrected, clutching my Leica. 'The shoes are just part of the aesthetic.'
'Right,' he said, a small, crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 'The aesthetic. Very important for people who don't actually like the sea.'
NOW
[11:32 PM MST] Me: I liked the sea. I just didn’t like the people on the boat.
[11:34 PM MST] Mateo: You liked me. Eventually.
[11:35 PM MST] Me: You were a jerk for the first forty-eight hours. You told me my boots looked like they belonged in a museum.
[11:37 PM MST] Mateo: They were hiking boots on a yacht, Cara. It was like seeing a mule in a ballroom. I was impressed by the commitment.
[11:39 PM MST] Me: I wasn't going to wear espadrilles on a moving vessel. I have ankles to protect.
[11:40 PM MST] Mateo: I remember those ankles. I remember exactly how they felt on my shoulders.
THEN
The heat didn't break at night. It just turned into something heavier, something you could taste. On the fifth night, the owners and their friends had gone ashore at Capri to drop five figures on dinner. I’d stayed behind, claiming a migraine, but really I just couldn't stomach another conversation about crypto.
I was sitting on the aft deck, my legs dangling through the rails, watching the lights of the island shimmer like dropped gold in the water. I had a bottle of Peroni and a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips I’d pilfered from the galley.
'The chef will kill you if he sees you eating those on his deck,' a voice said from the shadows.
Mateo was leaning against the master cabin bulkhead, a wrench in his hand and a smudge of grease across his cheekbone. He looked tired, his shoulders slumped, but when he stepped into the pool of light from the overhead lamps, the intensity in his gaze hadn't dimmed.
'The chef is currently three martinis deep in a grotto,' I said, holding out the bag. 'Want one?'
He stepped closer, the smell of him hitting me before he even reached for a chip. It wasn't the citrusy cologne the guests wore; it was the smell of a man who worked. Sweat, salt, a faint metallic tang of oil, and something deeper—something warm and human.
He took a chip, his fingers brushing mine. His skin was hot. Not feverish, just radiating the kind of heat a rock holds long after the sun goes down.
'Why are you here?' he asked, leaning his hip against the rail next to me. 'You don't fit. You look like you’re waiting for a bus that isn’t coming.'
'I’m a travel writer,' I said, though it felt like a lie in that moment. 'I go where the work is.'
'You're a girl from the mountains,' he countered. 'I saw your passport in the manifest. Colorado. You don't belong on a boat where the biggest challenge is choosing between a latte and a macchiato.'
'And you? Do you belong here?'
He looked out at the dark water. 'I belong wherever there’s an engine that needs fixing. But I like the silence out here. Before the noise starts again.'
He looked back at me, and the air between us suddenly felt thinner, as if we’d climbed five thousand feet in a second. He reached out, his thumb dragging across my lower lip to catch a stray grain of salt from the chips. It was a slow, deliberate movement. My breath hitched, sticking in my throat like a dry pill.
'You have salt on your face,' he murmured.
His hand didn't move away. It stayed there, cupping my jaw, his thumb resting just at the corner of my mouth. His skin was so rough it was almost abrasive, but the sensation was electric. It was the first real thing I’d felt in a week.
'Mateo,' I whispered.
'Cara,' he said. He used the Italian word for 'dear,' but the way he said it made it sound like a command.
He leaned in, and for a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. I wanted him to. I wanted to feel that sandpaper grip everywhere. But then a door slammed below deck, and the sound of the tender returning echoed across the water.
He pulled back, his hand dropping to his side. 'Watch the rope,' he said, his voice back to that low, impenetrable growl. He turned and disappeared into the shadows of the engine room companionway before the first guest even stepped onto the swim platform.
NOW
[11:55 PM MST] Me: You almost kissed me that night. In Capri.
[11:56 PM MST] Mateo: I was going to do a lot more than kiss you. But the boss was coming back and I didn’t feel like getting fired in my underwear.
[11:57 PM MST] Me: You wear underwear? I assumed you were a strictly commando kind of guy.
[11:59 PM MST] Mateo: On that boat? With those polyester uniforms? You have to protect the assets, Cara.
[12:01 AM MST] Mateo: Besides, I was waiting for you to come find me. I knew you would.
[12:02 AM MST] Me: Oh, so you’re psychic now?
[12:03 AM MST] Mateo: No. I just saw the way you looked at my hands when I was coiling that line. You weren't looking at the 'aesthetic.'
THEN
I didn’t go to find him the next day. I stayed on the upper deck, hiding behind my sunglasses and a thick book about the history of the Amalfi coast. But I couldn't focus. Every time I heard a heavy footstep on the teak or the clang of a metal tool against a stanchion, my heart did a frantic little dance in my chest, like a bird trapped in a chimney.
We were anchored off Positano again. The town looked like a vertical graveyard of pastel houses, stacked one on top of the other. The water was a blue so bright it looked artificial, like a pool filter gone wrong.
By midnight, the boat was finally quiet. The guests were passed out in their climate-controlled suites. I crept out of my cabin, my bare feet silent on the carpeted stairs, then the cool wood of the deck. I was wearing that dress—the one with the forty-two pearl buttons. It was a ridiculous thing, white and flimsy and completely impractical, but it was the only thing I had that felt soft.
I found the engine room hatch. It was heavy, and the smell of hot oil and salt hit me as soon as I cracked it open. I climbed down the ladder, the metal rungs biting into my arches.
The engine room was a labyrinth of white pipes and humming machinery. It was even hotter down here than it was on deck, the air thick with the smell of diesel and hard work.
Mateo was there, stripped to the waist, leaning over a generator. His back was a map of muscle and old scars, glistening with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights. He looked like a god made of copper and grease.
'You're late,' he said, without turning around.
'I had to wait for the coast to be clear,' I said, my voice sounding small against the hum of the turbines.
He turned around then, wiping his hands on a rag that was already black with grime. He looked at me—really looked at me—his eyes raking over the dress, the buttons, my bare feet.
'That dress,' he said, shaking his head. 'You look like you're going to a garden party.'
'I didn't know what the dress code for an engine room was.'
He tossed the rag aside and stepped toward me. The space was cramped, the ceiling low. I felt trapped, but in the best possible way. Like I was finally somewhere I was allowed to be messy.
'The dress code is nothing,' he said, his voice dropping an octave.
He reached out, his grease-stained fingers catching on the delicate lace at my collar. He didn't rip it; he just held the fabric, pulling me toward him until our chests were inches apart. I could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin, a furnace of a man in a furnace of a room.
'I've been thinking about you since we left Naples,' he said, his breath warm against my forehead. 'Thinking about how much you don't belong here. And how much I want to see you break.'
'I don't break easily,' I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. 'I’ve hiked fourteeners in the middle of October. I can handle a little heat.'
'This isn't a mountain, Cara,' he whispered.
He leaned down and kissed me. It wasn't the tentative, polite kiss of a first date. It was a collision. His mouth was hard and tasted of salt and coffee. His tongue pushed into mine with an urgency that made my knees buckle. He caught me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his skin slick and hot against my hands.
I grabbed his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle there. He was solid, real, and completely unrefined. It was like hugging a boulder.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark and wild. 'You want this?'
'Yes,' I breathed. 'God, yes.'
He didn't waste time. He turned me around, pressing my chest against the cool, vibrating metal of a storage locker. The contrast—the cold metal on my skin and his burning body at my back—made me gasp.
'Watch the rope,' he muttered into my ear, his teeth grazing the lobe.
He reached around, his large hands fumbling with those tiny pearl buttons. I heard one pop and skitter across the deck plates.
'Mateo,' I moaned, my head falling back against his shoulder.
'Shh,' he hissed. 'Listen to the engines. No one can hear you over them. You can say whatever you want.'
He got the dress open, the fabric falling away to my waist. He didn't wait for it to hit the floor. He cupped my breasts from behind, his rough palms scraping over my nipples. They peaked instantly, hard and aching. He squeezed them, his thumbs circling the tips until I was dragging my nails against the metal locker in front of me.
'You're so soft,' he growled, his hands moving down to the waistband of my silk underwear. 'Too soft for this place.'
He hooked his fingers into the silk and pulled them down, leaving me exposed to the humid air and his searching gaze. He stepped back for a second, and I felt the loss of his heat like a physical blow.
'Turn around,' he commanded.
I did, my face flushed, my hair a mess of static and humidity. I stood there in the middle of a multi-million dollar engine room, half-naked and shivering despite the heat.
He looked at me with a hunger that was terrifying and exhilarating. He reached for his shorts, kicking them off in one fluid motion. He wasn't wearing underwear. He was thick and heavy, his cock already straining toward his belly, the head dark and weeping.
'Come here,' he said.
I didn't need to be told twice. I stepped into him, my body molding to his. His cock was a hot brand against my stomach. He picked me up, his hands under my thighs, and sat me on the edge of a work bench. The metal was hard and unforgiving under my ass, but I didn't care.
He spread my legs wide, stepping between them. He didn't go for me right away. He just looked, his hands resting on my knees.
'You're so wet, Cara,' he said, his voice thick. 'I can smell you over the diesel.'
He reached down, his middle finger sliding into me with a suddenness that made me cry out. He was deep, stretching me, his thumb finding the little knot of nerves above. He worked me with a brutal efficiency, his hand moving in a rhythm that matched the thrum of the engines.
I arched my back, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer. 'Please,' I begged. 'Mateo, please.'
'Please what?' he asked, his finger hooking inside me, finding a spot that made my whole body vibrate.
'I want you. Now. Inside me.'
He didn't make me wait. He grabbed his cock, guiding the head to my opening. He was so much larger than what I was used to—not just in size, but in presence. He pushed in slowly, his eyes locked on mine.
I felt every inch of him. He was thick, filling me up until I felt like I might split. It was a delicious, heavy pressure. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, wanting to swallow him whole.
When he was all the way in, he stayed still for a moment, his forehead resting against mine. We were both breathing hard, the air between us thick enough to choke on.
'You're so tight,' he choked out. 'Like you've been holding your breath for years.'
'I think I have,' I whispered.
Then he started to move.
It wasn't a gentle rhythm. It was a frantic, desperate pounding. He hit me with a force that sent tremors through the workbench, the metal groaning under our combined weight. Every thrust was a shock to my system, a jolt of pure, unadulterated sensation.
I was a mess of sound and sweat. I didn't recognize the noises coming out of my mouth—sharp, jagged moans that were lost in the roar of the boat. I buried my face in his neck, biting his shoulder to keep from screaming. He tasted of salt and man, and I couldn't get enough.
He reached down, his hand finding my clit again while he continued to ram into me. The dual sensation was too much. I felt the pressure building in my lower belly, a tight, coiling spring that was about to snap.
'Mateo, I'm... I'm going to—'
'Do it,' he growled, his pace increasing until he was just a blur of motion. 'Come for me, Cara. Show me how they do it in the mountains.'
I shattered. It wasn't a quiet thing. It was an explosion that started in my toes and ripped through my entire body. My vision went white, and I felt my internal muscles clench around him in a series of violent, rhythmic pulses.
He let out a low, guttural roar, his own body stiffening as he came. He thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could go, and held me there as his own release flooded me.
We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the cooling engines and our ragged breath. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, strange shadows on the white-painted walls.
Eventually, he pulled out, the sound of it wet and final in the quiet room. He grabbed the rag again, cleaning me up with a gentleness that surprised me.
'You're going to have a bruise on your back from that locker,' he said, his voice soft now.
'I don't care,' I said, leaning my head against his chest. I could hear his heart slowing down, a steady beat that felt like home.
He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering. 'You should go. Before the night watch does their rounds.'
I nodded, reaching for my dress. The buttons were a lost cause. I’d have to hold it closed all the way back to my cabin.
As I climbed back up the ladder, I looked down one last time. He was standing in the center of the engine room, a solitary figure in a cathedral of steel.
'Watch the rope, Cara,' he said, a ghost of a smile on his face.
'I will,' I promised.
NOW
[12:15 AM MST] Me: I still have the bruise, you know. Not physically. But I can still feel where you held me against that locker.
[12:17 AM MST] Mateo: Good. I wanted to leave a mark.
[12:18 AM MST] Mateo: Where are you right now?
[12:19 AM MST] Me: My living room. It’s snowing outside. Big, heavy flakes that look like ash. It’s so quiet here, Mateo. Sometimes the silence is too much.
[12:21 AM MST] Mateo: I’m in Barcelona. The harbor is loud. The tourists are screaming. It’s a mess.
[12:22 AM MST] Me: Do you miss the Aludra?
[12:23 AM MST] Mateo: I miss the girl who ate salt-and-vinegar chips on the aft deck.
[12:25 AM MST] Mateo: I’m coming to Denver next month. A delivery job. A sailboat being moved from the coast to a reservoir. Some rich guy’s hobby.
[12:26 AM MST] Me: Denver isn't the Mediterranean, Mateo. There aren't many lemon trees.
[12:27 AM MST] Mateo: I don’t care about the trees.
[12:28 AM MST] Mateo: Find that dress, Cara. And don't fix the buttons.
[12:30 AM MST] Me: I’ll see what I can do.
[12:31 AM MST] Mateo: And bring your hiking boots. I want to see if you can handle the altitude.
[12:32 AM MST] Me: Oh, I can handle the altitude. The question is, can you?
[12:34 AM MST] Mateo: Watch the rope, Cara. I’m coming for you.
THEN
The last day on the boat was a blur. I avoided Mateo, and he avoided me. It was easier that way. We had a secret that lived in the grease and the noise of the belly of the ship, and it didn't belong in the bright, superficial light of the upper deck.
When I packed my bags, I found the white pearl button he’d popped off my dress. It had been tucked into the pocket of my shorts. I didn’t know how it got there. Maybe he’d picked it up while I was climbing the ladder. Maybe it was a reminder.
As I walked down the gangplank in Salerno, I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could still feel the phantom grip of his hands on my waist, the way his skin felt like sun-warmed granite, and the smell of diesel that seemed to have seeped into my very pores.
I got into the taxi, the driver cursing in Italian as he navigated the narrow streets. I looked out the window at the sea, the blue finally fading as we headed toward the airport.
I’ve seen a lot of things in my thirty years. I’ve seen the sun rise over the Himalayas and set over the Sahara. But I’d never felt as alive as I did in that humid, oil-stained room with a man who knew exactly how to break me.
People think travel is about the destination. The landmarks, the food, the photos for the 'aesthetic.' But they’re wrong. Travel is about the moments where you lose yourself. The moments where you stop being a visitor and start being a part of the landscape.
Mateo wasn't a hidden gem. He was a force of nature. And I was just a girl from the mountains who had finally learned how to breathe in the salt air.
NOW
[12:45 AM MST] Me: One more thing.
[12:46 AM MST] Mateo: Yeah?
[12:47 AM MST] Me: I’m buying the chips. Salt and vinegar.
[12:48 AM MST] Mateo: I’ll bring the wrench.
[12:50 AM MST] Me: See you soon, Mateo.
[12:51 AM MST] Mateo: Count on it.
